Interruptions. Changing of plans. We rarely look for those things, but if you know anything about river adventures, you know that a portage is often unavoidable. What do you do when you find a proverbial canoe on your shoulders, instead of in the water where it belongs?
Keep walking, carry a good compass, bring a friend along to help with the load.
These are things easier said than done. When your legs ache, when you’re tired and it’s dark and you can’t read your compass, when you and your partner find verbal combat easier than carrying a canoe… In the middle of at a portage doesn’t always seem like an adventure, but that’s life. We don’t always recognise the adventures we are on when we are standing in the middle of them.
Perspective. This is my reminder to remember and check my perspective.
The joy of wriggling feet in wet sand as waves tease toes with cool kisses, one after the other in the rhythmic love of touch. Whet sand sticks to heals. Tinny particles embedded in natural valleys of skin, playing as if they lived there when it’s vacation day. The sand paper feel of brushing particles of rocks from flesh, and finding them attached to palm and fingers and hiding in, in between places. Better to walk the shores barefoot, letting the warmth of sun and wind do their work? Watch the dark sands lighten to dry dust. Brush hands together to cast tinny stones aside. Now ankles can be cleared of minuscule boulders, only the finest of glittering flecks remain as reminders of earth and skins dalliance. Sandals laced. Only a stone here and there, stealing a peck from human follicles. Goodbye, kisses. Reluctantly brushed aside.
We whisper to the waves as the beach house light beckons. The courtship of human hearts and beach lasts only a day. In the morning waves crash and clouds weep their farewell as a drizzle, on our last beach walk.
We can hear the gulls cry, “Don’t leave!” The salty breeze seals love like heartache to our memory with scent we won’t forget. He holds the suitcase as I hold him.
“We’ll come back someday.”
The sand hiding in spaces between sandal leather and sole won’t let me forget this promise.
Silken strands strung stunningly, a woven web of artistry. Secretions from innovations soul, yet born to place each strand, just so. Elegant economic pattern, drops of diamond dew bespattered. Stops one dead in tracks this morn. Now to face arachnid scorn. To such a masterpiece destroy… A humbled apology employ. Hours spent on spinning threads, a masterpiece of newness spreads.
Once, when I was little, I asked my dad what had happened to the forest as we drove through the Northwestern Ontario wilderness. The trees looked ugly and sad. Dead black things standing in silent testament to what once was.
Did you know that the black earth hides life? All we see is destruction, but the earth knows it as time to renew.
“The forest will grow back full of new life and food for the animals to eat.” Dad told me.
It can be the same with people. Don’t look at your burn out plots as lost. See them as places to grow new love.
Have you ever pulled a plant out of those flimsy plastic pots they start them in at greenhouses and garden departments? It always scares me when I do.
What if I damage the flower? What if I damage roots as I pull it from its home?
But the truth is, that little plant NEEDS to be pulled from the plastic, and planted in good earth. It won’t thrive confined like that, even surrounded by its siblings. That plastic tray was made to only be a safe starting place.
Don’t stay in your plastic pot. We are meant for so much more.
Spring, a time many of us long for after a long dark winter. We grow again and unfurl our blooms… Just to have a frost crisp their edges.
Some of us weather it fine, some of us might carry blackened scars from unexpected transitions. Still, some of us might have to drop our first blooms. But don’t worry, you will grow new ones. Whispers of what once was, and promises of what will still be.