Why can we not stay forever awake? Eyes, ears, senses all open to our surroundings.
I figure the world will do something exciting whilst I rest.
Forsaking closed eyes for the possibility of witnessing whatever may come.
It often does not come, and forced to surrender to sleep, I reluctantly shut my eyes in the world.
Perhaps, in dreams, revelation.
Showing posts with label Joe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joe. Show all posts
Making: 12.08.13
Making doesn't just take one.
No matter how hard one tries,
One must always look elsewhere for certain things.
Be it needs of certification from town authorities,
Or from dear friends giving us authenticating attention.
Don't try and do it alone.
Making while forsaking is explicitly isolating
From the community where you will make.
Really,
It's because making is sharing,
And sharing is from the true self.
You can try and do it all yourself,
But only if you want to share
What you make
With no one...EVER...at all!!!!!
No matter how hard one tries,
One must always look elsewhere for certain things.
Be it needs of certification from town authorities,
Or from dear friends giving us authenticating attention.
Don't try and do it alone.
Making while forsaking is explicitly isolating
From the community where you will make.
Really,
It's because making is sharing,
And sharing is from the true self.
You can try and do it all yourself,
But only if you want to share
What you make
With no one...EVER...at all!!!!!
Beginnings: 11.10.2013
"Once upon a time; In the beginning; Of Man's first Disobedience, and the Fruit of that Forbidden Tree;
"Sing Goddess, Achilles' rage, Black and Murderous, that caused the Greeks incalculable pain; Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself in a forest dark;
"In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since; The idea of eternal return is a mysterious one, and Nietzsche has often perplexed other philosophers with it."
"Sing Goddess, Achilles' rage, Black and Murderous, that caused the Greeks incalculable pain; Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself in a forest dark;
"In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since; The idea of eternal return is a mysterious one, and Nietzsche has often perplexed other philosophers with it."
When I'm alone: 11.2.2013
When I'm alone...
...I try to not be alone.
...I think of The Mayor from Spike Lee's movie who said, "do the right thing."
Suppressing the urges of the darkness, and motivating towards creativity.
When I'm alone I'm not as productive as I want to be.
When I'm alone, I think instead of do.
When I'm alone I touch myself...
... and think of you.
When I'm alone I touch myself and think of others too.
When I'm alone, I wonder.
When I'm alone I wonder if it's me that's the odd one out.
When I'm alone I question my purpose.
When I'm alone I question my methods of achieving my goals.
When I'm alone I feel guilty for not doing more.
When I'm alone I question my motives.
When I'm alone, I wonder why I'm so alone...
When I'm alone I wonder why I feel like I'm the only one not in on the joke.
When I'm alone I feel that everyone knows the secret but me.
In a world full of caring and loving souls, I crave the understanding of why I feel like I'm so alone.
...I try to not be alone.
...I think of The Mayor from Spike Lee's movie who said, "do the right thing."
Suppressing the urges of the darkness, and motivating towards creativity.
When I'm alone I'm not as productive as I want to be.
When I'm alone, I think instead of do.
When I'm alone I touch myself...
... and think of you.
When I'm alone I touch myself and think of others too.
When I'm alone, I wonder.
When I'm alone I wonder if it's me that's the odd one out.
When I'm alone I question my purpose.
When I'm alone I question my methods of achieving my goals.
When I'm alone I feel guilty for not doing more.
When I'm alone I question my motives.
When I'm alone, I wonder why I'm so alone...
When I'm alone I wonder why I feel like I'm the only one not in on the joke.
When I'm alone I feel that everyone knows the secret but me.
In a world full of caring and loving souls, I crave the understanding of why I feel like I'm so alone.
Darkness: 10.27.2013
An end and a beginning,
From whence and back to,
All our destined journey.
Driving from the big city north
Watching traffic peel away
Leaving nothing but you and it.
Caution and freedom.
Evil magic is always called dark.
Blindness. The unknown.
To lose a sense so important to most
Creates stigmatic fear.
Black is called:
The presence of all color.
The absence of all light.
Color is beauty, though so is light.
Maybe it's the knowing light
Prior to traveling in darkness.
Does stillness equate with darkness?
Stillness is peaceful,
But for that sometimes
Quiet is "too quiet."
Equally peaceful and frightening,
Sleepless nights under our comforters
Rebreathing our expulsions
Minds trying to steer clear of boogeymen under the bed.
Eentually we find rest
By tiring ourselves out
Another journey to light.
Another given and taken for granted
Level of cycles.
Darkness teaches, just as does light.
Is there a darkness that does not also carry within
A point construed as light?
From whence and back to,
All our destined journey.
Driving from the big city north
Watching traffic peel away
Leaving nothing but you and it.
Caution and freedom.
Evil magic is always called dark.
Blindness. The unknown.
To lose a sense so important to most
Creates stigmatic fear.
Black is called:
The presence of all color.
The absence of all light.
Color is beauty, though so is light.
Maybe it's the knowing light
Prior to traveling in darkness.
Does stillness equate with darkness?
Stillness is peaceful,
But for that sometimes
Quiet is "too quiet."
Equally peaceful and frightening,
Sleepless nights under our comforters
Rebreathing our expulsions
Minds trying to steer clear of boogeymen under the bed.
Eentually we find rest
By tiring ourselves out
Another journey to light.
Another given and taken for granted
Level of cycles.
Darkness teaches, just as does light.
Is there a darkness that does not also carry within
A point construed as light?
Two: 10.20.2013
For pairs
And for pairings
Of care
And for caring
To share
And of sharing
To endear
And be endearing
To be fair,
Continue faring
To be there
And be bearing.
But for me
And for you
(My one plus
Your one)
We are One
Made from Two.
And for pairings
Of care
And for caring
To share
And of sharing
To endear
And be endearing
To be fair,
Continue faring
To be there
And be bearing.
But for me
And for you
(My one plus
Your one)
We are One
Made from Two.
Magic: 10.13.2013
There is a place. It's a place I've been, and it's really not a physical place, but a feeling one gets when the universe synchronizes. It's a noticing of things coming together, elements aligning, and sharing presence within the collective of prescient minds and energies.
Emotionally unguarded communication, verbally or non, taps in to a spirit of openness. The light magic holds no room for deception. The barriers of personal doubt and everyday hangups melt away, leaving in their wake nothing but truth. When channeling truth, one taps into the universal rhythm.
My first experiential understanding of the universal "all" or "one" came through shared experience of nonverbal communication, or telepathy, in a musical setting. A shared visceral focus on the goal of creation, with thousands of minds focused subconsciously or consciously, opens the ability of the collective mind to achieve.
I was a freshman in college, basically an innocently raised kid from the suburbs, attending a Big East University bordered by a serious North Jersey ghetto on one side and the filthy rich neighborhoods on the other. So as I rolled down to this concert at another major East Coast University several hours drive away, in the company of newfound "friends" attempting to get me to pledge their fraternity, I was unaware that the magic even was what it was when it began to manifest.
My obvious discomfort with my travel companions was fairly immediately remedied, as what seemed at first glance coincidence became the standard for the rest of the night into the wee hours. We stopped at the first big intersection after the main gate of this college attended by over 20,000 students each year and what do I see? My best friend from my New Hampshire high school's crappy Honda Accord wagon pull a left turn right in front of us in the heart of Pennsylvania. We followed him, honking and waving to grab his attention. It turns out he was not only going to the same concert as I that night, he was an attendee of this university, with a place for me to crash, food to eat, and plenty of fun times to show me while I was visiting. This was a totally chance meeting, remember, but I was unable to escape my uncomfortability afforded by the people who had brought me to the show. I followed my friend without knowing how I would get a hold of my ride (in the days before cell phones), no less return to New Jersey for classes two days hence.
Though I still though this was coincidence at the time, surrendering to the flow put me into initial touch with the spirit of the universal all. Continuing this path into the evening brought a much clearer lesson. It has to do with using the creative force within to directly and immediately affect reality.
...to be continued...
Emotionally unguarded communication, verbally or non, taps in to a spirit of openness. The light magic holds no room for deception. The barriers of personal doubt and everyday hangups melt away, leaving in their wake nothing but truth. When channeling truth, one taps into the universal rhythm.
My first experiential understanding of the universal "all" or "one" came through shared experience of nonverbal communication, or telepathy, in a musical setting. A shared visceral focus on the goal of creation, with thousands of minds focused subconsciously or consciously, opens the ability of the collective mind to achieve.
I was a freshman in college, basically an innocently raised kid from the suburbs, attending a Big East University bordered by a serious North Jersey ghetto on one side and the filthy rich neighborhoods on the other. So as I rolled down to this concert at another major East Coast University several hours drive away, in the company of newfound "friends" attempting to get me to pledge their fraternity, I was unaware that the magic even was what it was when it began to manifest.
My obvious discomfort with my travel companions was fairly immediately remedied, as what seemed at first glance coincidence became the standard for the rest of the night into the wee hours. We stopped at the first big intersection after the main gate of this college attended by over 20,000 students each year and what do I see? My best friend from my New Hampshire high school's crappy Honda Accord wagon pull a left turn right in front of us in the heart of Pennsylvania. We followed him, honking and waving to grab his attention. It turns out he was not only going to the same concert as I that night, he was an attendee of this university, with a place for me to crash, food to eat, and plenty of fun times to show me while I was visiting. This was a totally chance meeting, remember, but I was unable to escape my uncomfortability afforded by the people who had brought me to the show. I followed my friend without knowing how I would get a hold of my ride (in the days before cell phones), no less return to New Jersey for classes two days hence.
Though I still though this was coincidence at the time, surrendering to the flow put me into initial touch with the spirit of the universal all. Continuing this path into the evening brought a much clearer lesson. It has to do with using the creative force within to directly and immediately affect reality.
...to be continued...
Fences: 10.06.2013
The last of the Sun Golds
Cling to the chain link out back of the restaurant,
Heavy with the last of the summer rains,
Or are they the first rains of Fall?
Their leaves deceptively drooping as if nothing left to give.
Pickets with just an inch of space between slats
Around my neighbor's backyard
Protect my fearful ten year old frame
From the menacingly aggressive German shepherd hiding behind.
The twelve foot fence of Highgate, Vermont's airfield
Toppling under the weight of hundreds of super high hippies
Trying to see if they could get as wasted as the members of the Grateful Dead.
Good thing the guard rail was there overlooking the canal.
Riding my bike home from 2nd grade;
Watching from the road above as the braver kids went down to the water's edge
To throw rocks at crocodiles.
"...to keep me out, or to keep Mother Nature in."
Driving down a long and narrow deserted Vermont country road,
A driveway with a giant black gate
That no one is trying to get past.
Closer to civilization,
A displaced Italian villa in southern Vermont
Surrounded by ten foot tall protective fencing.
Around the tennis courts and gardens...
Has anyone even lived here in the last twelve years?
Cling to the chain link out back of the restaurant,
Heavy with the last of the summer rains,
Or are they the first rains of Fall?
Their leaves deceptively drooping as if nothing left to give.
Pickets with just an inch of space between slats
Around my neighbor's backyard
Protect my fearful ten year old frame
From the menacingly aggressive German shepherd hiding behind.
The twelve foot fence of Highgate, Vermont's airfield
Toppling under the weight of hundreds of super high hippies
Trying to see if they could get as wasted as the members of the Grateful Dead.
Good thing the guard rail was there overlooking the canal.
Riding my bike home from 2nd grade;
Watching from the road above as the braver kids went down to the water's edge
To throw rocks at crocodiles.
"...to keep me out, or to keep Mother Nature in."
Driving down a long and narrow deserted Vermont country road,
A driveway with a giant black gate
That no one is trying to get past.
Closer to civilization,
A displaced Italian villa in southern Vermont
Surrounded by ten foot tall protective fencing.
Around the tennis courts and gardens...
Has anyone even lived here in the last twelve years?
Heart: 09.29.2013
He started this ascent nearly ten years ago. For ten long years he has attempted to reach the top of the curiously named and treacherously impenetrable Lover's Peak. His boyish innocence long since lost, the tracks of his daily growth into a weathered but true climber covered over with years of snowfall and ice. Each attempt at climbing this steeply pointed spire has taught him something. About nature. About himself. The willingness to succeed.
Chapped hands reach, clinging to the last rocky outcropping as he searches for the next safe place to support the weight of his move upward. Every step up in altitude is a test of keeping his cool and maintaining a steady breath, the search for each new foothold a test of Earth's gravity sharing its lessons. The air is crisply whispering in his ear, "Its too cold to go on. You can't make it to the peak. You are not strong enough." Yet even through the spirit dampening chill, he continues on, in spite of what the wind tells him, in spite of what his fellow climbers said. This impossible Peak has only been scaled by the most brave of climbers, especially this time of year, when Mother Nature offers no forgiveness to a false step or a slip in concentration. With only another few hundred feet to go, he remembers his last attempt to summit this snowy carapace...memories of his all too close a call by way of a small misstep (thanks to an error in judgement, and the subsequent near death escape from an avalanche of his own making) fill his head and knock loose his concentration, which the bone-chilling cold prevents him from regaining right away.
The last push towards the top is an arduous and foreboding slope. There is little to hold on to, little to make one believe it is even possible, little hope for safety or success. His life is in his own hands, and his faith strong in Nature's desire to protect its children.
He started his first climb as a boy, and with each successful placement of his foot, he fights the downward pull of the burden bearing down on his shoulders. With the carrying of each step's onus, he grows a little stronger, gains a bit more wisdom. His desire to succeed, his determined heart, will not forgive him if he lets go and takes the easy way out; his soul's growing knowledge and experience will not let him plunge down onto the ice and rock precipice he has thus far conquered. He realizes, however, that it takes more heart to turn back, to safely descend from his latest try, to live that he may try to scale this snow-bound rocky slope again. It takes more courage to accept failure in the present, yet live to keep moving towards his goal rather than die in a futile attempt at glory.
Harvest: 9.22.2013
The yellowing foliage falls down from the trees, piling on top of last years unraked leaves. The fresh memories of picking blueberries in July fades as the cool air of autumn invades the space of my home, the memories chilling my bones more than the crisp weather.
The daily chit chat turns from talks of what music festivals will be attended to getting the last of the artichokes at the farm stand, and how many tomatoes shall I can to get me through the winter.
Preparation is at its peak as we hope to keep ourselves warm and fat through the lean bleak gray days that come ahead. I try to take in as much of the color as possible, though the rain deadens their bright September offerings all too early, giving the greens, golds, reds, and magentas a browning dullness.
I'm too busy trying to stay afloat with packing to move, preserving food, preserving sanity, and earning money to enjoy the changeover completely. With a heart heavily bent on change, my emotional summer is quieting down and my spirit mirrors the leaves. The most beautiful time of year skipping its own evolution of color and simply shifting to drooping burnt leaf.
I sit clipping my personal harvest of the summer's offerings that I helped to bring forth from the earth. I have hours to reflect on my hope in seeing the bright colors. It remains strong, though it resides in the smallest corner of my heart and mind. My eyes must not be my only guide in this hope. Faith lies in feeling the clean, crisp night air brushing my ill-outfitted skin, in the sounds of the gray fox crying for a mate before winter in my front yard, in the completion of my nervously grown harvest I hope to get me through winter, in the chipmunk's scavenging scurry through the brush, and in the fact that I get to try again next time we circle around the sun.
Holding 9.12.13
Ideas must be concrete; they absolutely have to be. I've been holding on to one unchanging notion for so long now. I've been holding on to the notion of you and I walking through the golden-green fields of tall grass, making our own path, for over ten years now. That's longer than I've held most of my jobs. That's longer than I've held on to certain personal beliefs. Thats longer than I was interested in the Catholicism I decided to convince my family to return to when I was 7 years old. It's longer than I've held on to many ideas of salvation or growth that I once did.
I've been holding on to us for so long...
It's funny how I hold back my questions and feelings about it sometimes, that I may hold your attention longer; I hate when my words make you anxious, freeze up, and hold it all inside.
I love holding on to your physical form as much as this idea of us...but I'm learning to allow you to hold yourself and not get in your face, which is difficult, since your face and body are my power pellets. Allowing me to hold off the encroaching ghosts of fear. Allowing me to eat all of the negativity and turn it into a high score.
I've not ever held a love this strong. It's nice to finally see how to cradle it in our arms in a much better way. How to appreciate its weight, and how to support its growth and glow as it radiates forth from between us.
I will hold back neither all of my feelings nor all of my intentions. I will fight to my last breath to hold you above anything else in my heart, spirit or mind.
I'm holding on to my last threads of sanity, while the strands of patience attempt to hold fast. I'm holding out. I'm holding out for only you. I'll always hold out for you. I'll always long to hold you. I only want to hold you. It feels so good to hold you.
Ripening: 08.29.13
It does not matter that the spring buds have opened and come to flower, now hanging limply from their stems. It does not matter that the chill of early fall has crept into my solitary nights, causing me to close the sliding glass door on the world outside before bed; the crickets' song no longer audible behind the thin sheet of glass. Sitting behind the sliding glass I see my reflection and the night outside at the same time, the darkness beckoning.
Although the hydrangeas arranged in a flowery gesture of an ill-timed attempt have long since wilted into the dirt driveway, the memory of them shouting their immature message are steadfast. Heartfelt hope sprouts anew in the knowledge that the wilting is still just part of the cycle and, when the time is right, there will be no question of them catching full bloom once again. It may have to wait another couple of seasons, but the beauty of truth in life's cyclical growth are worth the wait.
Truth may be relative to some. As a ripened human, it seems compulsory; particularly where the undeniable truths of nature are concerned. It is the place of openness where, imperfections included, the line between immature, perfect, and rotten all collide. I can't help but see the beauty that comes with aging and growing to perfection, including each step along the way. A fine wine must maintain a proper balance of environmental factors in order to ripen to its best version of itself. Were my taste buds, however, let to feel the dance of a young Rothschild or Opus One, would it not still be delicious?
Like the golden chanterelles poking up beneath last year's dying leaves after a humid summer day's shower, growth and decomposition become synonymous. As the summer turns to Fall, the brown hedgehogs, black trumpets, gray maitake, and matsutake all in turn replace the orange and yellows of the midsummer sun's creation. But these find their most perfect moments well after all but the kale, onions and squash crops are in.
Like a blue cheese that becomes more ugly as its pungent nuttiness ripens in a widening vein of mold, I may grow past my most physically beautiful only to become the most delectable version of myself in the Autumn of my years. After all, a banana that hasn't yet become tender enough to bruise has a chalky, flavorless way about it. Not until it has earned the age of bruising can it learn to provide its most knowledgable sugar content.
Fire: 08.15.13
I had fallen in love with ideas before, though none quite this hard. My mind raced to grasp the new concepts sparking light into my pot-addled laziness. Hiroshi, his name translates to "the great one" in English, had been giving his five students daily lectures on the science and spirituality of Natural Food cooking.
Baking, boiling, steaming, frying, and sautéing are the only five possible ways to cook food. These methods can be combined in any myriad of ways to produce various end results in the kitchen. What is most important is to understand how water contained in foods is heated to produce the effect of cooking. To do this, one must learn how to dance with heat as well as gain knowledge and control of fire, the most uncontrollable element and most necessary for cooking.
Hiroshi was an older man already, with over 40 years of kitchen work under his belt by the time I met him. His ability to dance with fire proved unmatched by any line cook I had ever seen before. His knowing of the proper size flame for each specific purpose puzzled us newer students. How could this old man so precisely predict the unpredictable? He had us mesmerized.
As I gained my own confidence around fire over the next year and a half of my life, I began to understand. The more you play with fire, the less you get burnt. Totally the opposite of what my parents taught me. Dancing in a commercial or professional kitchen, dancing with flames and steam and heat, knowing the flame and what it wants to do, all come with constant practice. This is the only way to overcome fear of getting burned. Hours stacked upon hours as he taught us.
High heat and giant flames are only necessary in Chinese cooking. Incredibly fast motions and forethought of my mise en place being the only way to keep up with the flames that produce such exquisite flavors only high heat can yield. Otherwise we generally practiced over medium to low flames, learning the dance slowly as we prepared ourselves to become proper cooks capable of handling the craziest of dinner service rushes. Time and practice are the only ways to gain this understanding. Knowledge and experience are the keys to wisdom.
The idea of controlling fire in the kitchen has helped me deal with heated situations in the outside world as well. Flammable situations are understood when one knows whether to apply or reduce the heat at a given time. This lesson is a constant even today, eleven years after I first met Hiroshi, and a year and a half since my mentor's passing.
No matter how hot it got, Hiroshi taught us to deal with fire by showing that it can be done with speed, accuracy, and beauty even in times of crisis.
Industry 08.01.13
We while away in industry.
Marching forth each day to pay our way
In hard earned misery.
Broken backs hauling coffee sacks
Sending us to surgery.
12 hours on feet making food others may eat.
On the line our pride and dignity.
Whether it be mopping floors or building doors,
We while away in industry.
For all this time that is not mine,
I give its power to those bossing me.
Those at the top seem not ever to stop
Wanting more and more greedfully.
Challenging shirk, work is home or home is work
Blurring lines of true community.
I see not the goal of hauling that coal
Rather than spend my moments with family.
How to happily survive, live, grow, and thrive
If we're whiling away in industry.
Mornings: 07.18.2013
A lot of times it's morning by the time I finally fall asleep. So it doesn't really matter what time I wake up to see my first light of the new day. The routine is always the same:
Bleary-eyed I reach for my phone to see if she contacted me during the night, or read the poem I messaged her on Facebook. My heart has a hopeful pulse, but I prevent a tear when I realize that she has not indeed sent any communication in return. At this point, I may try to fall back to sleep and see if going back to my dreams of her works to improve my chances of a text when waking again in a couple of hours. But most likely I won't fall back to sleep. Instead I move on to check my email and rub the eye snots out of the corners of my eyes if it seems that anything is important enough to read. If I wake up after noon, that spam account is quite full of funny emails for breast implants, penis growth supplements and Russian brides.
When my head says I'm ready, I sit up, I think of her, I stand, and walk over to the sink. I think I've been using the same old salsa jar for my morning water ritual for almost two months now...not sure if I've washed it too many times over those months. The water thing has really helped for reals; it's actually nice to look in the mirror lately and see myself shrinking (but I guess that also comes from the lessening of late night drinking, well, all the time drinking). I notice the gray proliferating its way down my chest with each day though. I think she notices how trim I'm getting and how much my body and the glow radiating forth from my soul have become much brighter lately. Immediately following the pounding of a quart of water, I slosh into the bathroom for the other morning ritual, the one that is not brushing my teeth.
I sit for a bit and play Words With Friends laughing at how my little brother is a high school principal to whom I constantly put a whooping. Then maybe check the news of Facebook from the night before and see my uncle's inspirational message of the day, perhaps a grumble about mornings from so-and-s, or excited anticipation of another so-and-so having the day off of their 9 to 5. I look at her picture on her profile and miss not being next to her as I arose from the couch where I slept. (I think I've only slept in the bed twice in as many months. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to steal a night with her by my side, in which case we share my bed and I'm happy as the cutest little pig in the most clean and beautiful slop.)
Her devilish grin slightly held back, knowing eyes peer out from the tiny screen into mine. The photo is black and white, or that sepia shit or whatever. It hardly holds back the colors I know she throws out to the world around her, how her golden brown, copper, and orange locks look constantly tousled as if just having a fresh toss in the hay. Hmmm, what's the weather supposed to be like today? Let's get off of Facebook and out of the bathroom now.
Breakfast might be the most important meal of the day, but my appetite has been so small lately. I always feel like eating breakfast food when I wake up, though that doesn't mean I ever eat them. I love pancakes and omelets and breakfast sandwiches, but the motivation to make food...to try and eat it, is totally not there. Both the ideas of taking in less calories and having no one to feed just make me lose my drive. It's so beautiful out, yet I stay inside.
I go sit on the couch and decide how to try and not think of her today. I try not to think of the why of her absence. That's far too heavy a meal this early in the day. Lists of errands and the attempt to "get a real job" can take my mind off of her. Morning can bring a ray of hope if I know I may get a chance to see her or hear her voice. Mornings are a time when I realize the day is already shot if that is not an option. Mornings are not a specific time of day; they are a feeling. The tone of my day is set by the time I have shaken off yesterday's hopes and the dreams in between my last waking reality and this moment. My mornings so different when she is here...
...when she was here.
Water's Edge: 07-04-2013
As I stand and gaze at the water's surface from riverbank, it is impossible to see what lies beneath. I want to know so badly. My view obstructed by brown rapids. My curiosity driving me, telling me this is a "need to know" situation. Uncertainty, or maybe simple fear, holds me back from just jumping in head first to find out. What obstacles are waiting to challenge me?
If I leave this ledge
On the water's edge,
Will I be able to swim?
I love the symbolism of this image. Whether speaking metaphorically of "the water's edge" or literally, the meaning remains the same. Staring into the bluest of blue tropical oases there is uncertainty and unknowing. Even in the clearest of clear, who can ever be certain of anything?
It's quite daring and bold to proclaim certainty. What's that cliche again? Something about "life is what happens while we are making plans?"
The water will give back to me what I give to it. The water reflects and keeps moving, whether I stand aside it or within. It is how I face not just the water's edge, but also the water. Be it with courage, fear, excitement or playfulness, that:
I learn about myself and how to truly Feel free to be.
Comfortability with my own self,
Forgoing any care to uncertainty.
I seek the ability to accept and understand. I want to accept and understand you without judgement, just as I want to learn how to accept me without judgement.
A Peaceful freedom.
Comfort in uncertainty.
Improvisation.
From the water's edge I can see my surface reflection. It is a reflection of who I am as I stand at the precipice, before I decide to dive in.
To dive in is to find a new angle of reflection. Is not the surface of the water its own separate edge?
I have experienced the full currents before which I once stood. Now there is no doubt. I realize my capabilities, my strengths and weaknesses.
Is the water's edge only a challenge? Is it only a place to ponder?
Giving my brain a break and raising my head above the surface edge of the rapids, I realize:
I use the water's edge to rest and refresh, cool down and rejuvenate, play and recreate.
Standing in the water, from this side of the edge, I can see the reflection of who I have become. Tired, changed, stronger.
A place that began as nagging uncertainty transforms into a haven for rest...
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