One day soon, the other side of the bed will be occupied by him once again, and I will no longer have to utilize the services of my heating blanket to keep warm at night.
At certain times over the past 3-months, I’ve used this solo time to imagine what a life led in his permanent absence would be like; as though he were gone for good and not only for a short stint. I’ve pondered how I would manage and carry on without him. I’ve gotten a tiny glimpse as to why a widow might keep herself in mourning for a lifetime.
When you’ve married your heart to another full throttle – after weaving your lives together for a spell – there is no such thing as time spent without their energetic impression accompanying you.
Mind you, I can hold my own. I’m steady on my own two aching feet and can joy it up with the best of em, all on my own accord. But I want to keep doing all of that with him close at hand.
One day soon, I’ll shift positions in the middle of the night and in place of the open sea, he’ll be there to catch me – and it will be the utmost of grand occasions.
Tag Archives: verse
Sunday morning reflections, penned this morning:
So much unfolds on its own accord, without cause for input or advice. We could pitch a fit and throw it in the direction of so many a thing, but it would be akin to trying to flood the world with a garden hose. Absurd.
How much time is wasted on matters we have no sway over? How much hardship is generated by shirking responsibility over that which is entirely in our own hands and of our own making? On both counts, the answer is: a lot.
The combined daily total of world births and deaths a lot; the amount of times I’ve apologized in my 39 years a lot; the number of stars in the sky a lot.
Remember, a bird has cause to sing and a flower to unfurl each on their own time. If we were to attempt to take over the sun’s job as conductor, the world would be flung to the wolves for rapid devouring.
My morning writings bear the brush strokes of my current influences. And since right now I am reading Mary Oliver, the grace of birds and flowers are finding their way onto the page.
And this simple exchange gives me ripe pause.
We often think of children as sponges and adults as stubborn, who become more set in their ways as they age. Yet, are we not just as susceptible to input?
The answer emphatically is yes.
What is this never-ending thirst we have to live a fictional life?
Are we so misaligned with the cosmos that such an existential crisis is in order?
Are the splendors of whatever landscape we find ourselves surrounded by not enough? And if the answer is no, why not?
Perhaps instead of manicuring and primping our bubble of comfort, we would be better served to hone the art of developing ease in varied environments.
Our communication skills are practically non-existent, in regards to: our self, others, the trees, the birds, the wind, the water.
If we’ve not yet come to terms with how intertwined our mind and body are, what chance do we have for absorbing the message the moon is sending, in its waning ascent over the mountains? How will we come to know what a fallow field of wheat is expressing or what wisdom teachings pulsate on the currents breath of the ocean?
We must learn to lean and settle into mundane landscapes, and bridge our mind and body together with aid of breath.
When we sit in perfect accord with our self, in the graces of our current locale, living a non-fiction life becomes a great deal more than all we need.
There are some people I only love from afar.
The way one might revel in a painting in a museum
while standing across the room.
There are others I love like
dipping in close to smell a wild rose.
Absorbing it full throttle
but only for a short burst of time.
There are some I love like movie theater popcorn:
ravenously but only once in a great while.
And then there are those I love like music and tea,
drinking them in as often as I can.
I make it a practice to watch my tongue.
And this is not an act of censorship, in the sense that I’m squelching an authentic arising of opinion.
It’s a matter of honing in the powers of discernment,
knowing full well that my mental landscape is faulty,
riddled with illusions,
and caught up in its own poor judgement –
ya know, human.
Just because I think something,
doesn’t mean it’s worth saying.
Lately, I’ve been reveling in the ability to thoroughly enjoy both staying at home and venturing out and about under the summer sun of Montana. In both instances, I am delighting in my own company. It’s a mark of inner contentment, I think, to feel at ease wherever we are. And I need not travel even one step to find where home is. I carry it within me. I am never without it.
My Happy Place(s)
My happy place is on a motorcycle, cruising at 70 over a smooth ribbon of asphalt.
My happy place is on a SUP board, on any body of water that will have me.
My happy place is being perched in front of a blank sheet of paper, with a blue P-500 in my hand.
My HP is in the woods, surrounded by elder trees and ancient wisdom.
My HP is on my meditation cushion, cultivating ease and spaciousness.
My HP is in the kitchen, preparing food to feed my friends.
My HP is next to a campfire, with a cup of tea and a guitar.
My HP is being solo on the road, inhaling music through my pores and exhaling it through my lungs.
My HP is in the Mission Lookout Tower, intimately rekindling my love affair with the sun and moon.
My HP is behind a set of drums, allowing others the chance to get their African dance on.
My HP is my humble abode, in a town I adore, close to my people.
My HP is Deer Park Monastery.
My HP is Banff National Park.
My HP is anywhere I haven’t been.
My HP is in the here and now.
My HP is doing something silly.
My HP is playing with small children.
My HP is watching fireworks.
My HP is within me.
More HP pics:
Today’s holiday, Independence Day, while not on par with Thanksgiving or Christmas, in the everything-closes-in-the-work-sector department, still lends itself to the feeling of a Sunday morning. The town is quiet and slow to pick up its pace.
I’ve lived 10,000 lives,
felt the flash and flicker of flames on my skin
1 million times,
swam naked in every lake, river, and sea,
gazed upon innumerable sunsets and moon rises.
My heart has been steadied
by the pulsating of mountains,
my bones forged by the roots and trees.
My inhalations are ribbon-tied to the clouds,
my exhalations anchored to the people.
I’ve never not been here,
standing aground on this luscious earth.
I’ve been present since the dawn of time.
And I will remain, long after I’m gone.