Wisdom in the Bones

This thinning but clear spine of a lifeline that I am following is drawn on my palms and etched in my bones.

I have been amazed at myself of late. Not my conscious self, the one that wonders out loud and pays attention to the shoulds and the shouldn'ts and all manner of mindly things, but another part of me. It is my physical self, wordless but visceral, which carries a wisdom borne of the blood and bone that makes me human, that has held me fast to my own truth this past while.

Travelling for most of a month on the sea and beside it, I have been plugged into earthly cycles, my body giving me little choice but to abide by my own rules. There have been handrails to guide my progress, signposts and gateways made of cedar and polished rock. My feet have propelled me forward; poised, balancing, placing themselves upon the unseen path from one moment to the next. Attending to this and paying close attention, it seems almost easy not to wander into temptation or veer off course into carelessness and desire. It is not that I am not being challenged, as I am, though more gently than before. And I am still, as always, left wondering and not knowing a great swath of things of the past and the future, not seen and unknowable from where I stand. But that seems acceptable for the time being, bearable if somewhat mysterious.

This past week feathers fell from the sky and the ocean rose and fell to meet our needs as I shared a coastal walk with a now-dear friend.  Ask and you shall receive, but do not step out of yourself in order to pick up what falls all around you. Wait until you can sense which items were meant for you, and which were meant for others, or just themselves. Remain steeped in your own skin, alighting only when your body moves in step with your soul. Remembering always that this is a slow pace, one filled with pauses and moments of wonder.

It is in this that I have truly found the 'art of wait' (http://artofstaying.blogspot.ca/2013/12/the-art-of-wait.html).

Staying Put

“I am rooted but I flow.” ~ Virginia Woolf

Getting close to two years ago I had a revelation. In order to do the work that I wanted to do, I needed to learn to 'stay put'. I needed to choose a home place, and stick with it. At the time that realization had to do with ceasing my wandering, at least in the geographical sense. But as I have moved through this phase of physical stillness I have been learning that this art of being in place has even more to do with the ability to heed inner stillness. Learning to listen and pay attention to the details of life, and not get pulled off course by every butterfly and squirrel that crosses my path. And many do.

I have built and rebuilt communities in my life in different places, most of them have been steeped in quality, people I love and who love me in return. My soul sisters and brothers - most know who they are and will recognize themselves in reading this. And by staying put, I have learned that those people are still with me, even though they may or may not reside in the same place.

Each time I left, I had the sense that I was just on the verge of something, some great opening, or landing. But then I left anyway; I got itchy feet, wandering eyes, and an urge to move and find greener pastures, something 'better', something 'more', and at times just something different. What I have failed to do time and time again is to ground, pause, grit my teeth and steel myself against the discomfort of the squirming escape artist within. What I know now, without having the luxury of the whole and complete picture - that truly I will only get when my body dies and my essence merges with the green soul of the world - is that in staying put all the things I need will arrive. In their due time. Part of this is about learning to be patient and having faith. Another part is to allow myself to sink more fully into me, to take up the full space that is mine to inhabit. In this way becoming a more hospitable planet, complete with my own atmosphere, soil, sun and moon and stars, I will either nurture or draw in all the things and people that are needed. Just by being myself.

I get that this sounds idealistic, but that too is a big part of who I am and I am not apologizing for it.

Of late the lessons that have emerged for me have been about going against the grain, listening to my ability to discern the best route, and honouring and protecting myself. Not being a martyr on the altar of others' messes, lack of diligence or inability to attend to their own fires first. This has made me supremely unpopular in some circles, I have no doubt. But it has also given me no small measure of self-respect and a necessary sense of self direction. I am placing myself, one small step at a time, on the path of my own best interest. I am not looking for it anywhere else but here and I am resisting the urge to extend outwards, investing my energies instead in calm and focus. "If you build it, they will come", so to speak, even though sometimes I hear crickets.

I have also been unfolding, and have attracted a number of amazing things into my sphere, deep friendship, opportunity, the comforts of home, offerings of love and kindness. In this realm there are also pitfalls, in that by unfolding and showing up more fully, I can be more seen more clearly by others. Part of the benefit of my wandering lifestyle is that it prevented me from blossoming in full view, it allowed me to remain hidden and out of reach of grasping hands. Movement was a safety net, because I have never been very good at saying no, something that often brought up feelings of guilt and unworthiness, although I have been practiced at pushing away. I have acted more like an escape pod in a zero gravity world and less like someone who knew what I wanted and what was good for me. More recently I have been less of the former and more of the latter, which is an improvement.

While staying put I have noticed that things come and go, and I am faced with even more temptation and challenge. It has been so very alluring to run, and run hard, away from the sorrows that were born here, in the early months of my staying. The unseen ghost of these early times flitting between shadows, sensed lurking at certain street corners. Disappeared, but still there in the air I breathe and the tilt of my heart.

Some days I find myself imagining something big and worthwhile, something that has been worth waiting for, is coming down the pipe, but I also imagine that it is the small details that matter most. The dip of ancient cedar boughs, cool sea air, the gifts of friends and the moments of silence and space I give myself. It all adds up, and perhaps one day I will find that it has substance; a shape and a name.

Signposts

I am looking for signposts. I have come to a point in a question where I am graciously requesting answers, from within. I am asking them to come forth, because I do understand that for all the questions that seem to emerge from events external to me and my control, there is an internal clarity, a yes or a no. Resounding, crystalline.
As much as I am able I am ready to hear the scalding or uplifting truth now. Perhaps it will be both of these things. I have circumnavigated this question, backed off many times in getting closer to the source of it, feeling the heat of this truth too close for comfort. Letting go of attachment is juxtaposed with a sense that I am clinging to something that has no or little substance at this moment. At other times it has seemed to be unquestionable, but I have not had the courage to believe either answer and so have arrived at this place of continued mystery. I am ready to be deeply uncomfortable. I think. As best as I am able. Ready to receive.

I found these flowers living in the clouds. Above treeline, deep in the alpine, in a place of rocky footfalls, cairns, and the cries of ptarmigan. Mine are island mountains, often shrouded in the west coast vapour that rises from the confluence of sea and slope. The cloud flowers started coming up in tenacious clumps near the summit I was climbing last week, after a stretch of stunted heather and ground willow gave way to nothing but rocky outcrops. It was a short time to go on faith, but it told me that some time walking  without cairns, signs, or anything that validates your location in the world is a necessary thing as it forces, or enables you to keep going. You learn to pay attention to different things, things that you may not have noticed or known existed before.

In this silence and place of focus you put one foot in front of the other, shift down into the present moment, and discover the truth that blossoms beneath you.

"Don't turn away. Keep your gaze on the bandaged place. That is where the light enters you." 

~ Rumi

Solo

The simple things are also the most extraordinary things, and only the wise can see them.

~ Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

I have taken some risks of late, the sort that can have the effect of making one feel more alone, isolated. Ironically I have, as a result of the choices I have made, felt more supported and less alone.  I have paid attention to my own discerning abilities, heard my own heart over the cacophony of social pressures - the desire that I have to make things ok for others, to 'fix' things, to take the path of least resistance and simply do what others need or expect me to do. There is no doubt a time for compromise and sacrifice but this most certainly has not been it. I have also been more than fortunate to be surrounded by people who have listened, heard and reflected valuable perspectives, and helped me to follow my own wisdom.

Not that doing unpopular things is ever simple or clean, and ultimately it is I who must live with my choices. I have had experiences in the past two years that have shaken and changed me, there have been losses and departures, and through my recent actions I have invited more of that. But I have listened to the intuitive and intelligent voice that knows the path with the most integrity; although I now understand that there is not always a 'clean' line...not through some things. There are messes to be made when we make 'right' choices, and I am imperfect at this, but I do the best I can and I think, as my dad might have said, 'that is nothing to be sneezed at'.

This past week, finding myself suddenly at loose ends, I went on a solo trip into the mountains. An amazing thing to be able to do, lucky as I am to be blessed with time, a body that can do the work and a lifetime of accrued skill and backcountry experience. In travelling alone however, I expose myself to the real risks of the environment, terrain and a remote wilderness place. There is an important distinction for me in this version of 'risk', visceral and real rather than perceived, concrete rather than abstract. It is a context where I can see clearly the consequences of my decisions and actions, there is no social grey zone, no he said she said, no one else present to worry about. Just myself, my own fears and the real possibility of harm - much more intimate when unsullied by the distraction of other souls. There are clear consequences to any misstep or lapse in concentration. But my survival mechanism is strong, I want to emerge from this alive and whole for the sake of myself and those who care about me, so I measure my risks as best I can. I watch the thresholds constantly and carefully as new challenges arise.

It's early June and so there was some snow, excessive in some parts of the route, that made travel and navigation tricky, even hazardous in some areas. I avoided over committing to the obvious sketchiness of the high alpine terrain, but still found myself on day 3 half way across a steep scree slope, staring down at a 1000 foot sheer drop into nothing with a large snow field looming in front of me. I should actually amend that...in the end I decided not to stare down, instead willing my wandering mind to 'point positive' and focus on my slow and tenuous progress across the rotting vestiges of the winter season. One foot at a time, digging in my heels with each step, sometimes twice before adding my 130 lbs to the steep unprotected slope. Trying to tame the fear surging up in my gut by focusing on the minutia of each movement. I make it across and experience waves of relief which are tempered by the awareness that tomorrow I need to traverse this again to return to the safety of the valley.

As is often typical, the aesthetic rewards of the high, remote and less travelled route are powerful. Waterfalls careen into the valley below me, and somewhere above and to the right of my current vantage point I sense that there is a pristine and sublimely beautiful place awaiting me, that this route, suggested to me by a friend, is a gift of sorts. It was the answer to a question, a first response, I suspect emerging from some divine intuition. There has never been any doubt in my life that wild places can be the most profound teachers and messengers. It is here that we come home, and find ourselves again.

In the treed rolls below the alpine lake that was to be my final campsite, I lost the trail to snow and wandered for a time seeking the best route upwards. It was late in the day, and while I was far from the edges of my limits, I was feeling impatient with the process, ready to arrive. I noted the terrain carefully, saw the rocky headwall above me that signified the edge of a watery bowl; there was no way to really be lost as hemmed in as I was by clear handrails and backstops. But my boots were damp from an hour of wet snow, and my packstraps were starting to drag on my shoulders. Instead of seeking the 'correct' path I simply went up, scrambling a bit to attain the elevation I had worked all day to arrive at. Within minutes I was standing on the granite edges of a high alpine lake, looking downhill towards the milky cascades of the river beside the campsite. A stunning place by any measure. Unsurprisingly, no one else was  there that night, I had seen no other human footprints.

The following day I was up early, anticipating the return journey across the gnarlier portions of the traverse with no small amount of anxiety. Descending into the trees I lost the trail quickly, finding myself again bumping through thickly vegetated and rolling micro-terrain. I was mildly annoyed at my longer than necessary progress towards the looming crux of my mornings travel, already half an hour in and seemingly no closer to the scree. But as I negotiated another crease in the landscape, through densely packed and stunted evergreens, I paused, looking to my left and right in an attempt to choose the best route. After four days solo I suddenly noted that I had never felt lonely or alone, always accompanied, loved, held. I had sung songs as I meandered through grizzly country, encountered almost no one and worked at my own pace. I had read two books in my tent in the afternoons, both of which had made me cry and think.

I wondered at the feeling of accompaniment and simultaneously made a silent request for guidance, some sort of directional arrow. Before me two gaps in the trees were clear, one to the left and one to the right. In the gap to the right stood a larch, now in full leaf, which seemed significant as I had noted some at the previous campsite whose needles were just starting to emerge. I also have the sense that larches have some meaning to me, and to some of the people who have populated my life of late, although I will let that meaning sit to emerge in it's own time. Or remain a mystery. The bright green needles of the tree met my criteria for an obvious 'sign' so off I went. Within seconds I noticed my own footprints from the day before in the snow a few meters away.

Many beings accompanied and protected me on this journey, and it was my own tracks which led me home. I am grateful for both.

Vargas

It is possibly an overused and misunderstood word; magic. But there are times when it emerges unbidden, clear and obvious and not to be ignored, lying prone in our path. We are well served to observe it's presence.
This past two weeks I have been in the company of a large group of teenagers, and two good men - a silversmith and a wayward irish mystic, wandering the shorelines and beaches of Vargas Island in Clayoquot Sound.
Objectively, Clayoquot is a magical place. It is made of cool air and fog drifts, and ancient cedars that speak of the soulfulness of the non human world. It is one of my home places, and I was lucky to be part of these trips where the objective was not to accomplish distance or challenge or push the participants so much as it was to be. Be together, in place, play, and align with the currents that run alongside the island of our dreams.

The three of us adults kept and made good company, drinking tea in absurd amounts and at every opportunity, telling stories, laughing, moving at a slow pace, never hurried. Ravens battled crows overhead, eagles squeaked like clotheslines at every campsite. The wolves circled the island daily, leaving new sign for us to inspect after each departure into sleep or day trip away from our camp. Ghosts.

On the north side of Vargas there is a cabin, cedar trunks for posts; build by a shipwright it is all windows and cedar shakes and nautical lines. It is a destination for many kayakers, and a recent home for one of the legends of this coast. John and his wife Bea and their dog Lolita left almost two years ago and the cabin and it's surrounding garden had fallen into disrepair. On our first weeks' visit to this place on the beach, the silversmith returned from an inspection of his old friends' cabin, known so well under the loving care of it's former occupants. He was disheartened - inside the floor was littered with debris, outside the garden was overgrown, neglected, untended. Perhaps there had been squatters, people who did not care for the place, but simply reaped its shelter and resources, not seeing or acknowledging the obvious and kindly spirit of the place. Not honouring its unique magic. Over tea at the campsite two beaches over we discussed the former energy of the place as it was tended with diligence and detail, the shell pathways and garden borders, the herbs, the chickens, the fish in the pond, the woodstove lit and kettle always at the ready. John's daily walks to the far end of the beach through the fog, fishing gear in hand, finding salmon off the point. Lolita the Australian Shepherd's visitations to each kayak group that alighted there, sometimes spending her days lying in the sand next to their tents, adopting each new visitor like a long lost friend. We lamented the changing ways of the world and people, and wondered how such a rare and magical place could be unlived in, unloved. Its energy dissolving into the forest. It is for sale. $1.2 million, or some such figure. A sadness lingered in the energy of the week, but also a wonder at the possibility that such a place stands waiting for its next caretaker.
During week 2 we camped again at the small pocket beach a few rocky points away. On our second last evening we decided to take the kids for a campfire and the more expansive soccer pitch offered by the unbroken sand beach. The silversmith, the mystic and I wandered up to the cabin so I could have a look this time, leaving the students to create their space on the beach.
We were met by a sea change as we came up the path. In the boathouse was a surf board, beside it a kayak. Someone had arrived. Nearing the house we sensed a shift, care and attention to detail appeared to be encroaching into the fractured space. Peeking in through the windows we noted the floors had been scoured, order restored, the paw prints of a human life showing up through a few loved objects placed on sills. A richly colourful stained glass depiction of a Raven set against the forest window, photographs on the wall. Six days after our first visit someone had moved in and leaned themselves fully into re-establishing this as a home-place, cleaning its kind spirit back into being.
A familiar face soon emerged from the rich depths of the cabin, recognition dawned on me as the tall regal figure approached. He named me first, helped me remember the connection, a number of years ago when I was living in Tofino he was one of our winter tenants at the guesthouse. German-Indian, a photographer, eking his way into life on the far west coast of Canada. Living the dream. Residency papers now in hand he has landed himself in this ethereal place on Vargas, facing away from town and into the islands of the Sound, finding a place to stay put, be.
As we left it seemed all was now right with the world, for a time at least. We emerged onto the beach to find the kids around a fire of their own creation, a fine west coast mist surrounding the warmth of their circle. All is not lost.

Once

It has occurred to me that there are things we only get one crack at. People, dogs, times in our lives come in and then pass away. Some are easy, lovely, flowing, perfect.

This is Tarka. She was my daemon, my familiar, the canine twin to my human soul. I realized then and still know that she was one of the great loves of my life. A friend, a quiet but present companion over 12 years, in times of trauma and intensity, she was there for some of the worst and best stuff of my early adulthood. She was the bright side of my shadow. I doubt that there will be another creature to match her, or the still point of connection we inhabited as a pair.

If you knew her you will likely understand. You would if you happened to be one of her other friends, as there were a few who loved her as I did, and probably many who saw her for the magical creature that she was. Tolerant, funny, kind beyond measure, she was the softness to the hard edges of life. She made me more empathetic, loving, compassionate. She helped me to understand the pure fire of loss and grief. For months after she passed I looked for her daily in the back seat of the car, heard her breath, and found myself thinking I had forgotten her somewhere.

I waited years to get another dog after she died. Perhaps thinking the magic confluence of genetics and circumstance would conspire once again to produce another like her and usher him or her into my life in some similar way. I searched and scanned many horizon lines once ready for another Tarka, but of course there was no such thing. Not yet, and not to be found under my earthly gaze.

I now understand that she will simply remain, her dark spirit in step with mine, howling across the frozen lake in time with the huskies and wild wolves of our co-existence. I have become her, or at least all the gifts she brought to me have become mine, and this has made me better than I would have been without her.

I have a wondering, a lingering idea, a faith that grief is just a pathway, an unfolding of the heart into infinite possibility. If we allow it, feel it and meet it with kindness.

The Bridge

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us."

~ Marianne Williamson

 This is my path; the secret to all the pain I have ever felt, and all the suffering that I have ever inflicted upon myself or others. My failure to see myself. Mind blown. Universe officially reorganized, turned on its head, and emptied out onto the floor in a tumble of broken glass and bent metal.

I will expand on this idea. More than a fear, it is what prevents me (us) from arriving here, now. From being who we are. From accepting all the gifts being offered, constantly and from all sides. From seeing all the beauty without attachment or possessiveness. From letting go, allowing people and circumstances to change and move. Welcoming things in and allowing them to depart as they see fit. Honouring the paths, chosen or not, of all those who come into your life. Trusting everyone to be engaged in the journey they need to be on, regardless of whether it suits your purposes or ego. Perhaps helping them trust themselves a little more than they did when they arrived. 

I have hidden behind the illusion that I am somehow lacking. But I now understand the opposite to be true. I have made choices based on the wrong information, caved too quickly, settled too soon. Bent myself in an effort to fit. I have also not had the courage to choose the things I did want, assuming that I was not worthy of it. Fear of losing, of being wrong. I missed the point that this is always a possibility regardless.

I have held myself still and let others do the same. And this revelation is terrifying. And electrifying.

"I have no never again, I have no always.  In the sand Victory abandoned its footprints."

~ Pablo Neruda