Row, Row, Row Your Boat

The other day I went on an eight day, seven night canoe trip with three other men through a section of the Okefenokee Swamp. I had never been on a canoe trip beyond a paddle in the local lake, so I was excited about spending some time doing manly things with other manly men in a manly environment. The swamp is home to snakes, alligators, wild mammals and amazing bird and other wildlife.

I wasn't disappointed. Everything that this type of adventure offers hit us full force, face-on impacting out lives and saturating our thirst for manly excitement and bonding. Perhaps I will share more about that trip someday, but this post isn't about the actual trip, it is about the beginning – the beginning of all things, in a way.

The four of arrived at our launch point and soon had our gear packed in the two canoes full to the top leaving barely enough room for each of us to sit – one in front and one in the rear of each canoe. We had to take everything we needed for the next eight day – food, tent, water, coolers, etc. we had gotten to the launch point later than we had expected and had to talk the ranger into letting us launch late, knowing that we would be pushing the end of daylight before we arrived at our camping platform hours away in the middle of the swamp. Once he saw us safely in the canoes and ready to shove off, her got in his truck and left. We were off!

What awaited us was to be the adventure we all had anticipated for months now. Days of gliding through still dark water, observing wild life, and risking health and hygiene for the sake of doing it! We had miles to go and only days to accomplish it in – the adventure was upon us. Paddles in hand…

Then I discovered one small problem. Although I understood the concept of steering a canoe in open water, I didn't know how. As the lead canoe launched into the swamp, my partner for the week began providing momentum for our travel from the front seat of the craft, while I sat in the back with the duel task of paddling and guiding our boat by using my paddle as a rudder, as well. We zigged. We zagged - and quickly lagged behind.

Point – If you are going to paddle a boat to an adventure, learn to paddle.

The lesson is simple enough, but how often do we get it wrong? Life is a journey – vocations, relationships, self actualization and countless other adventures await us, and how often do we impatiently launch into one thing or another with out taking the time to allow ourselves the learning we need to be able to successfully navigate the trip.

I’m not suggesting we have to be an expert before we try anything new. I am suggesting that some adventures need a mix of experience, maturity and competency before we jump into them. I’ll leave the specific applications of this ‘point’ to your own thought processes. I’ll also state that the greatest lesson I've ever learned is that if I’m going to navigate this vessel of my ‘self’ through life, I needed to spend some time learning the art of doing just that.

In the swamp that day, I had three experienced men who helped me learn what I needed to know – enough to get the boat straight and roughly on course. They never let me forget it, but we did make our first platform just after dark.

What Wildness Comes Next?

Last night as my wife and I ate dinner at Wendy's in Brevard, NC (yes. I know we are big spenders), we overheard five ladies talking. Here is the truth.

1. They are all over 60.

2. They have dinner and play cards there at Wendy's every Sunday night after church -every Sunday.

3. They were feeling a bit racy last evening since they had 'skipped' church and started playing cards an hour earlier than usual.

Wild times in Brevard, I tell you. I'm not sure it is truly safe to be there on a Sunday evening! What will happen next - Dogs and cats sleeping together?

Seriously, I found the entire scene delightful and worthy of a movie script.

Website Troubles

There are style sheet imps and code gremlins playing badly among the pages of this site. So far, the blog layout is holding up, but the rest of the site is just doing an HTML version of the funky chicken.

Enjoy this page - while it last. Heh. Repairs forthcoming.

UPDATE: 07/27/09 @ 10:53 a.m.

All pages now reporting success!

Submerged

It is all gone now - the world of air breathing creatures and screaming sounds demanding, requiring something every moment of all days. Gone. This viscous shell into which I have plunged protects me and presents to me colors vibrant and dancing on the scales of fish and small bubbles of relief, ascending, taking with them each a small measure of my former dependence on demands and oxygen. I grasp razor edged rocks with delicate fingers ignoring pain for freedom and beauty of this moment. I will soon need to return, but not now – not for an eternity of heart beats measured in a few more clicks of the clock – the clock that ticks still, up there.

Blog moving...and Gender Variants

Hopefully, in a few days this blog will be moving to my new site - http://www.kimewilliams.com.

In the mean time I have been wondering about some gender issues. I have noticed - with all due reverence and distance - an interesting discussion over at Simmonne's about 'bums' - butts. The discussion has been mainly among women and has been a delightful, if playful, affirmation of physical attributes. It is lovely, actually, that these ladies are so supportive, complimentary and encouraging of each other's appearance.

Which got me to wondering if men would be similarly impassioned to each other. The following is the imagined conversation that went on in my head:

Me: Hey, Dave... I was reading this woman's blog about liking her own butt, and how interesting it was that the ladies that comment were celebrating their favorite's among their own and each others body parts. Do you have a favorite physical attribute?

Dave: Dude. You're gay. I got your body part right here! Hey - where was that site? Do they post pictures?

Yep. What was I thinking?

A Musing Space

The water, hot and welcomed, pounds my shoulders and cascades around my neck, stripping away the dirt and sweat. Anchoring my hands on the shower wall, I let the water work its magic. I close my eyes, exhale strongly, and release my mind. The water envelops me, my senses, my mind...

Are there sounds that are only heard by the deaf? Are there things unseen to those with sight? Might the angst-ridden beauty of artistic accomplishment reveal itself more clearly to those burdened of twisted mind and unbridled emotion?

My life has been one of growing peace and routine more than artistic angst or spiritual distress. For awhile now, I had grown accustomed to percolating emotions, those feelings that lurk, coiled and ready to strike, manifesting malformed action and self-destructive choices. I have found solace regularly in the creative word. The twist of a poetic phrase or the presence of a story unfolding beneath the key stokes often releases much. Now, it seems that I am driven less and less to release my serpents of spiritual distress. This is different. Not good. Not bad. Just different.

I know the truth. I know that there lies deep within me an eternal presence, my creative magical essence that demands to be known - my familiar, my dragon, The lines of poetry, the tales woven in prose, the occasional burst of fire breathed from comments, are all glimpses of a piece of her being: scales of translucent blue, a sapphire eye blinking in the dusk, the sound of a gentle, rumbling breath, a brush of a powerful tail. She is my eternal muse. I miss her, these days. I sense she misses me.

Yet, here in this steam cloud, beneath the relentless waterfall, while all sound is blasted away, I hear her breath, steady and smooth. Through closed eyes, I see again, the cave where she dwells. It is in this moment I know that I could extend my arm and touch her. I can't help but smile, wondering what journeys await.

We live.

Not Even Strange

It should have been a strange experience, but it wasn’t.

The room was filled with chatting and laughter. An arrangement of peculiar instruments were placed at one end of the room – didgeridoos, drums, crystal bowls, bull-roars, various flutes from around the world, chimes and items I could not identify formed a semi circle around two men.

My wife had arranged the evening, as she is prone to do, with certainty of purpose. She knows me, and she knows the likelihood of me pursuing such an event on my own is slim. She also knows that the reality of my appreciating and benefiting from such an experience is almost certain. We had registered and made our way back to the main room amid gathering people, nervous laughter, meaningful hugs and an atmosphere of escalating curiosity.

The group of us, about 15 in all, found our places; lying on the floor supported by various mats, pillows and blankets. After a brief explanation, the sounds began. This was advertised as an evening of sound and healing. Amid sometimes gentle and sometimes piercing sounds, I rested motionless and felt my way through the evening. Images came and went. Ideas floating in, some staying a while, and then out. I was sometimes aware of the movement and noises of others. Moments found me very aware of where I was and what was going on. Moments found me adrift in the twilight of relief. Then, as simply as it began, it stopped.

I listened as others shared of their experiences, stories of traveling to other places, regressing to previous life moments, journeying inward to spiritual realms. I understood much of what was shared – conceptually, at least. I just listened.

For me, it wasn’t about going anywhere. It was more about what came to me, and even that, the coming to me, I can’t really describe. What I can tell you is that I have slept wonderfully ever since. Something rode in on the waves of crystal bowls, and in the swirls of twirling blades, and through the chanting of ancient flutes. Something came gently on the tunes of voices and the rhythm of drums. Something of great value came and drifted through the discontinuity of my thoughts, images and sensations. It should have been a strange experience, but it wasn’t. The healing was, well, normal.

Good night.

Seeing Blue Sky for Her

It is a difficult blending of life, seeing her go. In a few short hours my daughter will be off to LA. The next few days will find her driving across this country, visiting with family and friends and arriving in her new hometown – LA, California.

She stayed here for college, so this is really the first real separation. It is odd. I have seen her travel to Spain for a semester, Guatemala for a mission trip, LA and NYC for long internships and I have relished in her adventure, her spreading her wings, her growth. Watching her adventurous spirit blend with a growing knowledge of her ability to succeed has been a joy.

This time is different. This time she is not experimenting with a trip or internship. This time she is making a way for herself, launching into her life, her life – her journey.

I sat outside just now, sipping coffee at the neighborhood Starbucks, reflecting, and feeling this moment. I am so very proud of her. I am excited for her. This beginning is exploding with possibilities for her. I am, as a father must be, worried for her – life is sometimes hard and I don’t wish hardship for her, although I am sure she will find her fair share. I already miss her.

As I look skyward, now, I see that the sky is blazing blue, being traced by the slow movement of wispy, bright white clouds, a wonderful canopy for her travel. The sky is beautiful today, even now, as seen through my tears.

Long Shadows

The long shadows stretch out, carving a swath into the close of the day. This day is more than the end of one more day, one more 24 hour period fading into the dusk of life and lingering in darkness before easing into the next. This day is his last day, the end, the final fading of life into that moment when the last step has been taken and the final period is written on the page – and so now, as the shadows creep into threads of night so long that they reach from horizon to horizon, he simply moves on… completing the task of washing the dishes, and letting out the cat. 

Would he do anything differently in these last hours if he knew? Would his mind bother worrying about the loss of his retirement plans, or spend any energy concerned about the uniqueness his most recent proposal at work – hoping by it to attract the attention of his boss who happens to be a very attractive young and single woman? If he knew that even now each breath was moving him closer to the measurable possibility of counting his last breaths, even knowing the number of beats left for his heart, would he bother with anything at all? 

He finds his way to bed, turning out the lamp and shifting to his right side as he always does, nestling his head into his too soft pillow, and curling his legs up to feel more completely the cat now nestled next to his stomach. His mind wanders about, replaying the events of the day as slowly his thoughts become less his own and a more independent, creative array of images begin molding their dream shapes, and fantasies for him as he slowly gives way to sleep. 

Sometime during that night his heart stops its rhythm. He ceases everything, resting eternally beneath the long shadows, the pall of his end.

Memorial

Often spoken words lose meaning
Repetition, redundancy, familiarity
Turns the phrase
Into empty sentiment.

What shall we call these things
Courage, commitment, duty, belief
Pallor of soul
To sigh and ache?

Can we even speak of heroes anymore?