From the beginning, it seems we want assurances that our hopes truly matter. The wounded ones remember and call forth from beyond; together we nurture the mysterious power to rise up and change what is, by releasing what no longer works. There are lessons in this life; treat everyone with respect and listen with a critical ear. No one can hold the corner of the market forever. We all quest for answers and for peace.
We swim
Half naked
In waves too deep
And water that stings
But sometimes
You find water holes that
Refresh
I had to get there. Waking early, knowing that I needed the tender coolness of a Maine morning, I sat on my parents small porch. And I found it. In the trees, tall as giants, they shook with a light breeze. The air was cool, but not unbearable. It was not the heat of Texas, but on the northern edge of summer; different. Quiet presence of a place I haven't been in awhile. Water and clean air rode soft and gentle around and with breath in my body. I sat and rested simply aware of my gratitude for this place.
Where do you go to release the demons to find solace. Even wood nymphs know and relinquish. Perhaps it is the present nature of change. The transitioning potentials that linger for a moment mid way, understanding the beautiful and deadly within and without. Never static, but in it's timeliness eternal.
We live to let go and that is all. We live and release present before uncertainty but change. Breathe and know.
Through the trees I began to see sky. It was the light that caused me to move. Called me to leave my spot among kin and see. The ocean lay still beneath a glowing orb, so bright I could not see it. But only fathomed its beauty. Clouds allowed better visions, and framed pictures of sea and sky, light and darkness. And the people swarmed to walk its edges. Suited fisherman and surfers licked the edges of the Atlantic aware and unaware of its immensity. Again for the beauty that surrounds, I am grateful.
I remember getting gifts from my parents that required assembly. You'd think we were planning a battle. Dad would get his glasses, make all sorts of sounds, recognizable and not so much. We'd sit down on the floor and look at the thing. Picking up its pieces and putting them down. Then he'd ask "where are the instructions." And mom would bring it to him. He'd Swear curse more with heavy sighs and silence. He'd be reading. Then you'd here. "Oh Ok.. this goes here." More sounds a few swears but less so. Inevitably there'd be those mysterious leftovers. But the play would begin. Although, looking back, it was all play.
Folks have compared life to the instruction manual. And how it doesn't come with any. But I think religion tries, in its own faulty way, to point us to what we could create, with help. Honestly, I think its the love that makes a father or mother finally read the instructions and that is the true instructions. How do we do this? We care enough to try. Thank you mom and dad!
Tomorrow we travel once again to visit family. It's always a challenge to get ready. But I know we'll have a good time. Hell even Dannys afoot.
