Remnants

It's been a good week, a good couple really, but this one in particular has held up some good news. I have a lot of freedom right now, made more sweet by an impending rootedness, as a few things I have been working on have come to fruition quickly and somewhat unexpectedly. I had an inkling September would be a month to 'stay put' and as things have unfolded it is good that I have. Life is about to change some, and there will be adjustments, but it feels good, like I am on the right path. I have trusted that the tides and winds know what they're doing and my timing has been good - I have felt steered towards my current trajectory, my hands only resting lightly on the wheel.

A bit more than four years ago, in the aftermath of my fathers' death, I drove myself home, from east to west across the wintertime highways. A few very notable things happened on that drive, one of which was a stop that I took at the woodland property my family had owned for over 30 years. During my fathers decline into dementia, we had sold it, over 200 pristine acres of hardwood forest, ponds, marshes and hundred year old farmstead long reclaimed by wild things. The cabin, originally a small one room log building had been expanded in our time there, but remained off the grid, heated by wood and powered by the sun. Snowshoes, feet and a beautiful cedar strip canoe were the vehicles of choice for us; my dad reviled recreational vehicles of any kind. My stop there, in the dead of winter 2013 was difficult; the property had been opened up, once shaded by hardwoods the winding and bumpy driveway had become a wide swath of flatness. New buildings had been put up, brutally carved out of the forest - places to store big machines used to further flatten and carve out pieces of the Earth. Skidoo tracks laced the clearings, the dead hides of animals were pinned to the walls inside. It felt a little like my own personal Narnia had been pillaged and turned into a logging camp.

There is also a story that I could tell about a wolf on the long road west, but I will save that for some other time. A very few know it already.

That year was a harsh one for me, a war zone of death and griefs, although also it also contained some of the truest beauty as well. The brightest and the darkest of times co-mingling. Since then I am  aware that this period of my life has been about recovering parts of myself - along a very crooked path, and not without casualties of it's own, but a recovery nonetheless. In these years I went back to a life where much of my work involved being in the field, time on oceans and rivers and mountains. That kind of life has a way of slowing you down, and I think it is in those places and times of stillness, of being 'unplugged' and caught up in the rhythms of self propelled travel that the soul gets a chance to catch up to our body. Planes and trains and automobiles simply move too fast for the spirit to keep up (so I've heard), and so we lose parts of ourselves along the way of this modern existence. For me it has been a time of making mistakes and being unsure but trying anyway, of not knowing whether I am on the right track or not. I have been a party to some messes. But the fog is slowly lifting and I am learning how to surrender a little bit more to the forces that move me forward. In all of it I keep finding pieces of myself along the way, sometimes small and barely noticeable, others profoundly solid and beautiful. I have taken them up, a feeling like I am re-becoming what is rightfully me. Finding a wholeness that only existed before I arrived to this lifetime.

Tomorrow I am making a return to a place where I believe I will find some more of these remnant shards. To spend 6 days solo along a stretch of coast I first travelled when I was 20. I have this thought that I might find something there, something of the simplicity and forgiveness that exists before mistakes are made. A return to something simpler. Where I might find that I am not broken after all, but have simply been wandering the wilds, untethered, for a time.

Tuesday Morning

This could be the first of many days of freedom, of unstructured and creative time, or it could be a week that marks an end to that and the start of a new kind of routine. A life of consistency - something I both fear and welcome. I am that contradiction, embodied. I come alive in the moments on the river, like yesterday, finding flow in every paddle stroke. Low water rapids barely necessitating more than a switch of tilt. I can also see that this kind of freedom can be enabled by a kind of steadiness, routine; staying-putedness. Being in place.

At the moment, I am enjoying this slow morning, one of my favourite things. Keeping myself on a diet of screen-free time for the first hour at least of each day, drinking my coffee without distraction. Gazing out the window today at this hazy (smoke-filled) air that hovers in the city, between buildings and over the harbour. Doing nothing but that.

I think about walking the dog at the lake a bit later, writing something (chapter 1 in process), possibly going to the museum (artist's date).  Cleaning the car of sand and salty debris, a task still waiting for me in the aftermath of my return from the ocean. This is a good life. A short phone call from a friend as she drove this morning, young baby in tow, our conversation splitting the moments between cries. The definition of love, her sleepless nights, and all the imperfections of a life fully and honestly lived.
There is a strange but welcome peace for me today. A sense of forgiveness - of all the things, myself included, because this is where it starts - which feels a little like emerging from a fog, or being suddenly unshackled from my own (mis)perceptions. Allowed to move forward again. Knowing that all is not lost, that I am loved and able to love in return. Words...understanding how they can have the appearance of keeping us stationary, committed as they are to permanence, but can really be about unravelling what is stuck, relinquishing my ideas to freedom and flow. All things pass.

Photo Cred: ?? Not sure, spring day on Beaver Creek, circa 2006?

Yesterday those of us who were on the river just let it take us, the water low enough to funnel our boats on a swift course mostly free of obstacles. Each subsequent wave allowing us to bounce off the shoreline rocks and over the deepest channel. All that was needed was to trust in the balance of things, keep our paddles in the water and catch whatever eddies appeared on the way.

Home

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.

All That is Gold

If there is something I'm not proud of it's this: it sometimes takes me a while to see the gold that lies within people. I now generally try to go into a situation with the sure knowledge that it's there, and even if it's hidden or obscured by other things, people at heart are essentially 'good' (for lack of a better word) and beautiful.  I am reflecting today on how I have judged others at times, especially on first meetings; it may be a defence I have, although I'm not sure what benefit there could be to not seeing, other than to avoid falling in love over and over again in the course of a lifetime. Maybe that's just it. That I am afraid of becoming smitten and heartbroken, or what's more likely - of breaking hearts repeatedly in my kindness throughout my life as people arrive and depart in the way that they do. Strangely, I live with some terror of being truly seen, not wanting to live with the ramifications of someone else's disappointments.

I take time to unfold and perhaps it is just that being mirrored in my encounters with all the other humans to cross my path. All so lovely, but appearing one way upon first meeting, then slowly bursting forth like flowers from buds over time. Maybe the thing is that we all unfold given the right observer and a bit of space.

I have come across such kind heartedness of late, I seem to be seeing it all around me and am aspiring always to peek beyond the surface to where that kindness resides in myself. To understand that all the behaviour in people that 'pushes my buttons' springs from some essential need - to be seen, loved, invited in, allowed freedom or the unadulterated joy of laughter, fun. All the weird and dysfunctional ways we sometimes interact with one another in order to meet these needs can be dispelled and unravelled with a small touch of compassion. And a willingness to stop making it about me or my ego.

Recently when faced with someone who was being rude and demanding, I remembered this, and found a way to listen more carefully to what lay underneath the external ranting. Just hearing the faintest cues of some underground spring of wanting, I paused and measured my response just long enough to perceive through the clamour and ugliness how I could hear and acknowledge what was being truly asked for.  It was a strange dance of standing my ground, resisting the urge to subsume myself into a mousy lump and truly perceive what was being asked for. I listened more than I spoke, and paused for a breath or two before I responded, when I did. I'm sure it was imperfect, but I was left with a deeper understanding of this human being standing before me, in all his pushiness and impulsivity, and simply saw someone with a thirst for knowledge, freedom, and wanting permission to ask questions without being judged as challenging. Suddenly I just saw a beautiful curiosity.

I am grateful for this reminder, and I suspect I am getting better at this skill of listening for the desires lurking below the surface, of perceiving the gold that inhabits us all. Knowing how to stand my ground and hold stock in myself, while also being porous enough to see and welcome the surprises that come from discovering another person with fresh eyes. That is real freedom.

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.