vol.i: refurbishing
In due time, my vision will resolve — I’ll see myself reflected in the rear-view behind the wheel of some overpowered piece of automotive history. The Pacific will glint with the spark of memory as I blaze down the Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco clear through to Big Sur, onward to Los Angeles.
#e23350[gratitude; U.S. airspace]
I have spent far too long living as a memory, stuck in days past. I have spent years taking for granted that which I’ve been afforded by circumstance and concerted effort — the ableness of my body, the ease with which my legs carry me along a mountain ridge, deep into a forest full of wealth born of a caring, living, breathing mother. I have spent lifetimes in universes too obscure and distant for them to resolve with the clarity of now.
The planet is alive and I am alive. Lying on my back at the base of the merciful giant who gave every bit of herself to her children who form the columns of this cathedral which encircles me. It is at once magic, nonsense, perfect sanity; all knowledge was never something to be discovered, recorded and kept, but rather received, nurtured, and shared from roots grounded in the depths of our collective soul — a unity, a universe in itself. Yet, we take for granted the gifts the gods have bestowed. We chop and burn, raze and slaughter, consume and rape, weaken the fragile support structure upon which exists humanity. We bow to convenience and gluttony, squandering away that which belongs to no one except everyone.
The forests, deserts, and oceans have much to say to those willing to hear them. Their slow, ever-present, massive understanding amassed through eons of sunrises and sunsets, storms weathered, stories played out over billions of years as stars became molecules, molecules became rocks, rocks became life, and life became conscious. Nothing is isolated, nothing is simple, everything a continuance. Who are we to stem the tide, to fight the waves that crash upon the shore, eroding the past, offering rebirth? We have forgotten ourselves, become egotistic, overreaching, consumptive, cancerous.
The sickness of the world is the illness in our minds. We strive to separate ourselves from an entanglement forged in generations of genetic dice rolls and tempered in our inherent dependence on the planet we continue to destroy, sabotaging our safe haven. With or without us, the system will heal and with it, a vitality held deeply in what it means to be alive. Our task is to revive, to live, to love the dreamscapes which surround us, to remember what has been around us all along — the infinite grandeur of our home. The cycle continues, the wheels turn, and we forget: one day will never come because it is already past — scattered across infinity.
There will be time for a return, an atavistic awakening, an enlightenment. As societies rise and fall, create and consume, a thread of truth permeates the twisted braid of fantasies and falsehoods we’ve created to occupy our insatiable imaginations. The truth is in the beauty under our feet, over our heads, beneath the waves and squarely in front of us. The workings of this ecosphere, which roots all life to its core, are more complex, magnificent, and unimaginable than a fever dream. The thing is to see it, to take the blinders off and let go; open your mind and soul — learn to listen.
I refuse to squander the gifts this world bestows. Wondrous realities abound, yearning to be discovered. Everything has led me to this moment in time — I will not take that lightly. I am no longer hampered by the myopic guise of societal aspirations; I have but to throw myself into the wonderful fray of the life around me.
I have spent far too long living as a memory, stuck in days past. I have spent years taking for granted that which I’ve been afforded by circumstance and concerted effort — the ableness of my body, the ease with which my legs carry me along a mountain ridge, deep into a forest full of wealth born of a caring, living, breathing mother. I have spent lifetimes in universes too obscure and distant for them to resolve with the clarity of now.
The planet is alive and I am alive. Lying on my back at the base of the merciful giant who gave every bit of herself to her children who form the columns of this cathedral which encircles me. It is at once magic, nonsense, perfect sanity; all knowledge was never something to be discovered, recorded and kept, but rather received, nurtured, and shared from roots grounded in the depths of our collective soul — a unity, a universe in itself. Yet, we take for granted the gifts the gods have bestowed. We chop and burn, raze and slaughter, consume and rape, weaken the fragile support structure upon which exists humanity. We bow to convenience and gluttony, squandering away that which belongs to no one except everyone.
The forests, deserts, and oceans have much to say to those willing to hear them. Their slow, ever-present, massive understanding amassed through eons of sunrises and sunsets, storms weathered, stories played out over billions of years as stars became molecules, molecules became rocks, rocks became life, and life became conscious. Nothing is isolated, nothing is simple, everything a continuance. Who are we to stem the tide, to fight the waves that crash upon the shore, eroding the past, offering rebirth? We have forgotten ourselves, become egotistic, overreaching, consumptive, cancerous.
The sickness of the world is the illness in our minds. We strive to separate ourselves from an entanglement forged in generations of genetic dice rolls and tempered in our inherent dependence on the planet we continue to destroy, sabotaging our safe haven. With or without us, the system will heal and with it, a vitality held deeply in what it means to be alive. Our task is to revive, to live, to love the dreamscapes which surround us, to remember what has been around us all along — the infinite grandeur of our home. The cycle continues, the wheels turn, and we forget: one day will never come because it is already past — scattered across infinity.
There will be time for a return, an atavistic awakening, an enlightenment. As societies rise and fall, create and consume, a thread of truth permeates the twisted braid of fantasies and falsehoods we’ve created to occupy our insatiable imaginations. The truth is in the beauty under our feet, over our heads, beneath the waves and squarely in front of us. The workings of this ecosphere, which roots all life to its core, are more complex, magnificent, and unimaginable than a fever dream. The thing is to see it, to take the blinders off and let go; open your mind and soul — learn to listen.
I refuse to squander the gifts this world bestows. Wondrous realities abound, yearning to be discovered. Everything has led me to this moment in time — I will not take that lightly. I am no longer hampered by the myopic guise of societal aspirations; I have but to throw myself into the wonderful fray of the life around me.
•••
#e23303[day of the raven; Mary’s Rock Summit, Shenandoah National Park]
Peace; calm; growth; reward; triumph; healing; perspective. Ravens speak around my head, squawking and bleating. A triumphant blast from a million throats, brass bells vibrating in tune with my soul, a true accounting of my being; this is the product of understanding, of purpose. The balance is here upon my shoulders, sitting in the sky.
No need to be spoken, only understood, that which resides in our deepest core; connection with infinity, with beings that surround us, sustain us. A breadth of color, of sound, of music, of rhythm so well aligned. A coincidence? no — a creative decision. Master of reality, deep in disguise, you sleep among autumnal foliage, transitions that keep the story alive. Warp and woof, good and bad, in and out. Become one with the wind, the sky, the rain; find comfort in this most holy of scenes — those which the mind creates. Here in a dream, the reality of now. A peace in this moment, a solemn vow.
Here lives a wisdom more ancient than any; these mountains breathe in fable, in story, in song. They breathe with the wind, dance with the trees, sing with the birds, paint with the sun. Here, find peace, a center, a core of being reflecting the vigor of your soul. Here, everything is at once known and forgotten, lost in the deepest understanding.
The earth weeps through it all. It marks these pages, enriching the story, blurring the clarity, aligning in the finest way. As I sit at this summit and watch the yellows fade to gold then gray under this rain, I am well.
•••
#e23173[pètakwixën; Killen’s Pond State Park]
Looking out across the pond at the spillway, the swallows have begun their twilight hunt. Tension in the air — it’s overcast, breezy, humid, quiet — a reminder of approaching thunderstorms. Hesitant and heavy, hopelessly hoarding, holding my breath. For what? A moment, a misstep — how have I forgotten? The wind is not so stingy with its wealth, it shares itself with the world: waving tree branches, lifting birds on its shoulders, filling my lungs. In. Out. In. Out. Let go. The nature of the world is not so calculated, premeditated, it simply exists connected, intricate. We are integral to the process, an evolving organism. It moves, it flows — beyond barriers, over dams. We can’t contain it any more than we can stand apart from it. To subjugate is to exclude ourselves from the experience of the infinite we are immersed in, innately part of. Time is but a regular pulse superimposed on a timeless, unbound life, within and without us.
I feel ever more rooted in this place, ever more dependent upon it. Life transpired; I ran away in search of more and found only the same, another phase of the cycle. These pine forests were once giant redwoods, these plains once the towering sierras. Separated by time, tectonic shifts, and yet, the same — a oneness. When I was younger, I fixated on the past, I remembered happiness. Now, I find myself addicted to the future, imagining possibilities, each as feasible and real to me as the last. But, it is always within the present moments that I truly find myself, my joy, my aperture. I’ve become an observer of self, of experience. Keep seeking until you no longer seek, but act. Exist. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Let go.
The breeze returns; I listen more this time; I welcome into my soul the fresh scent of evergreen, the bitter-sweet taste of nostalgia. What binds us through space and time if not the wind? We hold it within ourselves, as did our ancestors. It outlasts us. It nourishes us, brings us news, memories, life. Yet, we pay it little mind, neglecting to give thanks. Perhaps because it does not bind us in place, it doesn’t seek to contain our beings or confine our thoughts. It moves us and reminds us to let go; if we attend, we feel ourselves — unnoticed, level, even. The toils of life, the grudges of our pasts drag as anchors, the wind fills our sails. We have only to embark, to un-moar our vessels. Freedom. Bliss. In. Out. Let go.
•••
#e24250[saudade; The Blue House]
Sitting in the full light of the sun that illuminated my youth; a sense of peace tempered by an understanding of the ephemerality of this moment. Something has changed; the breeze blows through windows open to the stifling summer heat and childhood redolence. This life is at an end, my narrative continues elsewhere. I have places to go, things to see, myself to meet. I’ve stood on this threshold before, but never with such finality. When I return to this place, it will be as a wanderer, a benevolent ghost of this universe’s maker.
I have forged myself anew from this ground upon which I stand. I look to the eastern horizon and remember my past. I thank the vessel, this body, that brought me here. As I turn towards the setting sun, I bring my love for this place, a cornerstone of my own foundation on which I will build my home in California. This is it — I am on the brink of venturing westward, of returning to the borders of my experience. My heart longs for foggy coastlines and dripping conifers. My body throbs with an energy that suffuses everything in view. A magnetism pulls from a cardinal compass point sitting just beyond time’s horizon. Here, my pulse quickens and my passion burns bright, creating a blaze unquenchable by time’s endless, brutal march.
It is at this juncture that we must take a sharp turn down the avenue of vintage Americana — life before fuel injection, media overdose, and the consequences of Reaganomics. Before forsaking the isle of mankind in favor of avifauna and cleaner air, I will seek all there is to experience. Life on the road in the American West: a bastion against the encroaching plagues of the new world where elders yet survive in the face of a savage onslaught raged on in the name of progress and convenience. In due time, my vision will resolve — I’ll find myself reflected in the rear-view behind the wheel of some overpowered piece of automotive history. The Pacific will glint with the spark of memory as I blaze down the Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco clear through to Big Sur, onward to Los Angeles.