Get Lost

My theme for 2009 was Free Fall. And it certainly proved to be true. I've learned more about letting go this year than I could have ever imagined. It was a tangled year, full of twists and turns and steep drops. This year, I've been able to let go more than ever of the things that once gripped me.

My life became cluttered with the sorting of medical paperwork for more than one family member. I've learned more than I care to about the medical mess this country has gotten itself into. And I've learned a little about home insurance in an eleven-month journey to finally enjoying my new front porch, provided by last winter's snows too heavy for the old porch to support. 2009 has been full of the challenges of navigating rules, providing documentation, and finding people who are willing to do what they commit to.

I'm looking forward to the end of my 2009 "Free Fall" as the paperwork flutters behind me. This final letting go will be monumental for me. I can no longer see the importance of things I've been taught must be held with great reverence. An early January bonfire ought to clean up the last of the mess. And that is the Free Fall blessing of 2009.

Now, I'm looking at my 2010 theme and feeling like it's time to "Get Lost!"

I'm ready to be a pioneer, an adventurer, stumbling in to new areas to survey broadly and examine minutely. I want to investigate new waters, explore new wilderness, discover what others may have long ago left behind and, when necessary, make my own crude maps as a way to encourage myself to go deeper.

I will not be a seeker, searcher or one on a quest. I'm not interested in any theme that might carry deep meaning or be a cause in any way. There will be no exploration plan or search for knowledge.

Beating about, kicking around, casting about, putting out feelers, and finding myself up a creek are more my style. All I'm looking for are a few effortless escapades and the simplicity in being lost.

"Explorers have to be ready to die lost." ~Russell Hoban

Winter Solstice Sun

With the Winter Solstice on December 21st, we in the North Country are immersed in more dark than light. I feel exhilarated when a sunny day comes my way and I don’t have to take all the responsibility for being the bright spot around my home. At the sun’s highest point during each day this time of year, it does not quite rise above my treetops. What I am left with though, is the beauty of sun spilling through the trees, making shining jewels of the snow that filters down through the branches.

I’m looking forward to seeing 2009 blown away on the white winds of change and curious about what 2010 has to offer.

Winter Colors

For the rest of this winter, I’ve chosen to be colorful. Today I wear my big red shirt over my yellow sweater. When the dogs and I walk, I’ll throw my old and worn yellow and purple scarf around my neck and pop my matching hat on top. I’m bundled up for whatever winter decides to throw my way, with deep pockets, high collars, goose down and long sleeves. I’m a warm display in an increasingly chilly environment and I’m sticking out like a tropical bird in all this winter white.

Memories

There's a hard frost this morning. As the wind blows through the leaves, I can actually hear them clinking against each other. Soon, when the sun comes up and warms them, many will loose their grip and fall to the ground in a rain of gold and orange and red and brown.

Memories

Cold morning. The steam is rising off the creek, creating ghost-like wisps through the cedars.

I wonder about the seemingly substantial, the things in our lives that feel so solid. And then, just like the steam on the creek, the images of something once very real are gone in an instant with something as minor as the shift of the sun one degree. And I am left wondering if I imagined it. I suppose it does not matter if I imagined something as fleeting as the steam rising off the creek or my entire past. The memories are still rich and they sustain me.

At the time, each experience is wonderful, or painful or peaceful or even magical in that one moment when it is present. And then, in the blink of an eye, it becomes a memory, something in the past to hold on to.

Our memories are ultimately all we are, I suppose. Something so simple, so sweet, so painful, or so inviting is really nothing more than a fleeting moment. But in that moment it also becomes a memory we will hold on to forever.

Sometimes I imagine myself being able to craft my future. If I just do this…If I just say that…If I am able to save a certain amount for later…If I invest in this…If I take time each day to plan...

And yet, when I choose to be still, to put all the plans and plots and good intentions on the back burner to simmer, I’m present enough to really experience the things that will create lasting memories. I don’t have to work for them. I don’t have to create rituals to make them happen. They are just there for me. And as my bank of memories grows, my present becomes more luscious. The past and the present become woven. The future? Well, I’ll just wait for it to become the present and I’ll see what memories unfold from that.

"Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart." ~Thomas Fuller

"Memory is not so brilliant as hope, but it is more beautiful and a thousand times more true." ~George Denison Prentice

In The Eddy

With August, we finally got summer. It was brief. Now, with the onset of September, I'm seeing more of the golden flowers that mark the end of summer. Around my home, there's a burst of Black-eyed Susan and Goldenrod. And today is the day of the Corn Moon, the full moon in September that in older times marked the time to harvest the corn.

As I fall deeper and deeper into the acknowledgment that summer is waning, I seek with eagerness the solace of a September that will embrace me with a sense of home; that is, that deep and unconditional welcome that rarely comes from any other source but going home. Home does not have to be literal in the sense that it is the house, the dwelling, the town in which one lives or grew up. Home can be, and more often is for me, falling into the embrace of nature, especially during this time of year. There seems to be nothing more motherly, more welcoming, more at home, than nature's autumn embrace in the North Country. I'm antsy to see what has occurred locked away in the woods around my home when the summer's heat and biting insects kept me from exploring more deeply.

In The Eddy

I'm in the eddy. I've taken a break. I've swung out of the current, pointed myself upstream behind a boulder or a fallen log, and allowed myself to breathe. I've become quiet so I can hear the world turning and get my directions.

For those of you who don't paddle, an eddy is the downstream side of an obstruction in the river. It's a place in the river, because of that obstruction like a log or a boulder, where the water is moving more slowly and in a different direction, in a circular flow as the water backfills into the pocket created behind the obstruction. Eddies are most useful to paddlers as a place to rest, read the river, and make decisions about the next move up or down the river. Paddling from eddy to eddy, slipping into an eddy for a break, gives you the opportunity to assess your next move. Often, when running rapids, I enter and exit a series of eddies as a way to pause and pick my path. The key is in the timing.

With autumn nipping at my heals, the timing is just right. I'm in an eddy of my life as well as a more seasonal eddy. September and I have swung out of the current, taking a break, assessing our next moves. Breathing.

Come on in, the water is just fine.