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Photo cred: Charlotte Jacklein

I have been a bit tortured by circumstance and my own (and others') human shortcomings of late, but a few days ago a friend said these words to me..."zoom out and see how much life loves you in other places". It was a piece of intuitive wisdom that was the stuff of genius; it arrived in just the right way, and at the right time offering a perspective that I was ready to see.  She is so right. I am so. Damn. Fortunate. And grateful, for all the good things.
And there are so many good things, it should be almost impossible to confuse my sources of sadness with the immense and extensive sources of happiness that populate my life.
I just got off 9 days of 'work' on the ocean, one of my favourite bits of it, Clayoquot Sound, a sandy, surfy and otherworldly expanse of west coast beauty. The place is pure magic, and on another friends' advice I asked the elements there for forgiveness and healing daily. At the start of the trip I was enmeshed in a toxic spiral of anger, hurt and frustration that was not doing much good for anyone. A strange concoction of guilt, sadness, confusion, righteousness and my own innate brand of half-blind insensitivity and self-centredness. Quite the soup, very chunky.
Today on my way home I felt washed clean, redeemed, joyful. More willing to let go of things that I cannot change or solve.
I have said it before but this body of mine, and the way it is aging so gracefully, is something that I am thankful for every day. How lucky I am to have been able to walk, paddle and ski my way through this life. I have lived at least 50% of my time here on earth travelling through and teaching others to travel well through wild places, holding space for all the lessons and beauty to emerge.  I get to be a witness to the healing power of ocean, river and mountain, and all the other places I have been graced to know. Even in the times when this work is meant to be just about the technical skills, it is not really, it is about soul, connection, love.
I will write more soon, because the gifts of the past week have been many, but for now I will rest with a grateful heart. For the counsel and listening ears of friends, the ever moving currents of the Pacific and the silence of the ancient temperate forest. And my own imperfect but resilient spirit. For this island I call home. For the many people near and far who offer hugs, laughs (even at my jokes), soulful questions, caring suggestions and acceptance. All of it matters.

Slowly

This morning I sit quietly, after a slow departure from the cozy comforts of sheets and blankets. My body satisfyingly tired, mildly aching with the lactic acid and fatigue generated in the day before. My dreams were strewn with the comforts of healing after this long hard journey I have been on – my heart broken open, partially closed for maintenance for a time, casting itself slightly forward again towards a softer opening. Sacred rooms, glass walls, rich carpets and friends-turned-shamans populated my sleeping hours.

Yesterday I climbed a mountain, the bundled gifts of ceremony wrapped together in the lid of my backpack, the dog at my heels (and darting off in search of squirrels). From the valley across the rolls of this meadowy subalpine terrain and up into the rock and wildflowers of the alpine. Asters, Paintbrush and Spreading Phlox still clinging to the small cracks of shelter formed in the shadow of jagged rock outcrops. Our feet crunched across scree – the remnants of volcanoes slowly crumbling beneath us. Lakes spread out in azure-tinted shades across their varying depths below the mountains' long sloping shoulder. A long walk for a young dog, and even for me, used to longer treks and possessing a habit of tenacity across extended journeys of time and terrain.

As I moved, I thought about time; when to turn back, how I was faring so far on the invisible arms of my watch. Making good speed, a clip of 3-4km an hour, slower on the ascents but steady, unwavering. Looking up when I could afford, only tripping once and mildly, on the tired descent home. Pausing once in a while for just long enough to take a drink, and share a snack with the dog, to let him sniff that thing or the other. I wait patiently for this at times, not so much at others. He is such a sensory being, not savouring the views so much as immersed in his attuned world of smells and movement, always ready to make chase, literally leaping all fours off the ground into a pounce at a moments notice. I lament a bit that he is such a hunting machine and I celebrate his ability to find water. I keep him close and on leash as we move into the territory of the Ptarmigans, for fear he might run himself off a cornice and into oblivion in the obsessive blindness of pursuit. Although he has surprised me before in his ability to see without seeing, to find the precipitous edges in the world and avoid them.

It seems without knowing it I have traversed into the land of aging, the transitional marks of womanhood flowing in and out of my life in a way so subtle it would have been easy to miss. As in other things for me, it has been easier and with less drama and pain than most. It is a good reminder that there is more going on underneath the surface of things than what is perceived. Many things are inexpressible in words. 

I moved quickly enough over the trails yesterday, not so fast to cause burn out, but efficiently, attending to the right pace – the one that my body knows intuitively in order to keep going over the  distance and the gains and losses in elevation. Wanting to drop off my bundles, to reach that arbitrary summit but willing to compromise if time and darkness threatened to converge upon me.   

When I arrived at the top, the air was warm, almost still, more so than on the wide ridge below. I mark this time; I came to the area a week ago with some intention to write, to move across mountain landscapes, to reclaim something that has been cast off in the arc of betrayal and loss yet again. Not to find myself, for I have not been lost but fully in residence, but to travel through some terrain not yet fully explored. I had company; the dog and two souls who appeared for some days in between to wander a bit with me, our days full of good story telling and philosophy. Soulfulness and the metaphysical eking it’s way into all our conversations. And then the others, the ones who have come in dreams, or the chance meetings on the trail, emissaries of the deeper journey I find myself on. Some haunting, delivering indecipherable messages for me to ponder as I move. I wonder if it is about knowing when to let go and when to accept the fact that I never will. Being able to feel loss while simultaneously being full of joy and kindness and the love of and for others. I will not miss out, but I am learning that a life fully lived contains strains of regret, of ambiguity, of completions that leave nothing but benchmarks to keep me a on true course. I strive to move more slowly so I can recognize all these moments as they come, knowing that I may never know their full meanings until all this is over.  

Near the summit I left something behind, with it my trust that all will be well, and all the yearnings of my heart will come home to me again. Some in this lifetime and others in another lifetime or a form unknowable to me now.

Moonrise

Moonrise

This waxing full moment, turned red with the smoke of wildfires.

I am wondering at the memory of a year passed.

The unfolding mist bent through a lens of

Retrospect.

A sea change, cast through an ocean swell

Like a fisherman's lure

Trolling the depths unseen.

All things reorganized, reorganizing themselves.

Even now

We have not found the end of this arc.

We have become different, unrecognizable even to ourselves.

In our hellbent ways of un-pausing, non-stopping,

An unfurling tapestry of constant movement.

Of not waiting.

Overflowing with desire to fill this unending ocean,

To put an end to our own fathomless wanting. 

We yearn for once to stay put,

To find a kind of stasis 

That only exists in the mind.

To stake a claim in the illusion of a beginning and an ending

We abandon ourselves.

A quiet heart is the only one to remain still,

Able to ride on this tidal flux,

Bending and cresting and diving deep 

As each phase of the moon tilts unknowingly towards the next.

Readying for Launch

I have recently returned from facilitating a wilderness experience with a small group of women. They reminded me of something quintessential about the power  of the feminine - the power of the subtle and the intuitive. The reminder that the slow burn that I am, sometimes quiet and thoughtful, moving through life at the speed of a footstep or paddle stroke can the best way to give my gifts such as they are.  I have always been one to value integrity (my own and others') above all things...and at the very least a level of self awareness that allows me to see when I have deviated from an honest course.
Things that ring falsely, or are about image, marketing, 'branding' and the manipulation of words and images for the purpose of selling has always bothered me. It's a necessary evil, one might argue, in this world that values momentum and boldness. But more and more I see the work of soulfulness, mindfulness, and personal growth being commoditized. We have turned intuition, human development and self awareness into a product rather than a practice.
These are not things that can be bought and sold. They are not things that can be achieved through any means but the personal sweat of intention and depth - of letting go and making connections. Of practice, and more practice. These are the tasks built on a lifetime well lived, not things that anyone else can grant us. This work of the soul, of 'self-improvement', is both personal and universal, but it is about showing up and being as fully ourselves as possible while also trying to do no harm. To support others on this journey is a delicate balance of coming forward in our own imperfect and vulnerable ways, while also being able to not make it about us or our story. On some level I understand this as a large part of my life's work - this art of showing up, of listening and seeing those who arrive on these expeditions on land, sea and mountain as fully and clearly as I can.
My intuitive and authentic self cringes at the thought of self promotion, preferring instead to just continue this slow journey. This emerging success story that can only be truly measured in the strains of truth in whatever I do. My 'progress' often seems slow, esoteric and lacking material form.
This blog is a window on my soul's wanderings, partially obscured by metaphor, but visceral, real. It's where I sometimes arrive to sort, and understand and access whatever wisdom lies within me. I trust that it will reach who it needs to, and I hope that by following my own voice, this elemental stream of words that seems to emerge from the ether as I sit down to write, I will get where I need to go.
The "Art of Staying Put" as I named it 4 years ago, has been about finding my way through the tough and beautiful things of life and committing to a kind of steadfastness - a stillness, both geographical and internal. Not abandoning myself in the process of pain and loss, or even in the face of the great number of wonderful things that have arrived in my life.
Right now I am feeling challenged, at once pushed to 'make something' of myself as I enter into a few projects this coming month, and simultaneously fearful of getting it wrong, of pushing outwards when I should have pulled in. But I also see that opportunities are emerging, as I have slowly edged towards finding the material  confluence of the gifts I express in the world; of mindful presence and action (always a work in progress), an objective and documented level of skill and competence in the outdoor realm, a writing practice that accesses deeper internal truths as well as a potent and discerning practical voice, and an ability to support and mentor people on journeys of growth, connection and self trust.