Ring of Fire

This morning I’m sitting with Johnny Cash and a mug of green tea.  I’m twelve years old and nervous as all hell.  Kids just know and I knew I wanted nothing more than to help her out – even just a little.  I’m wearing blue jeans that fit too tight and a free perm.  The kitchen is a mix of wallpaper and soft butter-yellow paint.  I look out at nothing and dream of far off days, of going to Jackson in a pair of blue jeans and her, completely free.

Looking back I wonder if she ever stood in that same spot and dreamed of having no responsibilities, of travelling the world, of life without us.

Peace is knowing I wouldn’t trade any one of my tomorrows for just one yesterday.  Cash leads me by the heart back to days when she spent more money on music than she had.  Ricky Skaggs, Conway Twitty, Dwight Yoakam, Dolly Parton all people in my past.

This morning, yellow is a finch.  My aunt remains in critical care and I hope our children look back on days when music filled their hearts and know they were always on our mind.

Joyce Maynard said, “It’s not only children who grow. Parents do too. As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours. I can’t tell my children to reach for the sun. All I can do is reach for it, myself.”

Last night, laying beneath the stars with autumn on the horizon and cool in the air, I thought about how cyclical life is.  How it repeats.  We have more things and more technology.  The world is more global, our reach is farther, our loyalty less.  And I think about her and where she never went.

I am ready for routine and to have my office back.  I am eager to regain mindfulness and listen to the sounds of a guitar.  I can see that girl in her blue jeans and am in awe at her growth.

And I hope she goes far.

The Fall

This morning I stepped out of bed and onto a feather.  Birds on a wire, wings in my heart.  This morning there is no supposed to be’s or have to’s.  There is dinner plans and right now, and nothing in between.

Slowly I am breaking free from what seemed to be a long, drawn out dream with dusty roads and old men.  It was copper pots and parking lots, vintage and villains.

Shel Silverstein said, “I’ll take the dream I had last night, and put it in my freezer. So someday long and far away, when I’m an old grey greezer, I’ll take it out and thaw it out. This lovely dream I’ve frozen and boil it up and sit me down and dip my old cold toes in.

Such a privilege to look back on days with grey hair and old toes.  I want to dip my feet in a life that changes colours with the seasons.  I want to wash my saggy skin in rain water and sip champagne from the bottle.  I want to roll in leaves and feel cold, dark, but not dead dirt.

These days I am mindful about chunks of time, years, eras, decades and every single day.  Pre and post-discovery.  I am the flames in a fire and the birth of next.  I’ll take the pre and ferment the good.  I’ll toss the rest aside.

Being right in the middle of life’s evolution, I am coming into full and complete awareness.  It’s the moment you’ve dragged your ankle over a taught line but not yet hit the ground.  After all, the ground is dead and straight up is that time of your life when you think you’ve got it all figured out.  The fall is the in-between, it is that slow, interesting place of a-ha.  It is the years post-discovery, the revelations, the truth.  It is looking around at people who are mirrors of who and what your never want to be.  It is beautiful looking forward and never looking back.

This morning I am dreaming about love and daisies, falling into the ocean and where I never have to be.  This morning I am all about the post and the tomorrows and the feathers that fall at my feet.

This morning I have my dreams in the freezer and warmth on my feet.  Happy Saturday.

 

A Simple Sunday

This morning listening to the sounds of the lake, I see words swirling like white caps.  It’s a cool Sunday in August and I’m writing – more often.  A sign to me something is transpiring, brewing, churning like that which swirls beneath the sea.  11:11 brings me the chance to will my way through life, one thought at a time.  An open window, plans for our future, a ghost in my peripheral.  Or perhaps it’s an apparition, either way, the lake is churning up words.

The busyness of today’s world is pushing people apart or maybe is always has.  Though perhaps we were once stronger in character. It is elevating our expectations of happiness, driving us to exhaustion.  This moment, I am pure peace.  I am thinking of two little guys who are probably having the time of their lives, completely spent, not knowing their momma is at the bottom of a lake thinking deep, loving thoughts about them.  With so many pressures to be everything, I surmise married life is getting even tougher.  Everything is elite – our homes, our cars, our desires and our extra-curricular .  Our children are on the fast track to invisible scholarships and professional sporting careers.

Not me, I want to work simply, but be bold.  I want to make one hell of an impact on my world.  I want to make breakfast and go back to bed.  I aspire to push off in a boat and see the stars – in the sky, not in the news.  I want to be slow and methodical and at ease.  I want manners, family dinners and for them to experience boredom.  And I want them to know the weight of the words they profess.  Honour, strength in character, everyday-ness.

“It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”  J. K. Rowling

I hope they always look out at the world through windows in their homes and in at their lives through their hearts.  I hope they aspire to travel to fanciful places but take with them all of the lessons I’ve tried to instil.  I hope they know walls are not meant to keep others out but to keep them in.  Grounded, solid men who do not get caught up in being too busy to know what’s important.

This morning from the lake I am thinking about all that is amazing, magical and made from tiny simple moments spent beneath the sea.

Rocks

I am writing about music and thinking about love.  Today is the last day of a week spent with the boys.  Small victories in a tough world.  I feel called to learn more about energy and have a pocketful of rocks.  Somewhere in my life’s lessons I am meant to appreciate the gift of imperfection.  I often think too much, I wander in my sleep, I make mistakes.

Yesterday, off in the distance, where the prairies meets the sky, I thought about the memories we make with our children; ones I wished I had made with my dad.  I thought about the curves of his guitar and the songs forever embedded in my soul.  Country roads and dirty feet, I swung from trees and watched my heart hover over a wheat field.

A full week spent with the boys has been the perfect reminder to start everyday fresh, all over, alive.  To step out of bed and thank the hell out of the world.  It was the perfect reminder that not every minute is our finest but that in the end, our life will be a rare collection of beautiful memories.  One rock, one prairie sky, one song at a time.  Being a parent is the ultimate training in pure love.  It is standing up for what is right and befriending humility.  It is selfish, pure, unwavering love.  Giving up is not an option, nor is giving in.

And so this morning I rest knowing I am sending them off with wheat in their blood and imperfect in their bones. But more importantly, love in their hearts.

“Creativity, flexibility, tolerance and love are natural states of mind and our purpose is to nurture them to full blossom.” – Ronit Baras

As I sit beneath the stars, looking back on a well-lived week, I will think of creative moments.  I will embrace tolerance and work through my lessons in flexibility.  I will skip a stone across the lake and feel the love between a parent and her child.  It is rare, unbreakable and completely imperfect.  And I will think of my aunt who would give anything for a few more days to be a mom.

And when I start to ache for 10 and eight, I will roll a rock between my fingers and think about our moments when I looked across the prairies and found myself.

 

Swinging

Meditation can be anything that takes your hand and leads you away.  Right now I am holding hands with a new mantra and swinging through I am’s.  Shungite pendant vibrating in my chest, my feet are bare and I am free.

I can smell the earthiness of fall, when candles burn and the boat is put away.  I feel the warmth of a fire and taste crushed grapes on my tongue.  Warm blankets, cozy nights.  I can see a laptop and a story unfolding, one task at a time on my road to peace.  I can see where I am meant to go and that means that I can see.  At my side is a list of ways to incorporate more authentic in my days, more goddess in my ways.  I’m starting to see a future.

“If you want to make good use of your time, you’ve got to know what’s most important and then give it all you’ve got.”  Lee Iacocca

I must make movement more important, I have to stop apologizing.  I am going to purge more and hold on less.  I am investing spare change in wholesome food and spiritual guidance.  I am thinking maybe I should start a course, chart new waters, reach out.

Bare hands I start moving dirt.  I want to touch his bones, hold onto his DNA.  I want to see the empty vessel that was his soul.  I want to crawl into his silky coffin and whisper in his ear, “I’m ready to do big things.”  I want to look up at the stars and see his angel smiling down upon me.  And I want to stay there until I feel the warmth of a fire.

Then carefully, I want to cover my tracks, close up the box and return to my life, greater than.

For whatever reason I can see.

It’s time to polish my personal philosophy of life, envision myself down the road; for I know wherever I am headed, he’ll be there and I will swing.

Opening

Summer is a beautiful mix of calm and chaos; weekends spent roasting loins, toasting friendships and diving into the unknown.  It is lazy days, decreased productivity and healthy habits floating by in tire tubes.  It is long hours spent kibitzing, lots of laughter and overindulgence.

This past weekend was a beautiful remember to accept myself, wherever I am at. It was sharing war wounds, showing vulnerability, no make up.  It was older and far wiser.  It was also being exposed to the five languages of love.  It was a revelation to learn that what I need is not what I thought I did.  And so it was also a chance to grow.  It was taking inventory and honouring years of becoming beautiful souls.

This morning I awake to quiet acceptance, yoga and coffee on the deck;  I am slow and methodical, making good choices, thinking the best thoughts.

It’s time to invest more in my tomorrows than my yesterdays.  I am looking forward, waving goodbye.  I am here right now with purpose and great experience.  I am a nest of love with arms wrapped around my boys.  I am flawed and fallible and I wouldn’t change a damn thing about that.

This morning I am open to burning rigidity, I am mindful about the love my children need to feel whole and I practicing acceptance as I attempt to teach them to be men who know what they want and spoil the loves of their life with pure, kind actions.

Henry Miller said, “There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.”

In my mind, I see a woman who begs to be written.  She is naive and rigid turned wise and willfully loved.  Summer is too much and not enough.  It’s time to shed old skin, exfoliate painful parts and make the most of every bit of sunshine for not only do my lips wish to be kissed but so too does my skin.

Good morning Monday, flawed, often criticized, I love you.

Cleanse, Live, Love

From the just beyond my desk, I find solace in the company of everything wet and weeping.  It’s the perfect landscape for hand painted faces and porcelain dolls.  10 and 8 walked in the door and suddenly I could write again; a melodic beat vibrates in my heart.

“Never apologize for burning too brightly or collapsing into yourself every night.  That is how galaxies are made.”  Tyler Kent White

I wrap my arms around them and feel as though anything were possible, even for china dolls.

As I make my galaxy of stars, I am conscious of what’s required to realign my soul. Forced stops and a bathtub filled with dreams.  Book deals, plan tickets.  I can see forever and nothing all at once.  Probiotics and schedules loom, wine tours and the harvesting new prose. On a piece of paper I scratch ways to be more peaceful, ways to grow my life. I don’t apologize. Instead I pray for her and take chances on myself future.

I hope my boys collapse each night from a day well lived. I hope they appreciate full moons and the lure of the lake. I hope they give themselves permission to experience every emotion and I hope they really live their lives.

I’m rested, I’ve pulled out a journal.  I am free.  From apology, from can’ts, from tiny porcelain tears as I tire swing my way over the lake and into the weekend.

Solace is old friends, bright lights, farm feet.  It is knowing everything is going to be okay, that there will always be wind and that freedom comes in living the life of my dream.  In bathtubs and on beaches, beneath trees and under the sheets.

It’s time to push the limits, exhaust love and let everything out as I write amy way into a new galaxy, one day, one star at a time.

 

 

Following Light

I have always been intrigued by the light that makes its way to the the forest floor.  It calls to me, begs me to come near, to see what is worthy of its rays.

My light these days is palo santo drifting through the house and fresh blooms.  It’s fruit stands and pyjama pants.  Freshly cut grass and what I can capture behind a lens.  It is everything homemade and feathers I find on the forest floor.  It’s the quest for the perfect shungite pendant and the ability to communicate with people I love.  Today the world says goodbye to a small soul and I to 10 and 8 for a short stretch of time.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”

This morning brought Friday and light.  It is an unnatural rhythm in a mother’s heart for her children to come and go without warrant.

I slide down a think strip of sun until I land where the earth decomposing all that falls.  It is the matter graveyard for yesterday, a place I go to forget and be done with.  As much as I like sun, I feel some form of comfort in being where yesterday turns to earth and I begin again.

No one should lose a child.

I bend over and light a match.  With a white sage stick in hand, I wave goodbye to a small section of time and walk towards a weekend.  Deep waters, sun shine and a quote reminding me to be patient.  It’s Friday and at this moment, I have it all; shadows dancing in my peripheral, a too high spirit and light at the bottom of the forest.

 

 

 

Lake Life

At this moment I can see the point where the water meets the sky, where life can be measured in laps.  I  hear loons and feel the vibration of a hummingbird deep in my soul.  I’m thinking about the smell of Canadian beef on a grill and the taste of a Californian wine in my mouth.  Somehow you can be all tangled up in responsibility and then dead.  My anchor is balance and I lean over the boat and pull in rope, one fist after the other.

One minute you’re beautiful, the next you’re gone.

Morrie Schwartz said, “So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they’re busy doing things they think are important. This is because they’re chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.”

In the light of gone, I wonder what will drag on the bottom of the lake, catching stones, long after I’m gone.   I wonder if you’ll sit beneath the stars and think of times we shared or listen to the sound of loons.  I wonder if you’ll remember when you wrapped your tiny tanned arms around my body and we drove off into nothing, no anchor, no responsibility.  Nature abound, my words tumble out of beaks like birdseed.

Will you say, ‘She appreciated life, didn’t rush her days away.’  Or if you’ll say she worried too much about the little things, the snags.

The best part about being at the lake is perspective and the lack of crows.  Soaring with eagles pales in comparison to a life lived caring about the sounds of a city.

One minute your beautiful, the next you’re gone.

Long after I’m gone, scatter my burnt up bones on a lake and know I’m long gone.

Anchored to nothing, free as the wind.

You’ll find me where the water meets the sky, sipping a great wine, reminiscing about days like these.

 

On a Summer Day

This morning I am letting go.  I am saying goodbye to strong winds and hanging ons.  I am a deep shade of aubergine, potted soil and a mirror made from the eyes of beautiful women.  I am letting go on a lake.

Braless, bare feet and a boat, I float. I close my eyes and sink into a sea of purple water. I wonder if my boys ever see themselves as I do?  I hope one day they’ll look into a mirror of me and see happy, rugged, endless possibilities.  I hope they live without confinement, fuelled by pure love.  I hope they let go, give in, compromise but only with the right folk. I hope they bathe in nature, always swing from trees and warm themselves in front of camp fires.  I hope they don’t tolerate bullshit, align themselves with authentic people and always, always see themselves through my eyes. I hope they forgive, know their intuitions and never stray from one another.  I lean over and see my reflection.  I kiss my imperfect self and honour my life.

Breath in my lungs, fresh in my start.

Rita Mae Brown said, “The reward for conformity is that everyone likes you but yourself.”

In the darkest areas of my mind, the most imperfect parts of my soul, the most blemished traits of my physical shell , I douce myself in tiny purple hearts of bravery.  Wounded hearts that turn black on contact with water, hearts that celebrate a flawed life of letting go.  Hearts that deeply love thyself and snub conformity.

I can see them in the distance, hour by hour they’ll near until I have them back in my arms and we are on a boat.