self-respect

can i be proud of me? of leaping into difference...unconventionality...can i be proud of happiness? of letting go of struggle--of finding soul serving joy in the beauty of the land? in the beauty of the out-of-doors?

can i be proud of following something bigger than me that wants to see into the pith of the tree? to see right into the core? to be cooled by clear lake waters? to breathe dusty dry forest air? to sweat my salt onto the soft yukon earth? to stand and watch the sweet sweet flow of the river?

gate

I can feel the weight of the collective sadness of the world...curse or gift?

That weight lifts...for the grief runs as deep as the joy can climb...joy found in small places...away from you...away from me...away from the expressed energies of others and into the hills...

So let us retreat and feel no guilt for it is in living in joy that others may be free...

So let it be simple...step in for a while and breathe...retreat for a while and breathe...step in...step out...step in...check out...

So let me not feel guilt in my joy...joy in small places...scream joy in silence...warm, cool silence as the gate swings open and I walk through...

death and all his friends

Tendency...

"I'll find you and I'll kill you"...the tendency is to be drawn to the cemetery not the church...to the church not the store...to the grave not the cradle...and the tendency is to remember the dead houseflies on the orangy-yellow fly-paper hanging from the water-stained tile ceiling...

at the cottage...

the beautiful warm breeze drifting through the porch and the tendency is for solitude, at the beach, that morning...i must have been nine or ten...melancholic...awake early before my brothers and sister...the walk down the lane to the beach...the red sand, low tide beach...to dig clams by myself...the need for solitude...peace in solitude...the play of loneliness with peacefulness...lonely and happy, happy to be lonely, sad to be lonely, alone in the bitter sweet game of when is it all over?

show me what it is to have passed...to rest...sleep...take my body...give me peace...return me to mineral...not yet...

"and i thought you were the moon in the sky but it turned out you were just a street light..."

Were I not waiting for her, what life might I make for myself?

removed

We are not so far removed from stability. From safety. From decisions made for an apparent greater good. From what seemed like selflessness.

What is this living one's own life? What of this selfishness? What of this self-improvement? What of this having it all together? What of this self-actualization?

Isn't it supposed to be hard? To be a struggle? Life ain't fair, you know?

Life's tough, you know?

What do I do with all these options? I don't want them. Where did they come from? What should I do? Who changed the rules? Why?

Confusion. Watch from a distance. Hold back. Stay cool. Figure it all out. And then add another.

Watched

Coyotes are far from rare. But they are rare to me.

This morning, again, out playing with Indi...we were watched. Not sure for how long.

We didn't see her. She was standing beyond the fence in burnt out grass--and nicely camouflaged by the dusty, dirty blonds and browns...

Eyes meet. I am immediately struck by her curiosity. She looks to bridge a gap between us. Or is that me?

She exerts a playfulness...I imagine her striding over to play and jump and run with Indi...

I am somewhat surprised Indi doesn't see her...as, I think, in hindsight, that I sensed her presence in the moments before the meeting of eyes.

The ball throwing continues. Indi oblivious to the conversation I'm having with our silent visitor. She glides a few paces towards the tree-line. Stops. Turns to watch us. She wants to come and play.

A few more strides. Another stop and turn. I watch. And smile. And thank her for her visit.

moving still

In Whitehorse, the river runs though. With intention.

The push of the river lights the fireweed.

The push of the river sustains the light of day.

The movement of the river quenches the thirst for nothingness. For silence.

For space. For time. For rest. The push of the river allows peace.

Rest in the soft pull of the blue, blue mountains.

The cloud-shaded mountains that form the valley through which the river pushes.

Bob and weave

July 8, 2009

Out with the dog this morning, the air cool...The skies over Whitehorse grey. The sun, just up, is hazed-over orange. Playing at the school soccer field, the swallows are few today. Too cold for most of the mosquitoes.

The swallows are playful--dancing, bobbing and weaving, dive-bombing, nimble, aerial acrobats. The swallows arrive only after I hear the soft cries of the coyotes.

This morning I hear the crying, the calling of the coyotes.