Arrivals

If nothing else, one of the great things about departures is that they are bracketed by arrivals. Arrivals into the welcoming arms of friends and those who love us, out to the beautiful wild places, and back into the homes that make us feel safe and comfortable. When we have been to the high places where life cannot be sustained over time, we get to arrive back to the verdant green of the valley.  When we have drifted out to sea to find the perfect wave, we eventually come back to the beach, washed clean and better for the pummelling offered us by the surf. But also grateful for the firm ground once more beneath our feet, revelling in the smells of saltwater sinking into sand.

Today, and for the past while, months, or years perhaps, internally if not always externally, I have been cultivating a steady state. That with all the arrivals and departures that I do, there is something calm and grounding in the centre of it all. I possess a certainty that does not lie stagnant, but flows and shifts and peels away again and again in the storm seasons. It's possible there are patterns emerging, one story along those lines is that in the past few years I have been broken open in some ways, and have been allowed to see another vessel within myself. It is a blossoming of sorts. I have come to be more trusting, in part because I have been presented with untrusting and untrustworthy circumstances. I have seen them this way for a time, then suddenly or slowly had them dissipate or shift, leading to a new understanding of myself and hopefully of others. So now I am less afraid of the anger, pain and grief that wells up in the times of departure, as I know I can and will find my way home. The risks of the launch may always be worth it, if we choose to accept the call. All the things that have led up to this moment could be seen as offerings, all the moments of joy and heartbreak, sadness and giddy absolution sent to dishevel all that is static and needing movement and space to grow.

Life is just arrivals and departures, departures and arrivals. And I have come to wonder if we sometimes get them confused with one another, because really we have no idea. Cannot presume to know what is a destination and what is a stop along the way. We are always getting it all right and getting it all wrong simultaneously. Even the circumstances of our daily lives could be offering us a multitude of openings, even as they threaten to wall us in. That is the beauty of this ambiguous existence, and our job is to show up more often than not.

Departures

As I sit here at the gate, post-friend visit/retreat I contemplate the weight and feel of the many departures that occupy our lives.  Sometimes it is the small things in life that count, and in this shrinking world filled with air travel and cellular wavelengths, we have the power once in a while to show up. And showing up, however briefly, is a gift in itself. Both to the one who arrives and soon departs, as much or perhaps more than for the ones who receive the arrival.

There is a weight to departures. I have felt it often, beautiful and painful sometimes in equal measure. In it there is the painful childhood heft of a the oblivious protector who walks out the door daily, or does once, in a more permanent or impactful way. Just at a moment in time when it was harder to bear, or more presence was needed. Or something immense and terrifying was about to happen in the void that remained. When staying put might have been a good alternative, at least for those being left behind. But leaving is also an art form, when done mindfully, that reminds us of the things we hold dear; connections can be forged and strengthened in all our comings and goings.

It might be best if we paused just a little longer at each threshold, to
wait for a response. It is important to look back, at least once, and measure once more the need for escape, before stepping outside the circle. This is a practice of patience and fearlessness, a momentary investment of time that gives away the last word, the last breath. Not listening for the first, or the second, or even the third meaning inspired by longing or anger or surprise. But the one that fills the space when all words have failed as have the listeners' ears, to hear the true cost and measure of love.

Departures are reminders of the sweetness of life, though this can be lost if we are in a rush to leave.  Sometimes you need to re-enter the space. Let it unfold. Trust that all will come home into this silence before closing the door behind you. The quiet opens up into truth, like a bloom - the grace of goodbyes well and mindfully done creates the space for beautiful returns.

Conduits

This is a 'what if' story.

What if all the people and events of your life were arriving with a gift for you in their hands? Not appearing for a 'reason' so much as to offer greater insight into something important, critical even. Maybe people arrive, especially the ones that pull at us most deeply in beautiful and painful ways, to conjure up some feeling or experience so that we can become more human. So that we can activate or deepen our compassion because we have tapped into something more essential than our own story. If we choose it, each and every angry, sad, joyful and shameful moment, lived fully, can be an opportunity to break out of the bounded prison of the self. Even a good venting session can be fertile ground for transcendence, if we treat ourselves with a kind of radical compassion.

Writing teaches me this. It is a way of processing and expressing things, it is an outlet I allow myself, an occasionally public but somehow safe place for me. I am aware that most often my topics take on a life of their own. When I sit down at the keyboard to 'write down the bones' of whatever emotional filament is running through my life at the moment, it always seems that the object fades into the background. Whatever feeling or idea inspires me to start writing, quickly becomes secondary, a conduit helping me see that there is a gift in the experience of feeling something deeply. The things that I care most about, tighten or open my chest and irk me the most are the emotional grist for the mill. Powerful stuff. As I write, or most often when I am done, I look back and understand that I was not writing about specifics; it may have started that way, but then crossed into more universal terrain. It's like in a dream where the people and places change and shapeshift - my house becomes a cave, my father is suddenly someone else - a wolf, a stranger, a friend, I can fly without wings, breathe underwater, or commune with whales. It is a place where things change form easily, and without effort or distress. Anger becomes strength, pain becomes clarity, shame becomes compassion. Real life can be like that too.

We get to choose what to do with the stuff and stories that comes into our lives. We can cast it aside, reduce it to meaningless reductionist pieces if we like. Label the people and events in some way as meant or not meant to be, attach meanings that are convenient or easy in order to close a chapter; a one true love; a nemesis or persecutor; tragic, beautiful or broken. This gives us control and something to cling to. Or we can hold it close, but not still, and allow and observe as it transmutes, fades, or grows into a greater version of itself. Held lightly, great insight can inhabit these moments of permutation.

I think I can see this truth, even in the throes of turmoil and resistance. It's not about being perfect, and actually it might be the opposite. The more I embrace the ugly bits, the more they dissolve. I am aware that I am living through experience, not for the sake of it, and some things are not what they appear. I have been stuck and I will get stuck again, but I am not at the mercy of what transpires, nor am I in control of it. But I do get to decide what to do with what arrives at my doorstep. Allow myself to pick it up, turn it over as many times as needed, and notice how it gets sifted, mixed and reformed through the mill of my consciousness for future use. In my own time and in my own way. Or I can turn away from what is painful and step over it as one would a pothole or bit of roadkill, in a hurry to leave it behind and continue on the planned route. Letting this precious gift get trampled and ground to dust, lost forever.

Shipwrecks

I sometimes don't trust myself, but I am arriving more deeply to knowing that I can. My worst crime I am discovering has been not to listen to my own wisdom. I have had this feeling of late that I have dodged a bullet, or chosen to get off a doomed ship before it sailed. In different ways over the past few years I have been moving towards an understanding of the ground where intuition meets discernment. To discern is to "judge wisely and objectively", whereas to intuit something is defined as going by feel and instinct. Of late I have been richly rewarded, if not always immediately, for trusting this emerging combination of elements that show me the right path. In some cases, the affirmation of right choice or action has been an internal one, a sense of heightened peace or calm, in others it has come in the form of external accolades, or exoneration and reprisal. Both have been extremely powerful in their different ways.

The art of departure, leaving something or quitting has always been tricky for me. To climb back out of a hole when we fall in is sometimes the best but hardest thing to do. In matters of the heart or intellect, I tend to be someone who likes to see things through to completion or closure. The most difficult thing for me is to remove myself from something that feels unresolved. Instead of taking my leave when things get tricky, I am drawn to keep digging, looking for gold or other pay dirt. The impulse is to resolve, find understanding, look deeper, discover more questions to ask to come to clarity. I am also good at the art of wait, I can sit still a little longer and wait for peace or resolution, even in the dark. I don't like to quit, in part because in doing so I risk losing face; with myself and others. I am resilient, and infinitely capable of hard work, making the best of sub-par circumstances, moving through challenge, or just sucking it up and getting the job done. I value tenacity - it's part of the art of staying put.

But there are times when abandoning ship is the best way to 'do the right thing'. I am learning to pay attention to the space that lies between intuition and discernment in order to know when turning and walking off the gangplank is the better move. When the decks are awash with whatever dance is being played out on the bridge, but no one is piloting, its time to disembark. Sometimes I have had a sense of foreboding, can perceive there is a collision looming and can extrapolate the angles and trajectories, see a not so distant iceberg. Even when others are blinded to it's approach I am starting to trust this sense completely. But I have no way of knowing whether it will ever be acknowledged by anyone but me, or what shape things will take. 

I am not the captain of this vessel, so have no voice in navigating the passage. Anything I say will not be heard amidst the crash of waves in this tumultuous sea. Not until the swell pounding against this hull travels a hundred miles and then back again, refracting against the edges of the ocean. Only then will I and perhaps others, understand the small warnings that have been etched across the waterline. The tiny cracks in the hull ignored or covered up in the fervour and drama of the launch. 

We humans have a way of rushing in when our steps really need to be slow and measured, of forcing things prematurely into the world instead of waiting for them to unfold. We are so impatient, oblivious to the broken glass and sweet wine spilling across the pier in this hurried christening.

I am learning to remove myself when the seas are churning around me, returning to the safe harbour that I am. I understand that even my meagre ballast is having an effect on the course of the ship, and have no desire to remain clinging to these storm-tossed railings, knowing that by staying I could somehow become culpable, a party to this shipwreck. Perhaps my departure can serve to lighten the load, and grant safer passage. Anything is possible.

The act of stepping away is liberating, grounding, and life-affirming, even when it causes strife or discomfort. Even when it means abandoning ship, and leaving others at sea. 

On Writing

Over the years, which i now realize have been many, as I can trace my desire to write back to about age 6, my writing practice has been through an evolution. Starting with short stories that bordered the terrain between magic and reality, and later shifting into more free form word play, it has almost always had a life of it's own. Stories have emerged out of impressions and dreams, rarely by design, blog posts sprout from the experience of being alive. Falling in love, being disappointed, going for a walk or a ski, grappling with my own 'baggage' and all it's iterations in my life.  What I sense most often is that what I am writing about, ultimately, is universal. The storyline behind it is not the point; what emerges as I contend with that storyline is. I am often fascinated and humbled by how people respond to what I write, sometimes it seems to resonate as if the sentiments have been taken out of their own experience. Some people have taken meanings which were not intended or imagined when I sat down to compose. And I know still others read my ramblings and get lost or confused by what I have set down.

What i know about this process is that what emerges from whatever beginnings I craft is usually unexpected and unplanned. Occasionally my writing has gotten me into trouble, or has upset people - I'm sure more times than I am aware - but it is a process less about exposing others and more about exposing myself, and the truths and wisdom that lies embedded somewhere in my unconscious. In reality, even when I sit down to write about something specific, it rarely stays that way. If there was a person involved, they have not been the topic, only the conduit. My writing is not about the messenger, it is about the message that I am discerning. In coming to the keyboard and starting something, regardless of where that starting point is, I open up a world of possibility - new ways of seeing. It is a method to transcend difficulty and express gratitude. From pain, something joyful emerges. From anger I weave my way in words towards acceptance. From an obsessive mind I cultivate more peace. From an ugly set of circumstances I craft something beautiful. Just by sitting down to write and letting the words go where they will, spilling out and taking a form of their own on the page. 

Sometimes I feels stilted, like now, but mostly I am able to write my way out of the things that have me stuck. It may not seem like it sometimes, but sitting down at this keyboard and committing things to this online memory bank has been a way to release all that I am still unsure and unresolved about into the ether. Far from an expression of certainty, this writing down the bones is a way I have had of opening up to and becoming more comfortable with ambiguity. Of processing the raw materials I have to work with in this life. I often feel more grounded after I write, more settled into myself and at peace, but it is less about getting things right, and more about knowing that there is always something about to change. The great paradox of the 'art of staying put' is that it is woven with the threads of transience.