Viewing entries in
"family"
The beach remembers
Lover's tastes and trash
And it can't forget
Too many breezes blow
In strong currents
And sand tossing tourists
Piles of humanity
Discarded playthings
And burnt butts
Cans crushed under foot
Seasoned among sea oats
And barley stained
His hands upon her
Rumpled sands swaying
And tides wetting
Every passion gets remembered
By the beach beneath us
And our trash
Paint Me Not
Paint me not in shades of brilliant blue and red
Coloring over my misguided lines of glossy black
And smeared greys
Don’t layer me over with sentiment and morality
Forgetting my deformity of thought
And bare deeds
Have the fortitude to lay it out
As I was and am naked and old, withered
And decaying now
My life will be dust soon enough and should not be concealed while it can be revealed.
Note: Inspiration comes when it is ready. I was viewing a photo and a post over at MelodyWatson.com and somehow, my thoughts and feelings lead to the poem above...
It should have been a strange experience, but it wasn’t.
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.
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
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.
Her – Sure. I’d like that.
Him – We could go up to
Her – Sounds good.
Him – Maybe we will beat last week’s time!
Her – Why is it always a competition with you?
Him – What? I’m not trying to beat you.
Her – Not me. Why is always about performance, being better.
Him – Huh? Something wrong with wanting to be better?
Her – That’s not the point. Why can’t you just be…
Him – I am…being better!
Her – Not funny. I give up…
Him – Sorry. Seriously, I don’t follow you.
Her – Why can’t you – we – us just be on a hike? Why does it always have to be about performance, accomplishment? Can’t you just be?
Him – Of course. I am being, I guess. You mean like being one with nature? Meditation and all that?
Her – No. Never mind.
Him – Ok. I don’t have to push for a better time. You can lead. You can set the pace.
Her – Fine…
Him – Look, seriously, it isn’t that important. I really just like hiking with you. I like the way you talk about all sorts of things, and I like listening. I really like being with…
Her – Yes??
Him – I just got it.
Her – Good. So we can just hike together?
Him – Yes. But, we still might make good time.
Her – You’re impossible.
I'm a bit late with the second phase my public writing journey. Here is what I've 'carved' from the raw block of words - so far.
I grew up in Myrtle Beach, SC one of the largest beach tourist destinations on the east coast. In many ways I was a beach rat, spending my summers working at my family’s ocean front hotels and making friends with our weekly guests, and their daughters. Mine was a life filled with those summer days of youthful zeal, sun-tanned skin, wind blown hair and new beginnings. Every week was a new start with clean rooms and new guests. The four month vacation season dominated all that we did. It seemed that school, and all things winter, were simply the time we spent remembering or preparing for summer. Summer was our time. Summer was the time when we thrived economically and personally. I always lived in summer. The heat of the sun blazed down from the sky and up from the sand. The sea tossed its mist into our air and we breathed in the damp essence of life. Living so close to the sea, we drew our life from it day in and day out. The sea held us and brought life to us. Its vast reservoir, pulsing with each tide, offered to and collected from everything it touched. It is this giving and collecting, that I have witness many times.
The sea gives. My grandfather and father were both sailors. Their comfort with the sea and its gifts of food and fellowship were passed to me. I can remember the day my brother and I spent a day catching hundreds of small ‘spots’ only to face the task of scaling and cleaning them into the night. My grandfather taught us that day about finishing the tasks we started and about the sequence of work to reward. It was fun to catch. It was work to clean. We had to do both to eat. It was the sea, as it lingered in the marsh and inlets that gave us this opportunity.
The sea gives. I have witnessed many occasions of children and adults finding the sea for the first time. They had been inlanders all of their life and never seen the sea. That seems strange to me, even now. What a change of perspective that must be – to see the sea, to see and feel for the first time the sea from which we are created…
I attended a writer’s class recently for five weeks. Christopher Laney (writer, pilot and all around amazing human being) lead the group. I have struggled with writing. It isn't the need for stories to tell or a lack of love for words that holds me back, but one of my blocks is that I sit down to write and what comes out, for all of it’s potential, isn't that good. It has ‘good’ in it, but it just isn't the ‘perfect’ piece I would like to write – so, I write only rarely – when the inspiration bludgeons me to action.
Christopher shared an analogy with us. In the same way a sculptor must begin with a block of stone in order to carve a work of art, the writer must begin with a mass of words and begin the process of carving piece from them. I have been experimenting with this approach by writing free-form for 30-40 minutes and then slowly sculpting something from the mass of ideas and words generated in the free-form time. I thought it might be fun to share one of these sculpting projects with you, so I have posted below the mass of words from which I will be seeking to carve something akin to an essay. I plan to post another phase of this next weekend, and I invite you to return and see what has been released from this writer’s block of word stone…
Rivers, oceans and streams collect things – rain, mud, branches, sand, and the dead. Dead birds, fish, people. He went to sleep with the fishes.
Some would say we came from the sea, an evolution of undaunted genetics that have to, must evolve – gather its one self and form to conform to demands of our own becoming. So with the waxing and waning, the tugging of the moon’s tidings upon us – a planetary massaging of our little planet – we have become this formed p[lace and these formed creatures, plants, people and things.
Some speak if coming from and returning to our creator, and if such is true then we are created by the hands of the sea. See then the sea in all of us? See all of us in the sea?
We do return to the sea – the splashing of childish play and delight (I witnessed many occasions of children and adults witnessing the sea for the first time – they have been in-landers all of their life and never seen the sea. That seems strange to me – what a change of perspective that must be – to see the sea, to see and feel for the first time the sea from which we are created?), the percussion of a dead body dropped form the pier, the trickle of mucus-like decay through soil, water tables and into the streams that feed the sea – we all return. We return and melt and blend in to the great sea – dissolved and transported.
Then some poor fool turns on a tap and drinks us.
