Petals--have you ever gotten to that point where you don't know where next to step? You're on solid ground, so there's no immediate need to move, but you can see the water encroaching, and if you don't choose a direction soon, you'll be swimming. You know the feeling?
I sort of sense that that's where I am--I can see, more or less, in every direction, but there are no discernible paths. In other words, no matter what I choose, I think I'll be bushwhacking it.
So. Perhaps the best next move is to become very still and very quiet, watch which way the birds are heading, and listen for the call of the wild.
I'm not sure why it seems inroads are so temporary, so susceptible to minor disturbances. Maybe some of us are just steadier on our feet than others. Maybe some of us feel the tremors long before crisis point. I don't know, but whatever the case, I've never had that skill, though not for lack of trying, not for lack of determined perspective-shifting.
There are some things lost impossible to return. Once, I suppose I thought I'd have great adventures. I thought I'd have love and art and easy joy. I think we forget how hard it all is until we remember. And then we wonder how we got so strong in the first place.
Granted, some roads you know are dead ends, or simply avenues getting you from one major thoroughfare to another. For those, we can give ourselves full permission, I think, to coast, to sit back and watch the landscape fly by.
But some paths are far more interesting--looped with spirals and side-trips, sight-seeing and scenic overviews. For those, we take our time, we take the scary path, the breathtaking path, and our stories are all the richer for the trip.
There is a world of difference between honest, transparent communication and revealing everything you hold in your heart. Not everything you wish for needs to be expressed to find comfort or community or to come to truth.
Sometimes the most powerful spells are those we whisper to ourselves, alone in the dark.
Storms--or for the sake of this exploration, sudden, arresting events--have a way of either stopping us in our tracks or sprinting for cover. Either way, they're a bookmark in what has become, perhaps, a rather repetitive story.
These events, these storms, these full-stops are an opportunity to pause, to look both ways--ahead and behind--and to decide, here and now (emphasis on the now) to move only forward.
Let the storm be a baptism--an initiation--into the present, where, thanks to the sudden drenching, you are overwhelmingly aware that you are gloriously alive.
You don't need to dust off your passport or you old road-trip mixtape in order to breathe a little life into your sense of adventure. Truly--it can be something as simple as sitting in a different chair at breakfast, parking in a different space at work. We entrench ourselves in our habits--not that routine isn't stabilizing, not that it isn't healthy--but there can be an unhappy limit to how far we push our patterns.
We forget that the world looks like an entirely different place from a slightly different angle. This is one of the joys of living in a 360-degree world--we have options and those options, even in the small capsules of our days, are endless.
You don't need me to tell you that we take so much for granted; it's the human condition--if everything were new all the time, I doubt we'd ever leave the house. But surely we can bring some of that wonder back into the everyday, especially when we're stressed, especially when we're tired, and most especially when we're cold and stalking toward cynicism.
Perhaps it's too easy to say that everything is art. Perhaps it's more accurate to say that everything *could* be art--all the more reason to surround ourselves, when we can, with things that are lovely, functional, and (the holy grail of material objects) handmade.
I don't know, but I like that company--the company of the artisan, the handmade, the beautiful-and-functional. I like things with life, with years on them, weathered and lasting. I can only hope I'll age so well.
For whatever reason, my father, who died in 2009, was very close this weekend, from a favorite piece on the radio, to a friend bringing him up in conversation, to the books and films I chose to spend my days with. It was comfortable, familiar and, for lack of a better word, whole.
I have no idea where the dead go--of course, none of us does. But I also have no belief as to where they go--I'm suspending both belief and disbelief until I get there myself. But that doesn't mean I'm not open to suggestion, to hints, and to divine gifts of comfort and presence reminding me that I'm not trapped in this body, in this day.
There is so much we don't know. And it is so often that we forget how sweetly innocent we are in this world.