Do all my writings start with a cup of coffee, emotional complexity and a low-laying blanket of clouds and mist from the sea? Very well then. There is a half moon rising somewhere among the clouds. The half moon always leaves me feeling dazed and confused. I feel the polarity of fullness and emptiness, and I'm moved to tell a story.
I woke up with a man this morning in a treehouse perched in a friendly, old cedar tree high above a small, green, quirky village. He had sap in his hair. I giggled as I wiped the sleep from my eyes, and I smiled to be near him. I had sap on my pants. I felt a quickening in his presence, and my mind could scarcely keep up with the concepts and topics of our late-night conversation. I pushed pause on my scattered mind, and I silently thanked the cedar for its contribution to this day. Smile. Then breath. I love the way Earth always brings me back to center.
I believe in Divinity, like that in the cedar tree or in him, that draws all things into Oneness of being, but it's hard not to feel pulled toward one thing over another when we live in a material expression of Truth. From the quaint, little Hobbit window of the treehouse I looked down in the yard and saw a large deer—a buck with four points and scraggly fur. He was majestic. As he took a step across the lawn, I noticed he had a limp. It looked excruciating, and I was almost drawn out of the treehouse to help him in some way. Instead, I watched him pass through the village green and into the dahlia fields in the next yard over. I wondered if he would survive the impending winter.
I set out to write a metaphor—I am the wounded deer—or something incredibly prosaic. I feel like the deer at times, tired and weak even in my pertinacious resistance to giving up. This story isn't about me, though. It is simply in honor and reverence to the Spirit of the deer. He, like all sentient things, deserves attention. Let this be his memorial, and may you be reminded of your place in the family of things. As the naturalist John Muir observes, "When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe."
The gray of October in this small, Pacific Northwest town envelops me. I wake up on the wrong side of the bed that I spent my whole life making. I rollover and wipe the sleep from my eyes, and I check last night's incoming messages on my iPhone, my oracle, the thing that I wish I could live without. My dad has messaged me—a lengthy bit of pensive prose. He writes of time, and rebuilding bridges, and the communication that draws us near, even though I now live far away. In the early fog of the morning I, too, tumble into rumination.
Time is not a thing to torque and twist and tempt off course.
Forcing fate to fit as I discourse.
Fancy footwork, flowing freely
Dance the spiral never ending.
A ticket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket
I wrote a letter to my dad
Perhaps I've almost lost it.
Expression, redirection, reflection, and couth–
My secrets, my heart
The skeletons of my youth.
Take this, don't break this
It is not yours to convolute.
You are hearing my words,
But don't tizzy to fright.
The rhymes that I spit
Declare I'm alright.
Nonsensical, whimsical, erratic and free
This is see now and my artistry.
Come find me.