Underground

Have I lost my way? My dreams tell me something is up, but they are a moving and ethereal target, images made of mist and whispers. These days I just feel lost, purposeless, apathetic to the things that usually summon up my life force. I still puzzle over what is unfinished, but less in the devilish details and more in the way of the immutable watercolour shades of feelings, ideas. My sense of things and how they are shifts like vapour across a dark palette. But I am at home here, certain of nothing. Although sadness seems to wash up on my beach more days than not right now, that is fine by me, as I know it passes. It is seasonal, and though I feel it it does not overtake me.

I once told myself and another that I was impulsive, but that is not the case. More so I am quick and sure when I move to my heart's song. I waffle and hedge when I am out of tune with it, but find it hard to catch myself there. I look outside myself for answers, seeking counsel from the wind and anyone else who will answer. I convince myself that my gut must be wrong, am convinced by others who want to see me land...somewhere. Commit to something. Which is fair, we are all hopeful, and we all wish to see the people we love, or care about, or see as somehow lost find their way to a good home. Like stray dogs, wayward hearts are not always easy to behold.

Do I continue to trust that the path will reveal itself? To believe that there are no wrong moves, only options, diversions, forks. Fate as a conglomeration of all the choices I have ever made.

Last night I found myself contemplating another change of tack, a backwards glance at the things I used to love and sometimes miss tempting me to pull up stakes again. Maybe I would find myself there? I could initiate another swing of the cross-continental pendulum to rediscover the ever-white winters of my youth, the warm rivers where I built so many friendships. The thought of leaving again both comforts and terrifies me. The loss of momentum, interruptions to the building connections of this coast, represent the latter. But here I have also struggled to find my place, a sense of belonging, community. I have experienced a heartbreak here that has morphed in some ways, but left an indelible mark, and perhaps intensified my feelings of not fully being welcomed by this temperate coastline. A harsh kind of rejection, as if the fabric of the land itself cannot find a place for me, even in the deep moss of the forest or the fine sun-crisped sand of the outer edge of this island. In some moments, the idea of going back, even for a short time, feels like a balm to the unhealed parts of me. But I know that is illusory, and while I know there is change afoot, I am not sure that it is a geographical one. Staying put does not always come easily, it takes effort. Opportunities can seem fickle but are perennial.

So for this week I feel adrift and unsure, and have a feeling like I have lost the seeds of who I am. It is spring, but I have no idea what or where to start sewing what comes next. Maybe I already have, but this long winter is delaying the arrival of the new green, and I can't see yet what's coming up. And I understand as always that all this, the good and the bad, the vibrant and the listless, is impermanent. So much lies underground.
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Ghosts of Giants

This weekend I took myself on an exploratory adventure, in search of snow and an elusive trail on the south island. I went prepared, skis in the back of the car, kayak (in case the mission was a bust and an ocean surf on the way home ended up being my only option) on the roof. Dog, rubber boots, snacks, curiosity and an open mind.

Eventually I chose a spot to park, after passing a few less promising logging roads in search of the right point of entry,  to lead me upwards, towards the promised ridgeline.  There was a wide river, pushing it's tannin-stained water over rocks, downslope, emitting the powerful energy that such rivers do. I found myself walking a slow incline beside the creek (a fly rod would have been a great thing to have), the river a continuous cool chatter to my left, the deep greens and mist of the forest surrounding me. Steep slopes cutting upwards towards the high ground to either side of the gorge.

I imagine that there is a threshold, a thin wall, situated somewhere between our earthly struggles, our guilt, shame, fear...and the grace of the universe. Sometimes we bump into it accidentally and for moments or more are loosened from the weights that pull at us, the things that keep us anchored in pain and struggle. Unhappiness. This fragile boundary gives way easily, and we are able to feel that the real purpose of this existence is in letting ourselves step outside of these self-inflicted realities.

As I passed a giant cedar stump I noticed the deep red heart of it. The bank where it had once grown had eroded, at some point breaking the tree open to expose it's core. It was still rooted, hundreds of years of growth and life and staying put to an end more than 30 years ago. But it was beautiful, and I stopped in my tracks to register the energetic pull of it. As if there was a spirit still residing there, I felt compelled to acknowledge it. Hands pressed together, I gave it a small bow. Another one further up the track beckoned to me to do the same. Pause, feel the presence of this wild rooted ghost, and move forward with respect and a sense of wonder. Both stumps, although long cut down were crowned with huckleberry, hemlock and salal, and covered in moss and lichen. Not dead after all, just host to a different being fuelled by the same ancient life force. This is what I perceive anyway.  

It is hard to stay in my own sadness in these places, almost impossible to remain in anger or hreatbreak, or some other tortured state. Even though as I move I ponder my life, the various people that have populated it and meant something, and changed me or made me more aware in different ways. The future is unknown, as always. I will be surprised and I will be disappointed, at least I hope so. My intention is to move forward with reverence and a sense of wonder, so that I can meet the what's next with an open heart and mind. And find more delight than disappointment.

The In Between

I come back to ground, slowly after being in the air for a while. I land softly, so much so that I am barely aware of the reconnection of feet to earth. My eyes open. There was a while there when I was floating, unable to feel what was real and solid and what was a fabric made of imagined things. Vestigial dreams suspended in the threads woven from stories half told.

I come back to earth now. And I accept what is and choose to put little thought into what might or might not be. Things that seem opaque,  part or future, can remain so, and are not going to come into clarity by the simple force of my gaze. Any disasters have been of my own making, sewn into my skin by a constant desire to know the unknowable, to see storylines that are not mine to see. This is the source of whatever deep sadness resides in me, in us, this need for things to be different from what they are. Trying to stretch too far outside of ourselves. We created this reality, for whatever reason, perhaps to solve it and come more fully into the light.

And with that thought I remember that it is the first questions we ask that are the most important.
Back then, I wondered aloud whether I was just a catalyst. I suspected that I was, or something like it; a wake up call, a beautiful interruption to an empty sleep. For a while we lived in the magical in between, reveling in the soft light that lingers after dreams. Before our minds returned to this mortal place, to pick up the burdens we had chosen to carry in this lifetime.

At this time in history the truth is being revealed that we are just part of a process, and an uncomfortable wedge is being inserted into our willful slumber.  Amidst this turmoil there is a forceful upwelling of emotional discord, we are waking up and coming to the realization that life is not meant to run us over. We are not meant to drive this machine, but neither are we meant to get dragged behind it like tins cans behind the newly wed.

Our light-handed purpose; to fall asleep and wake back up again, over and over, in order to better understand and hold on to that middling place between dream and wakefulness. This is where the divine meets the human, where we are meant to linger in those moments when we are barely awake, remembering. We all know it, whether we choose to admit it or not. Where we understand that there are two worlds; this earth with it's hard edges and the dreamscape which lies shimmering beyond our touch. Neither less real than the other. To walk the in between is our task, to hold on without grasping, to stay put without letting our feet plant too deeply, so we can see the intermingling of worlds. All this so we can sink into the ground that birthed us, fall to pieces, and begin again.

Flight

I wish to divest myself of these weights that pull at my shoulders. Step away from the wreckage that lies strewn all around me, within me, in the broken ties and twisted fates of those who have accompanied me on this journey, for long sections of trail and short. I am ready to let it all go, to release these stories into the ground to be digested and turned into something more fertile. They have served me well, but now I am ready to stop dreaming of the unrequited, the untenable, the angry and departed souls that populate my sleep. They have no more to offer me, and I have no reason to keep them here.

You saw the relief in my countenance before I knew it had landed on my features. Respite. Yet again I am adrift, pushed off from shore, this time revelling in the stillness of these seas. It is quiet here; there is peace, and knowing. In a distance I cannot yet see there are likely storms brewing, building sea states, beds of confounding kelp, but for now I am carried gently, buoyed by these saline depths. Welcomed into the watery next leg of this mysterious journey.

Each time it seems I experience a little less sadness, and altogether less fear. Maybe I am learning that worry will not change the texture of my future, the beauty and the sorrows that lie in wait. I will be found by these things regardless, whether or not I choose to push or pull away, or take an unexpected fork in the road to evade them. What I can choose is whether to revel or run from the beauty, to sink into despair or foster hope in the face of grief. I am not heartless or lacking initiative, I am just following the wisdom of release. Relinquishing control of this vessel, taking my hands from the instruments and trusting it to fly itself for a time. Perhaps that's how it's meant to be flown anyway. It's possible I've mistaken this bird for a machine all these years.

Dreams

Last night I dreamt of an autistic man. Maybe he was me and I was him. It's always hard to tell in dreams. But the point was this. He was crazy, unacceptable, dangerous even,  when squeezed into the societal shirt that is required. He would burst buttons, rip fabric, all the while tearing his own hair out.  Tortured by the beauty and power that resided underneath.
Then we let him out. Unbound him from the expectations and unnatural contortions we asked him to conform to. Released to be who, and what, he was. And it was magical.

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.