Once

It has occurred to me that there are things we only get one crack at. People, dogs, times in our lives come in and then pass away. Some are easy, lovely, flowing, perfect.

This is Tarka. She was my daemon, my familiar, the canine twin to my human soul. I realized then and still know that she was one of the great loves of my life. A friend, a quiet but present companion over 12 years, in times of trauma and intensity, she was there for some of the worst and best stuff of my early adulthood. She was the bright side of my shadow. I doubt that there will be another creature to match her, or the still point of connection we inhabited as a pair.

If you knew her you will likely understand. You would if you happened to be one of her other friends, as there were a few who loved her as I did, and probably many who saw her for the magical creature that she was. Tolerant, funny, kind beyond measure, she was the softness to the hard edges of life. She made me more empathetic, loving, compassionate. She helped me to understand the pure fire of loss and grief. For months after she passed I looked for her daily in the back seat of the car, heard her breath, and found myself thinking I had forgotten her somewhere.

I waited years to get another dog after she died. Perhaps thinking the magic confluence of genetics and circumstance would conspire once again to produce another like her and usher him or her into my life in some similar way. I searched and scanned many horizon lines once ready for another Tarka, but of course there was no such thing. Not yet, and not to be found under my earthly gaze.

I now understand that she will simply remain, her dark spirit in step with mine, howling across the frozen lake in time with the huskies and wild wolves of our co-existence. I have become her, or at least all the gifts she brought to me have become mine, and this has made me better than I would have been without her.

I have a wondering, a lingering idea, a faith that grief is just a pathway, an unfolding of the heart into infinite possibility. If we allow it, feel it and meet it with kindness.

The Bridge

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us."

~ Marianne Williamson

 This is my path; the secret to all the pain I have ever felt, and all the suffering that I have ever inflicted upon myself or others. My failure to see myself. Mind blown. Universe officially reorganized, turned on its head, and emptied out onto the floor in a tumble of broken glass and bent metal.

I will expand on this idea. More than a fear, it is what prevents me (us) from arriving here, now. From being who we are. From accepting all the gifts being offered, constantly and from all sides. From seeing all the beauty without attachment or possessiveness. From letting go, allowing people and circumstances to change and move. Welcoming things in and allowing them to depart as they see fit. Honouring the paths, chosen or not, of all those who come into your life. Trusting everyone to be engaged in the journey they need to be on, regardless of whether it suits your purposes or ego. Perhaps helping them trust themselves a little more than they did when they arrived. 

I have hidden behind the illusion that I am somehow lacking. But I now understand the opposite to be true. I have made choices based on the wrong information, caved too quickly, settled too soon. Bent myself in an effort to fit. I have also not had the courage to choose the things I did want, assuming that I was not worthy of it. Fear of losing, of being wrong. I missed the point that this is always a possibility regardless.

I have held myself still and let others do the same. And this revelation is terrifying. And electrifying.

"I have no never again, I have no always.  In the sand Victory abandoned its footprints."

~ Pablo Neruda

Spirit

It is the blowing of this nights' storm across you,
Your skin ablaze with wind and tree leaves,
Wet, plastering you with (their) life blood.
You fall apart and come back together,
With me, without me.
I will remain, still.

A moon scattering this horizon line with errant cloud cover,
Veering and backing with each swipe of your coastal hands;
Violent, stinging.
Remembering and forgetting with each shift.
Impervious to force.
But you asked me for salvation without words.

This fog bank you are enshrouded in
On a trajectory only you will ever know.
Unless you expose it, like the black rock coast in a storm surge.
There is always that choice remaining open,
Possibility.
You can be awash and still be whole, complete.
Drowning, but breathing into it.
Noticing.
There is no never, or too late,
These don't exist at this tideline.

Spirit erupts regardless,
Of you, of me.
It is moved by a force woven out of dark salty matter;
Grey cloud and ocean waves,
Sun coming in shards.
The strength of mountains and the silence of trees.

The Still Point

"At the still point, there the dance is." 
- TS Eliot

I started writing about this a few months ago, after making a connection with someone and becoming aware of this 'still point', which in that case took the form of calm company in the social storm. It was an echo of something I had not yet realized I had fully lost, and had not yet released into the ether.

This week I became aware of another type of still point. I was seeking, and did not honour in the moment, the calm quiet place that lies at my centre. I am not weaving metaphors when I say the seas were churning around me, in a place called 'the snake pit'. An amphitheatre of swell engulfed rocks, body and boat breaking forces, confused seas. I ended up there because I allowed the quiet voice to be stifled within me; my feet moved, my hands gripped the paddle shaft as I launched myself and 5 others into the surf; I left my soul behind and blinded my senses for the sake of a test. I was trapped by my own inexorable movement across transition after transition. Tent to beach, beach to surf, surf to swell, swell to boomer-choked maelstrom. I crossed the threshold of my tent that morning riddled with anxieties borne of a poor nights' sleep and bad dreams, and 10 more thresholds later there I was, still ignoring the silent scream of resistance, better judgment and fear. Whatever vision I normally possess lost in the struggle. I labeled my misgivings as irrational, dream-bent perception, ignoring or putting aside my own truth in the matter. Paralyzed myself in the process. The quiet truth of gut instinct and good sense clamouring in frustration, straining to be released. Vocalized.

There is no doubt that there were earlier thresholds crossed, that I don't yet recognize.

The pressure was behind, in front, all around; external and contrived, but internally it felt real, compelling, almost inescapable. There was an exam to pass, money spent, an ego to protect. There were people I wanted to prove wrong, to revise their understanding of who I am. Other people I wanted to prove right, about me, and what I am capable of and who I am supposed to be. I had even forgotten that I never really expected to pass, had heard others' assertions above my own. An un-winnable battle on many counts. Playing by the rules of others can steal the truth from our lips.

Escape. I say it was almost impossible. To utter a refusal, or a change of plan away from the directive of the examiner, would have been a simple enough act. Just the opening of my mouth, the loosing of the voice that I own, the utterance of what I knew was the right thing to do. What I would have done in any other situation. But I remained locked up, unable to explain the dream, to validate this gut of mine and what it was telling me, loud and clear. Not to mention the intelligence and training and perspective that I know I have. While I paused numerous times, spoke up, timed out, my attempts were small, muffled, uncertain; requests for help rather than clear divergence away from a set plan. And I was blinded to the right line in the confluence of fear and stress.

In retrospect, I know that either way, into the pit of snakes, or away from it, would have had the same result on paper. I would not have been heard or admired by the ones with the pens and the power; a failing grade, a number written in ink below my name, a file filed, a retest. A judgment confirmed. But I would have voiced my own truth, heard myself out, respected and known myself perhaps a little more for finding the still clean line in the raging seas.

How strange is it that we can drift away from ourselves so efficiently? As if our lives didn't depend on finding, listening to and honouring the still points that lie within us.

It is not nothing. Our gut, fear, instinct and intuition is there for a reason. I need to hold myself more accountable to it.