The Eve

This day I am warned by the universe. It stops my tracks for seconds, minutes, and holds my breath for me. I watch him, the dog, dart into the brush covered slope, speeding upwards. It's that place where I know there is no calling him back now. The scent lies hot at his feet, his ears are deaf, he thrums only with the pull of whatever beastie propels him further away from me.
I wait. Once in a while I call. In vain I know.
There are times when he does this, in places where there is no neighbour. He may lose himself for a few minutes, and I don't fret. I know him now well enough to predict his return. His intentness on re-finding me again, once he realizes I am not with him. In those places I am not worried that he may fall into misadventure, it is all woods and trackless acres, full of wild fuzzy-tailed rodents. Elsewhere,  where the boundaries are more finite, I have him under closer orders, a stick, a ball, a frequent close recall. A leash when I don't trust him. These are places where there are homes and people and things and delectable items that are assigned as property. Not squirrels now but stock, a hen, a duck. Things they might need or want to protect from this errant dog.
Today is the day before my birthday.  I carry a three year old echo of worse times in my veins. Today that echo reached my gut, and a sense of foreboding wore away at me for those (too many) minutes before he emerged and sprinted down the beach towards me. Top speed and ignoring the dogs in his path as they joined his flat run for a few paces before giving up. Throwing himself into the sea when he reaches me, his left ear tipped almost imperceptibly with blood.
Do I trust this world not to rip my heart out yet again?
The truth is I don't, but even in my accumulating years I understand the pulse of life lies in the pure moments of the chase. When our hearts beat with an uncompromising truth. That to stay put and remain in the lee of this safe harbour is a good place to rest, but not one to remain in indefinitely.

The What's Next

Do I revel in the wondering of what's next or do I dread it, or a bit of both? I find myself on a real and symbolic front, confronted with my own version of mediocrity. I am a bit lost, to tell the truth, or have been, but finding my way by way of crumb trail laid down by my own inner workings. I have clues to lead me, and an idea of what is not right, of the doldrum seas I have entered and remain in of late. My gifts not being expressed in the way I know they can be. I am lying dormant under my own skin. Changed by circumstances and experiences I have not yet shed light on. It is the stuff of work and love and a lifetime of aimed and aimless purpose.  I think I am here to have integrity, and I am being asked to make a choice, or many, the answers to which are not yet clear to me. Still emerging. I can't yet see the shape of the being cracking through this shell, still wet and barely visible.



I have held this at an arm's length, or so it might feel to both of us, staving off the clerical errors that stem from haste. Words spoken in guilt, anger, or defence are not desired, but do serve to ventilate the room, bringing in new air, and light. And the opportunity for understanding, forgiveness. Those spoken out of a desire to speed things along can lead to broken truths, so I hold my ground in this. Not out of ego but out of a desire to see myself through this veil of fog on nothing but a compass bearing. I must heed the magnetic pull of intuition and soul. We are here to be kinder to ourselves, not less so, and this acceptance is not a way towards laziness. It is ok if I am not moving fast enough, I will live with the consequences of that as I am committed to my own pace in this. It is and will be slow, a process rather than a finite destination. It is a matter of one day waking up and finding myself on the path, the right one, if there is such a thing, and continuing to move with increasing precision. Learning to listen more clearly, love myself more ardently, in order to break apart the seams of this chrysalis, and to wait while my wings slowly dry and not to fly until I'm ready. I am learning there is an art in what's next.

As in all these things I am writing to myself, to you and the myriad you's who float out there in the ether. To one and none in particular and to any and all who might see yourselves in these words.

Artless

What does it take, to make art? I grew up in a family of Artists, the true kind, the ones that others would look on and note their talents. Formally. They are all so very legit in their Artist-ness.

As for me, I have never felt that I merited the label, or the capital A on the front end. My painting skills are fractional, I can't recite a line or act my way out of a paper bag, I sing only when I can avoid feeling watched and heard. And yet I have chosen to make word-art of a sort from that which grinds into me, the small pains of life as well as the ones that are overwhelming and show-stopping (but are impressively inconsequential in the grand scheme). These words seep out between the awkward silences that have lengthened from months into lifetimes, from the footprints I pad into sandy or rocky soil in my travels. From the ruins of my reckless ways and the beauty that surrounds each step taken on this lifeline. I allow the words to spill, at times blindly and without thought for those who may read themselves into my plotlines. I push the publish button hastily, as if getting it out on the ether-webs has an urgency. As if I might rid myself of my limitations and failings if I click fast.  I am painting pictures with the mass of raw words that gurgle up to meet my sense of things. To make sense of the stuff that does not. I divest myself of the responsibility and hard work of letting go by simply releasing another slew of text. Hoping to create something intricate and marbled and a bit indecipherable, meant for one and for all.

Beyond me, my musings may take on meanings known only to each reader. Like letters found years after the writing, unsent, bound up with string, and tucked away in a box in the attic. A cowards craft. Like posters pasted on neighbourhood lampposts, they are indirect, and undirected. The craft of the unrequited. Free for any who would read, perhaps never truly hitting the desired mark, but hitting many unintended ones.

Maybe I have wielded this virtual pen like a weapon, or have used it like some impetuous kid denied, throwing myself on the ground and kicking my feet in an articulated tantrum. Screaming at trees.  Seeking some way at least to be heard.

Weather

This afternoon as I drove home rain fell from a blue sky. I wondered how it is that it can be so utterly sunny and clear, and yet here I am witnessing the droplets come down from behind these rapid-fire wipers. I fight the sense that I can be experiencing these two realities at the same time, as if the weather has a responsibility to make some sense just for me. It's what i seem to expect, to wait for the skies to unify above me so that I can be less conflicted. But I am caught in the sun showers between two weather systems.
I am stepping into nothingness if I try to avoid it, and perhaps even more so if I face it head on. Maybe that is just as it should be, my own idealism and willful blindness slapping me in the face after all. My inability to choose, my stubbornness towards the things that do not line up in my myopic view. It's not like you will catch me when I fall, because I have somehow made my own fate out of this morass. My own emptiness sprawls before me, creating a void, an intense place of not knowing what next or where to go. I have not unwoven myself enough to follow this new path being offered up. Not yet. And time runs out.
Cracks have begun to form and the truth leaks out, confused and still shackled. I am compelled by pain, some of it mine, perhaps more awake than I have been for months. Not just going along for the ride on this ocean swell. The wave is breaking, I sense I am being washed through the fog into shore. I fight it still, resisting the inevitable pull of the next leg of this journey. Whatever it may be.

(June 13, 2016)

In Place

Thrasher Cove.

Yesterday I paddled up this familiar coast. This time on the outside, bobbing between the shoreline rocks, wind and waves. I have been here before, but I travelled by foot, deep in the woods, climbing and descending the dark forested trails of memory. All to arrive at this same beach. This is where it began. Despite the fact that the mode of travel has changed, it is the same, and I can feel that we still reside here, ingrained in the sandstone cliffs at our backs, cradled in the bed of love and reverence that started us on the path. I am still in awe now of the soft beach, the green smells on ocean breeze, the life that pads to and fro on the sand between forest and water, seeking morsels to feast on. This intertidal place on the edge of a temperate spruce and cedar cathedral.

It is here that I remember. It is less than three years, it is more than twenty-five. A place where teeth were cut on wilderness departures.

I think about the other end of this Trail. So close by water, but days on foot. Where we sat side by each on the log, etched forever on the emulsion sheet of my soul. Whales cruising by, you awash in a  childhood memory of loss, the tannin-stained river flooding and gurgling beside us, the dark skies of late fall starting to build on this horizon. Perhaps this was the point to being here; when we return to things that seem lost but are never truly so. These places are here to remind us that they are filled with spirits, words and looks that defied capture, eons of the comings and goings of creatures human and non. Melded together in an energetic soup that contains all things worth keeping. All things worthwhile. We can live in the present and move forward but when we return to places that  have contained us, and contain us still sacredness alights upon the breath of the sea, it's moving shores teeming with light.

Small Things

It is the small things, sometimes tiny acts that take only a moment or the short work of a hand to create. There is a bit of tape and substance at the end of the arm of my reading glasses  now (yes, I wear them) that has replaced the sharp end that was there before. But I didn't make the repair. Someone else did. My days now are filled with a hundred such noticings, small and random acts of service, the simple act of showing up, being present, even for a few minutes an unspeakable gift. I am frequently surprised these days, most often by small things.

Fire

I realised today, perhaps more consciously than I have for a while, that I am not on fire for much of anything right now. I should know myself enough at this point to remember that I don't do well in a by-rote world. I suffer repetition like something caught between my teeth rather than revelling in the perfection that comes with practice. I need to feel  what I do and say. It needs to be real and authentic and informed by the ever changing nature of this planetary ordeal. I tend to drift towards unconscious competence; rather than becoming more versed in the intellectual understandings of a skill or topic. I start to forget the small details that went into building that feel of water under hull, the perfect weighting of my downhill ski, or the look in a dogs' eye when he solves some puzzle of human expectation. If anything, I get less perfect over time, more sloppy, less inspired. My heat dwindles and weakens, the lack of oxygen turning it to cool cinders.
I can tolerate much drama in those around me and stand firm and calm in the face of it. And I can forgive those who chose not to heed the deep and resounding call of the heart's desire at my expense. But in the end it tires me, sucks up my motivation, and sends me flying off in other directions. I hope it does, because I want to catch a spark once more. I tire of this staying put, at least in the sense that it requires a more focussed tolerance for mediocrity than I perhaps possess.
I looked at myself today and can see that I am verging on the edge of something.  One of those times when the urge to shift gears, to re-evaluate, and touch in with something more visceral and fiery is looming.  Maybe something as simple as letting go of the small security blankets that I hold close. These scraps of time and commitment that have the illusion of keeping me anchored perhaps only serve to starve the embers.

Let's gather firewood. We'll light a fire on the mountain. ~ Pablo Neruda

Edging

You have been walking the ocean's edge,
holding up your robes to keep them dry.
you must dive naked under and deeper under,
a thousand times deeper. love flows down.
~ Rumi

I have been doing just this, an ocean-edge balancing act. Getting my toes damp before darting away from the oncoming rush of salt water. Living on the rim of these shallows - themselves just the gateway to the deep. In part, my arrogance is a product of trying to get it all right, trying not to hurt and not to be hurt, to remain unscathed. To continuously do no harm, to be...impeccable. Not to draw blood yet again, and not to have my own veins opened up.

But as you point out, to live is to cause harm. By dwelling here on this edge I am attempting to avoid the territory of broken promises, this time mine, potentially. It is in the what ifs that I bide my time. Not to make a bigger mess of it all. Not to 'fuck it all up' as someone once espoused to have done.
But I am risking mediocrity here at the tideline. Sniffing the saltwater breath of kelp rather than swimming with it, getting tied up in it's slippery fronds. I have never claimed or desired perfection and do not shy away from the swampy mire that sometimes seeps in to these matters of humanity. I am quite willing and able to see through it, know it for the smokescreen that it is. Most messes are made of spilt milk and moments; they are only eternal if we allow them to trick us into thinking so. If we let them persist and steal our gaze, drawing us away from the loosening beauty that empties out into this world daily, minute after minute. To remember that we are all worthy of forgiveness and freedom, love and happiness, and not to bind each other up in an unending accounting of who is to blame. 

It is this edge that I need to broach, though I continue to trip over these rivulets of sand as I approach the proffered ocean. To free myself and allow the tug of currents to take me, trusting it as I used to before.