It’s good to really look at dead things. To open oneself to a meditation on the destruction and ultimately the transformation of life. What we fear most, when examined closely, is just one more extraordinary moment of beauty in us. Death builds beauty, it doesn’t really destroy it.
I’ll confess to often getting bored. I suspect this is the well-spring of all my creative talent. Boredom. It is a cloying, needy friend who is satisfied by nothing. Pumpkin seeds are never salty enough. Shopping has never touched it. If the movie isn’t exciting by the fifth minute, boredom is wandering off in search of other stimuli. For someone so devoted to meditating for peace I can be, at times, a restless and demanding peace-seeker.
Photography, curiously enough, is one of a few creative processes that absolutely sates me. I can live in it for hours. Other’s work or my own, doesn’t matter. I love the way a photograph shifts my energy and refocuses me down whole new paths. Black and white in particular can be nostalgic or haunting, mystical or glaring. I am never so delighted then when I stumble upon a photograph that makes me stop my restlessness. Fleeting images inviting me inward and checking boredom at the door. In its own way it is a meditation, photography. The doing and the thinking, the looking and the tweaking. It calms my mind from wandering off in search of other pleasures. Without effort my heart slows and my breathing stills. No mantra required.
Bear Creek/Sims underpass: Photo by Noelle
It shimmers in the dark. Brilliant and colorful. Full while silent. Stories and nothingness. A soul is a curious thing endlessly reflecting light, as it bobs upon the water.
Ephemeral is the late afternoon sun. In autumn and spring colors are fleeting. Light passes over all life, a gentle hand grazing the tops of wheatgrass. Such a romance. Infatuated until dusk when a sliver of light caresses the earth and leaves me standing in the field.
No witch waiting on Hansel and Gretel. No sickness or evil lurking in the dark of the wood. Only a bouquet of light awaiting my arrival. So delighted I’d worn my best flannel.
Winding road
Hugging the river
Water pipes and
Briar thatches
In love with the
Autumn sun
Quite some time passes when I am in the company of a tree I feel I know. Some I do, as in I have grown up with them or pass them often on my walks. We have that familiarity of time and company. Others simply stop me because I KNOW them, deep at the center of me. Maybe they feel the same. A sense of deep woodiness at the center of their being about me. I walk among them, along creek beds and down into the marsh, running my hands on their bark. Rough and rutted I scratch my back like a bear. I understand Muir’s passion to protect them. I, too, find it hard to return home. The company they offer runs as rich and deep as their roots.
For a moment, I thought I was Alice, as its great maw gaped at me. Ah to tumble down into the dark and see where it should lead. Maybe to find Wonderland. One never truly outgrows the hunger for adventure and a new storyline, do they?
Ancient the stone that cracks to slip my spirit free into an open sky.
I have a bone to pick, but it sticks in my throat a fish rib I keep eating with no hope of digesting. There’s no point to the rant I offer you. That’s what makes me wring my hands with an emotional wash that still smells of fumes and rotted fish. I know the answers you’ll give me to every question I could ask. So why ask?
Knowledge is a devil if there ever was one. Gives you comfort while it steals your security in endless mind games you can’t stop tricking yourself with. I hate you for filling my head with the knowledge of who I am. Light and gold. Miracles and love. I look down at my costume and want to rip it till I’m naked. I can’t escape my frightened thoughts that burn me in a lava flow, erupting in my brain and filling my mouth with an eager malice. You could have told me in the beginning that ignorance was not only bliss, but a quaalude cocktail that would’ve left me sleeping; a contented mongrel, in a sewer heap that knows no better. Now a youthful, hungry anger boils in my belly and it’s more bitter than death no matter how many times I swallow it down. But there be the rub. Poison is best drawn out and all wounds must be opened to cleanse them of their infection. That is how I feel: raw, open, infected with my own awareness of thoughts that poison my spirit.
For the love of me, you say. It was my choice you announce and I could beat you within an inch of my own life if I weren’t plagued by the truth in it. It eats at my mind until I’m smashing the beds and tearing up my brakes in the car. You should’ve told me to leave when I came through the door. You should have said the price for awakening is sanity.
A work in progress from The Writer’s Church hosted by Marj Hahne. Piece Inspired by “Dear Corporation” by Adam Fell.
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