Contemplation

blue lights hang in this space I call mine.

I have traversed the day foot following foot building nkt my home now, but my life. The path has bent and woven through rough terrain and smooth

and now I am back to the still pond looking at aged reflections of those I used to know some

I do not recognize. I wonder how wide swaths of my life were so easily forgotten but they say your brain can only hold so much and

files what you dont need away.

I feel as if I need all of it all of those memories that grew into me today

but of course they are so much chaff now more days behind than ahead and I can only move onwards into a construct as I go future.

I keep my love near me in white feathers pennies and dimes in odd places at odd times

I need no other.

Advertisements

Lola, a hot day up north, the lighthouse clock, and the contact paper that saved my world

I had a day off. I tried not to look at the bench bed that needs fixing. Instead I took a deep breath and went outside. I went out to a place with Wi-Fi and I did some of my contracted writing that I do for a blog a friend of mine has for his business. Four hours later, work completed, I went to my storage and put some items up for sale. When I was finished with that, I got some corn starch so I could thicken the chicken chili I had thrown together in the Crock Pot the night before. I got some contact paper for a dollar at the dollar store because the wall behind the stove in my tiny camper was old paneling and it had little screw holes in it and I didn’t feel like tearing it out from behind the hood and having to buy a whole new piece of paneling. I don’t have a lot of money. Getting back on my feet and all.

I then vacuumed out Lola. I named the camper Lola. Lola needs love. Not huge amounts. Just little loves as we all do. She was all clean and spic and span when I got done vacuuming and wiping down the cupboards. She seemed like she felt better. So did I. I had felt cluttered and flustered about that bench framing project and about not getting the big stuff accomplished like the skirting.

I was still looking at that big construction project in the corner and worried that I wasn’t getting anything done. As I’m cleaning.

Here’s the chicken chili.

So my mind was taken up by that bench bed I needed to frame most of the day. I went and got another curtain for the window that didn’t have a curtain.

I put the contact paper up on that plain white paneling behind the stove. Bought a battery for my lighthouse clock. Its Lake Superior. Lighthouses are a thing here. I love them. I drove to the cemetery to visit someone I love and cleaned off his headstone.

This is the after shot of the wall behind the stove after I put the contact paper up. Plain white wall before.

Then I realized how wrapped up I’d been on the big project I hadn’t noticed what a big difference the little things I’d done all day made. I got a lot done. I got work done. I got work done on my home….a few improvements that to me made a big difference. What do you think of what I’ve done?

The camper smelled good from my chicken chili bubbling in the pot. My floor was clean. My clock was ticking away in a homey fashion. My curtains made the place look more like the gypsy caravan I was going for, and I felt good being in my Lola camper. I felt at home. Home.

The night before camper day!

Ok. I’m still living in my car. After the initial shame and guilt and shock of it which I went into here, I find that there is no shame in sleeping in my car any longer. It is not a marker of failure. It is simply a different kind of shelter. I don’t know how that mind shift happened but my perceptions are different. I am no longer focused inwardly or selfishly. I am focused outwardly.

I’m so excited. It’s the night before I get my tiny home. I have been planning for two weeks how I’d fix it up and make it mine, but today I felt quiet, and peaceful and I went to the beach on Wisconsin Point. I was alone out there. I love being alone out there. There are just the gulls, the wind blowing off of the lake, and the sound of the waves breaking on the sand. There are lake-smooth round rocks of every color, black, red, white quartz, (and Lake Superior agates if you are really lucky), black and red rocks, all tossed and rolled by the world’s largest rock tumbler, my wonderful lake. I saw a bald eagle fly overhead yesterday. I sit on a driftwood log and let the wind play through my long hair; the sound of the wind and the waves breaking on the beach, and all of the kinks in my nerves get smoothed out; the anxiety breaks up and disappears, and all becomes right in my world.

I speak to The One Who is Greater Than Me who is known by many names and many religions. Wakan Tanka or Tunkashila to the Lakota people who I spent six years with teaching in the public school on the rez. I speak to Spirit often. I feel that there is something larger than me. I cherish that.

What a circuitous route I have taken coming home. I travelled the world and many states, and went through so much growth and expansion spiritually and mentally. Home is meant to be a rest for me, but it seems Whoever is In Charge thinks that I need to keep growing, hence living in the car the last little while. Hence being pushed into a different lifestyle with the tiny camper–but now I wonder when it went from being pushed into the camper to becoming a conscious choice to live this way and not bow down to the rents and landlords and feel as so many do that they have no choice but to conform and pay up.

Not everyone can buy a camper. Here I got blessed. There are tons of used campers for sale for any price really because in this country, everyone camps and fishes. I got lucky with mine being so inexpensive. It was a Gift.

It took losing a lot to uncover the important things and the real friends who are few but true. We know life isn’t about “who dies with the most toys.” We yearn for more and we seek more –hence explorers and pastors abound. Some of us travel to find ourselves. Like that book “Wild” about the woman who up and hiked the Pacific Coast Trail to come back to who she was, the woman her mother thought she was. Or the Eat Pray Love lady.

My journey was outward and now it is inward. It is in contemplation of the lake and birds and wind, and the space between extravagance and poverty.

This is what I am thinking as I spend the last night in my car. Tomorrow will be the start of a different and simpler kind of life.

I have more to unload. I still need to lighten up. More on that later.

Good night dear readers. Have you felt the call to simplify or have you been unceremoniously pushed into the worst that could happen only to discover that maybe the worst thing is turning out to be the best?

woman whole

I do not know what I have reconciled except

a sense of myself which separated from me long ago has come to me lost

in thick northern pines and birches

where we lodged those memories

drowned in wild waves and winds smashing beaches, cliffs and breakwalls.

Lostandfound now are that night I lay on the beach at the Point where the Northern Lights danced in colored shimmers weaving and undulating purples, yellows, pinks and greens across the ink black sky

The wind whispers that I have become one with who I was where I was when fear and rage and pain created who I was

turns out that the illusion was the monster who was really not one at all what is real is

Who I am

unapologetic

Unafraid

beautiful

wild woman walking on water weaving dreams stars trailing behind me

I wear rage and fear and overcoming stitched in my life-coat of many colors which I wear with defiance and pride and shyness

I dance while

the water sings

Roaring on the shore

Diaries

I never think I am authentic when I write here although I probably am. I read the blogs of others and it seems others have more profound or more interesting things to say or impart and here I am…being who I am. I am not altogether certain who I am completely but perhaps that is true for everyone. I dream dreams of how life could be or should be and in my dreams there is beauty and visions of what life would be like if I took different paths or dared to do what I dream of doing. I have been so far in my imagination and not nearly far enough in reality. Perhaps reality is my dreams and this three dimensional existence a pale representation of reality.

What I dream of doing is making a living writing, so here I am, plying my skill, grateful for those who read. I am a woman who has travelled far geographically, spiritually and maturity-wise yet my growth is never finished. It is enough to embrace that knowledge and not become too full of oneself. I do not know as much as I think I do. I have quieted down and learned to listen more and talk less.

I have loved deeply and now I mend. I return at last from the long going out.

I feel as Bilbo Baggins did after returning home from his long journey where he had many adventures and sadnesses and joys and found everything forever changed, but yet the same. It was he who had changed of course, as have I. Another journey will begin at home with the life I lead there. I find comfort in not straying too far from home this time. I hope to find a love to call my own.

It is time to be still and to be seen. One is invisible if one is always in perpetual motion. I want to be caught. I want to make a home. In one place. With one person. I have waited 30 years. I am ready. It is time.

Begin again

I won’t have any money she said but that’s okay because we are all a little rough when we all start out I replied softly

There is plenty to go around she remarked from the rocking chair on the other side of the porch so dont worry just give it

time

At night I saw her rising again out of the dark waters in the calm moonlit nights sensuously wet hair clinging to her breasts and her waist

Moonlight drapes over me walking on white sand shore I

trip over driftwood in my bare feet and I am walking over years and years as I kick up sand grains and frighten sea gulls

who flap their wings nervously as they drift inches above the wave lapped shore then settle down again when I have passed

Here I begin again the stars sing and a single owl watches me without judgment from on high

the lighthouse is dark on calm nights and I sit on the breakwall wondering about love or passion or who is large enough to contain mine and mingle with it

Fly

Fly and my feet leave the sand and I turn into the red-tailed hawk

Homeward bound

Twenty five years ago

I couldn’t wait to leave

it that

place I’d grown up in

purple with taconite dust clinging to everything

The walls had memory too. The fights, the screaming and cold silences that told me there were far worse things than hatred

like being together the

loneliest

when love has long fled

My bright spots the cerulean blue lake stretching endlessly to the eastern horizon blue line beckoning

Canal Park

Wisconsin Point

Aurora borealis

4th of July nights with fireworks bay reflected

I stand on the other side. I know what lies on the far side of that blue western horizon line and

it has called me for twenty five years a

plaintative song pleading me to come home

Come home.

I fled ever onwards in the opposite direction

Pacific bound then Atlantic

foreign lands all

I saw so much water

so many gulls crying overseas all of it foreign and rough always comparing to my wide expanse of inland sea blue my sea, my cradle, my comfort

the wildness of her spirit alive in me always

Now it is time. I follow the siren song compass point north

due north as the geese fly in spring trailing experience and longing with me

I am weary of strangeness and crave rest for my soul

Seasons will pass now with me watching sailboats in summer then Autumn colors exploding over the hill then winters onslaught

Frozen bay ice breakers pushing relentlessly through steadily

Ship horns bridge horn opening

I know them all. It is there waiting for me. It cannot be the same yet it is familiar

Home did not slip away from me in the night so long

It is mine to make now, home

Home

Home

How life happens in a coffee shop

For this post I can only speak for my life so I will. I am in transition and trying to figure out how to settle my life so that I am not wandering all of the time, as I have been the last 25 years. Sometimes you just get tired of life and being kicked around and dealing with losses of friends and maybe even the loss of home over time. For as Thomas Wolfe says you can’t go home again…but I am looking homeward now and I can remake home for me. I catch myself gazing over Lake Erie to the horizon where Lake Superior and Lake Michigan lies, and I am transported back to my youth when I stood at the lighthouse on Canal Park and imagined what lay over the blue eastern horizon. I know now, and I am world weary and ready to follow the geese back home.

The coffee shop has been my headquarters where I have arranged a job over the phone while drinking my large dark roast and sad folk songs play on the stereo overhead. The worn wood shelf at the window is my desk where I have written family and friends letting them know I am going home. I have gazed out the window at the busyness of Hertel Avenue in Buffalo and while it has been my home where I have picked up the pieces when my life fell apart (twice in ten years I healed in Buffalo), there is something about knowing when its time to go that is at once nostalgic and bittersweet. I have good memories here and good friends. Buffalo will always have a place in my heart.

I gaze at the people sitting here and they are all a life encased in themselves; many lives working and unfolding in the hours they pass here. Some meet friends for conversation about what’s happening in their lives. Some, like the guy in the corner ave found this the perfect place to crochet a green sweater, some are studying schoolwork as Buffalo has many good colleges. Some are lovers and some, like me, are alone and okay with their solitude, their coffee, and their bagel or muffin or biscotti.

You live your life everywhere but there is something special and intimate about the time I spend in the independent coffee shop. It is a restful space, a peaceful space where humanity is content to coexist for the time we spend in here as our lives unfold, as plans are made whether small plans or life changing ones like mine.

I end with a quote about moving on:

Nothing belongs to itself anymore.
These trees are yours because you once looked at them.
These streets are yours because you once traversed them.
These coffee shops and bookshops, these cafés and bars, their sole owner is you.
They gave themselves so willingly, surrendering to your perfume.
You sang with the birds and they stopped to listen to you.
You smiled at the sheepish stars and they fell into your hair.
The sun and moon, the sea and mountain, they have all left from heartbreak.
Nothing belongs to itself anymore.
You once spoke to Him, and then God became yours.
He sits with us in darkness now
to plot how to make you ours.”