Paper and Silk
Turning to look in the direction of Sean's gaze, she was forced to shield her eyes. The sun was a blaze of pure light. She could not understand how he could bear to look directly at its strong rays. Peering into the light she could see nothing else, just the intense beaming whiteness. She glanced at her mother and Ian; they too looked perplexed. Sean, on the other hand, seemed caught in a vision. He stood that way, transfixed, until a cloud passed through the shaft of light and he blinked rapidly. Then he shook his head, like a dog shaking off water after a bath. Smiling, he hugged his mom.
" You will never guess what I found, Ma," he said. Then he held out his hand and revealed a small yet intricately wrought broach. It was crusted over with salt and sand, but the parts that were not covered seemed lit from within, a beautiful silver piece. "I think it has been there for a long time," he said.
"It certainly was in a strange place," remarked his Nana. "Why don't we take it back to the cottage and see what it looks like with the grit cleaned off of it?"
They walked together then, alternately looking at the piece, back to the cottage. No one mentioned the strange look that had come over Sean's face, though Ian kept looking at him in a contemplative way. When they got back to the cottage, Nana boiled water. They used the piping hot water first for tea, then as it cooled, pored it slowly over the piece, watching in awe as the crust melted away revealing the finely crafted jewelry beneath. It was an amazing work of craftsmanship. Lin had never seen anything quite like it before, so delicate, yet somehow expressing pure strength at the same time. It was so unique. It depicted three swans' wings out-stretched and wrapped around each other, the necks all intertwined. It looked as if they were dancing in flight. Each swan bore a single jewel where its eye would be, a deep amber, a crimson stone and one that was close to jet black. No one was certain what the jewels were, but everyone thought they were real.
"We will have to see if anyone has reported missing something like this," said Lin. A collective grunt of agreement was made. Everyone knew it was the right thing to do. Though, of course, no one wanted to give up the lovely treasure. "But, until and unless it is claimed, Sean, I think you have found a bit of Irish treasure," she added with a smile, hugging her youngest. He beamed, picking up the pin and turned to her. "Love you, Ma," he said as he pinned it to her jacket. She felt herself starting to tear up, so gathered him close for a monster hug and rifled his hair. "Love you more," she said.
To break the somber mood, she suggested that they head into the village for dinner. The weather was fine and the walk easy. They had plenty of time to wander before it would be time to eat. She took them to meet a few of the merchants she had come to know. At the pub, they settled in over a cup of tea with a couple of locals and the proprietor. The boys grew restless, so she told them to meet back at the pub in half an hour for their meal and let them go out to wander the rest of the village. If she had thought about it, she would have kept them by her side. But, it was just so pleasant sharing the local banter with her mom, that it did not occur to her that the boys might run into Roary.
Ian locked onto the antique book shop as if he had radar. He had seen it earlier, but his mom had just walked past it. He thought that was unusual. She was always taking them into old book stores back home, so it was odd that she would skip a chance to drag them into one here in Ireland. He opened the door to the tinkle of chimes and the smell of old volumes. "Yes, this is the real thing," he thought. Sean burst in behind him, a bundle of energy. He loved these old places; there was always something to find in the stacks. He was off on another treasure hunt and hidden from view before the owner could come out from the back.
Roary emerged from the back, clutching a cup of tea. He had not had many customers that day and had been deeply immersed in a bit of research when he heard the bells ring. Irrationally, he had thought it would be Lin, and he was disappointed to see the strange young man standing in the door. Tall, blond-haired and blue-eyed, he seemed to be almost expectantly waiting for him to approach.
"Might I be of service?" asked Roary.
"I hope so," responded Ian, before he launched into a lengthy description of his current project. By the time he had described what he was working on and what he was looking for, Roary was fully engrossed. They began to wander the stacks. Every few feet Roary would pull out a volume and they would discuss it. Eventually Ian had so many in his arms that they had to go up to the counter and set a few down. It was there that Ian noticed the time. It was well past the half hour his mother had given him. He called to Sean, but got no answer. Hopefully his brother had already gone to the pub. At least only one of them would be in the dog house tonight. He asked Roary to ring up his purchases. As he did so, Ian noticed an amber colored scarf draped on the edge of the desk. He picked it up. It was a long silk piece, perfect for draping around a collar the way his mom often wore them. Perhaps he could get himself out of the hole after all.
"How much is this?" he asked.
Roary looked shocked. "That?"
"Yes, you see, I just got in to see my Mom today. We have had an odd day, with my brother trying to fall into the sea earlier. And now I am quite late for dinner at the pub. I think she might just like this enough to let me off the hook," Ian said with a lop-sided smile.
It dawned on Roary then that Ian was Lin's boy. His mind raced. What did it mean that his brother had almost fallen into the sea? Was he too late to warn her about keeping the boys away from the coast? Perhaps not. It did not seem like it, not if the boy was still okay.
"So, how much?" said Ian.
"Seeing as its your first night and you have made yourself late scrumming around with me, you can have the silk for your Ma," said Roary. He wrapped it in a bit of brown paper and tied it quickly. Ian handed over the price of his purchase.
"I hope we will get to spend more time together," said Ian. "It is not often I find people who really get what I do. And I like your shop."
"You are welcome anytime," said Roary as he saw Ian to the door.
Carrying his packages Ian pondered his visit to the shop. It was a great find. He put the packet with the silk into his pocket. Opening the door to the pub he whispered a quick little prayer that his Ma would like the silk enough to let his late arrival slide.
Its Cold Out Here....but Beautiful....
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Participles and Portents (12)
Having it All
Seeing them together and laughing was like being given the whole world tied up in a great big bow. Actually it was far better than that, but she could not find any words to express how wonderful it felt. This was her world, her Mom and her Boys. Yes, they deserved capital letters, always. They filled her to the brim with pure joy. She had forgotten how good it could feel to, well, to feel.
Embracing and being embraced in turn, she felt the total contentment of having all that she loved with her. "Life is good," she thought. They took the trip back to the cottage in a jumble of conversation, catching up on everything that had been happening since she had left. It had only been three weeks, but it seemed like so much longer. Ian had completed his semester exams and would only have one more term before he had his degree in his pocket. He was still seeing Emma and had even arranged a few times to talk with her in advance during the vacation. He was hoping that the family would be okay with fitting them into the schedule. The best news of all was that he had been selected for a paying internship and was itching to get back and start the new venture. As he explained about the team he would be working for and their vision for the development of a futuristic game that had its roots in Celtic lore, she smiled. It seemed he planned to turn the visit into a bit of a working holiday. Sean had also just wrapped up a semester as well. He was half-way through his sophomore year at his college preparatory school, and still loving it. He was particularly enjoying the Latin class he had started and was fascinated with breaking words down to their root forms. Seemed like the whole family had "roots" on their minds, as her Mom had some new lineage to track down relative to their own family's Irish heritage. Perhaps this time they would get a little closer to the mystery. Were they in fact Protestant descendants? Or did some enterprising young lad running from the famine claim the name at Ellis Island? It was a question they had been pondering for quite some time.
The drive passed very quickly and they were at the cottage in what seemed like no time at all. She ushered them in and showed them around. Over a quick lunch of brown bread, cheese and seafood chowder, she told them about her wounded bird. She skipped over the part about spending the night in the cavern and the eerily beautiful song of her dreams. Sean was fascinated and wanted to go with her to tend it after lunch. With some misgivings, she agreed to let him go with her. After washing up and putting things away, she packed her bag with the essentials. Ian and her Mom decided to come along too, so they set off together in high spirits.
The walk there was peaceful enough, if you didn't count listening to the two boys verbally spar. They always seemed to need to be tugging at each other. It was playful, but all the same, it carried that rough edge that boys have. She supposed in an earlier time they would have pulled out the wooden swords and shields and had a round of it. Smiling at this thought, she led them onward. When her Mom got a good look at the necessary climb, she almost decided not to go the rest of the way. But the boys pursuaded her. Lin gave her the gloves she had with her and pointing out the handholds, let Ian lead them up toward the crevice entry.
The climb was not as difficult as it looked, certainly not as breath-defying as she remembered from that first night. Using the flashlight Ian led them through the small twisting interior path and out into the central chamber. Lin slipped the pack off and pulled out the ball-retriever. She explained what she needed to do and asked everyone to stay where they were for a moment. She went out to the ledge and surprised herself by making a clean and simple retrieval. She did not pull much, but she did get enough vegetation to make a decent meal for her friend. Coming back in, she found that the family had seen the swans. They were keeping their distance, though, and that was good. She got out the rest of the supplies, slipping the ointment and fresh bandages into her pocket and began to hum.
They watched as she made her way to the wounded bird. She was surprised when the other birds simply watched and made no protest. That long, graceful neck rose and he looked at her, the single black eye regarding her eloquently. She offered a strand of weed and he took it quickly. His appetite was up, that must be a good sign. She took off the old bandage. The wound did not look infected, but it had also not yet started to knit back together. She would have to think about a plaster of some kind, perhaps sutures? She did not like the idea of trying to stitch the bird, even if he would let her do that. She might make a mistake that would cost him his ability to fly. She washed, dried and re-bandaged the wing. Ian and her Mom had come in closer to watch her and the birds had not made any protest. "Progress?" she wondered. It was not until she had completed her ministrations that she realized that Sean was missing.
They searched the cavern for him. There were not really that many places for a boy his size to hide. At almost six feet he would not fit into any of the tiny nooks in the space. She went out on the ledge and called for him while her mother and Ian retraced their steps through the crevice passage. It felt wrong to yell here. The echo would be too loud, so they whispered for him and got no response. Out on the ledge, clear of the cavern's chamber, she raised her voice. "Sean, you little beast, where are you?" she called.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a hint of movement. She turned and looked up. There he was scrambling over the lip where she had clung to keep from falling into the sea, and then he was gone from view. "Come back," she called. She could hear little rocks tumbling above her. She heard him grunt as if he had hit something hard, then more scrambling sounds. Frustrated, she made her way back through the cavern and out the crevice passage, hoping to catch a glimpse of him from the other side. Ian and her mother were standing down on the strand, their hands shielding their eyes and staring at the rock formation that was the cavern's outer shell. There, scampering on top, was Sean. He seemed totally fixated on something. He was working his way down the side of the formation, heading toward the sea.
"You have to come down, Sean. It's not safe," she cried up to him. He turned, smiled his biggest smile, waved and then disappeared over the side. They all ran toward the sea, desparate to see where he had gone. Heedless of potential harm, Lin ran out into the waves. She could feel the tug of them on her, trying to pull her down into their depths, but she did not have time for their games. She had to find her boy. She pushed her way past the grasping breakers, grabbing at outcroppings until she rounded the bend and saw him. He had squatted down at the very edge and was holding onto one rock and leaning out toward a small standing rock just barely out of his reach. The sun glinted off the small rock's surface, reflecting white and brilliant. He let his hand extend out to fingertip length, scrambling with his free fingers. Then he must have caught hold of something because he reeled himself back in. His smile was even larger now, if that was possible. He stood, precariously on his rocky outpost and waved. He was saying something, but she could not make out what it was. She made frantic gestures to say get down, be safe. He turned and clambered back the way he had come, triumph written over the lines of his back.
When he emerged, he was simultaneously swamped by all three relatives. Hugs, tears and recriminations flowed together as naturally as milk and tea. When they finally let go, he slipped his hand in his pocket and held out his treasure. "You have to check this out, Ma," he said with a smile. Then his face simply froze in place as he stared at something behind her.
Seeing them together and laughing was like being given the whole world tied up in a great big bow. Actually it was far better than that, but she could not find any words to express how wonderful it felt. This was her world, her Mom and her Boys. Yes, they deserved capital letters, always. They filled her to the brim with pure joy. She had forgotten how good it could feel to, well, to feel.
Embracing and being embraced in turn, she felt the total contentment of having all that she loved with her. "Life is good," she thought. They took the trip back to the cottage in a jumble of conversation, catching up on everything that had been happening since she had left. It had only been three weeks, but it seemed like so much longer. Ian had completed his semester exams and would only have one more term before he had his degree in his pocket. He was still seeing Emma and had even arranged a few times to talk with her in advance during the vacation. He was hoping that the family would be okay with fitting them into the schedule. The best news of all was that he had been selected for a paying internship and was itching to get back and start the new venture. As he explained about the team he would be working for and their vision for the development of a futuristic game that had its roots in Celtic lore, she smiled. It seemed he planned to turn the visit into a bit of a working holiday. Sean had also just wrapped up a semester as well. He was half-way through his sophomore year at his college preparatory school, and still loving it. He was particularly enjoying the Latin class he had started and was fascinated with breaking words down to their root forms. Seemed like the whole family had "roots" on their minds, as her Mom had some new lineage to track down relative to their own family's Irish heritage. Perhaps this time they would get a little closer to the mystery. Were they in fact Protestant descendants? Or did some enterprising young lad running from the famine claim the name at Ellis Island? It was a question they had been pondering for quite some time.
The drive passed very quickly and they were at the cottage in what seemed like no time at all. She ushered them in and showed them around. Over a quick lunch of brown bread, cheese and seafood chowder, she told them about her wounded bird. She skipped over the part about spending the night in the cavern and the eerily beautiful song of her dreams. Sean was fascinated and wanted to go with her to tend it after lunch. With some misgivings, she agreed to let him go with her. After washing up and putting things away, she packed her bag with the essentials. Ian and her Mom decided to come along too, so they set off together in high spirits.
The walk there was peaceful enough, if you didn't count listening to the two boys verbally spar. They always seemed to need to be tugging at each other. It was playful, but all the same, it carried that rough edge that boys have. She supposed in an earlier time they would have pulled out the wooden swords and shields and had a round of it. Smiling at this thought, she led them onward. When her Mom got a good look at the necessary climb, she almost decided not to go the rest of the way. But the boys pursuaded her. Lin gave her the gloves she had with her and pointing out the handholds, let Ian lead them up toward the crevice entry.
The climb was not as difficult as it looked, certainly not as breath-defying as she remembered from that first night. Using the flashlight Ian led them through the small twisting interior path and out into the central chamber. Lin slipped the pack off and pulled out the ball-retriever. She explained what she needed to do and asked everyone to stay where they were for a moment. She went out to the ledge and surprised herself by making a clean and simple retrieval. She did not pull much, but she did get enough vegetation to make a decent meal for her friend. Coming back in, she found that the family had seen the swans. They were keeping their distance, though, and that was good. She got out the rest of the supplies, slipping the ointment and fresh bandages into her pocket and began to hum.
They watched as she made her way to the wounded bird. She was surprised when the other birds simply watched and made no protest. That long, graceful neck rose and he looked at her, the single black eye regarding her eloquently. She offered a strand of weed and he took it quickly. His appetite was up, that must be a good sign. She took off the old bandage. The wound did not look infected, but it had also not yet started to knit back together. She would have to think about a plaster of some kind, perhaps sutures? She did not like the idea of trying to stitch the bird, even if he would let her do that. She might make a mistake that would cost him his ability to fly. She washed, dried and re-bandaged the wing. Ian and her Mom had come in closer to watch her and the birds had not made any protest. "Progress?" she wondered. It was not until she had completed her ministrations that she realized that Sean was missing.
They searched the cavern for him. There were not really that many places for a boy his size to hide. At almost six feet he would not fit into any of the tiny nooks in the space. She went out on the ledge and called for him while her mother and Ian retraced their steps through the crevice passage. It felt wrong to yell here. The echo would be too loud, so they whispered for him and got no response. Out on the ledge, clear of the cavern's chamber, she raised her voice. "Sean, you little beast, where are you?" she called.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a hint of movement. She turned and looked up. There he was scrambling over the lip where she had clung to keep from falling into the sea, and then he was gone from view. "Come back," she called. She could hear little rocks tumbling above her. She heard him grunt as if he had hit something hard, then more scrambling sounds. Frustrated, she made her way back through the cavern and out the crevice passage, hoping to catch a glimpse of him from the other side. Ian and her mother were standing down on the strand, their hands shielding their eyes and staring at the rock formation that was the cavern's outer shell. There, scampering on top, was Sean. He seemed totally fixated on something. He was working his way down the side of the formation, heading toward the sea.
"You have to come down, Sean. It's not safe," she cried up to him. He turned, smiled his biggest smile, waved and then disappeared over the side. They all ran toward the sea, desparate to see where he had gone. Heedless of potential harm, Lin ran out into the waves. She could feel the tug of them on her, trying to pull her down into their depths, but she did not have time for their games. She had to find her boy. She pushed her way past the grasping breakers, grabbing at outcroppings until she rounded the bend and saw him. He had squatted down at the very edge and was holding onto one rock and leaning out toward a small standing rock just barely out of his reach. The sun glinted off the small rock's surface, reflecting white and brilliant. He let his hand extend out to fingertip length, scrambling with his free fingers. Then he must have caught hold of something because he reeled himself back in. His smile was even larger now, if that was possible. He stood, precariously on his rocky outpost and waved. He was saying something, but she could not make out what it was. She made frantic gestures to say get down, be safe. He turned and clambered back the way he had come, triumph written over the lines of his back.
When he emerged, he was simultaneously swamped by all three relatives. Hugs, tears and recriminations flowed together as naturally as milk and tea. When they finally let go, he slipped his hand in his pocket and held out his treasure. "You have to check this out, Ma," he said with a smile. Then his face simply froze in place as he stared at something behind her.
Participles and Portents (11)
On Greetings from Old Friends
He was tired. He was tired of being in the shop, of being by himself, but more importantly, he was tired of being with himself. He pulled on his sweater, grabbed a light jacket as a precaution and locked up. He should probably keep the shop open but just now he did not care about the state of the economy, his or anyone else's. He needed to walk.
He did his best not to catch the eyes of those he passed along the village streets. The last thing he wanted to do was to get stranded in idle conversation. He made it down to the paths and found himself automatically turning toward her cottage. He stopped abruptly and reversed directions. He had no idea where she might be, but running into her was also not what he wanted to do. He let his feet pick a path through the rough rocks, eventually drifting down closer to the shore and the sea. He wandered without thought for time or place, content to let the scent and sound of the sea fill him. A wave pitched hard on the rock outcropping near him, drawing his head up quickly. A sharp stab of light made him blink and stumble, almost fall in fact. There was something oddly familiar about this particular piece of the coast. He drew back from the rocky shoreline and headed toward an inland path, the wind playing in his ear like miniature tin-whistles riffling off a faery reel.
The hand on his back was so sudden, he almost let out a scream. Instead he spun on his heel, lost his footing and landed, sharply on the ground, twisting his wrist in the process. Looking up he could make out a face, shot-full round by that same glaring light from the sea. It was so bright that all he could really discern were crinkled eyes, lips and wisps of hair that seemed to be dancing to the reel on the wind. He put up a hand to block out the light and gasped a bit at the pain in his wrist.
"Ya' poor dear, you've taken a bit of a fall now. Haven't ye?" said the figure in the light.
He recognized that voice. It could not possibly be her, but it sounded just like the old crone from his past. The one who had insisted he had been taken by the faeries. He pulled away from the sound.
"Now, don't be shrinkin' away from me, lad. Ye have less to fear from me than ye do from yourself, I'm thinkin'," she said. Then she took his twisted wrist in her hand and examined it, clucking a bit as she turned her head from side to side. She took an old silk from her pocket and bound it up, twisting the silk through his fingers and around his thumb like an expert physician. "Keep that on for a day or two and I'm sure you'll no have any trouble with that."
He just stared at her. "I can see ye have not improved your wit since last we chatted. Vera well, I won't take much time then. Ye need to keep that lass away from the caverns. Her bairns musn't be allowed down to the shore. The Fair Folk have their ways, and what's fair to them doesn't always sit well in the world of men. I can be no plainer than that, Roary James. You see to keeping things right on this side." She patted him on the knee in what seemed like a fond manner and pulled herself up. Then she simply walked away. She did not even look back, just let herself get swallowed by the giant haze of light. He followed her as long as he could before the light made him deflect his gaze. He thought he might rest there in the sun on the rock, but he felt a pressing urgency to get back to town. He eased up and began the journey back.
As night began to fall around him, he accepted the fact that he was lost. He did not know where he was. He had been wandering for the last two hours and he did not seem to be getting any closer to the village and had not found any landmarks that pointed out the direction. This made no sense to him. He had lived here his whole life. A person does not get lost on the shores of his own life. It just wasn't possible. Still, there he was, all turned about, with a madwoman's ramblings in his head and her scarf on his wrist. with no idea of how to get home. He looked about for a bit of shelter and finding nothing better settled at the base of a small rise. At least it acted as a bit of wind break, he thought, as he settled his jacket around his shoulders and tucked his legs up tight. It was going to be a long night.
He woke to a beautiful, soft sun-tinted morning. A perfect sky and the purr of the sea behind him. He stretched, instantly reminding himself of his wrist by twisting in the wrong direction. He stood to get his bearings and was surprised to find that he had slept right next to the path to the village. He had been less than 10 minutes away from his own bed and had slept out here. He was definitely a bit touched in the head. Hopefully no one had marked his absence and he would have no explaining to do. He did not see how it would be possible to convince anyone that he had experienced any of what had occurred out on the shore. He fingered the silk scarf, but rejected it as proof. It could have come from anyone. No, best he keep the latest bit of fantasy to himself or they would be wanting to lock him up for treatment.
He slipped into town and into the shop, leaving the closed sign out. He thought about making some tea, but stretched out on the little cot instead and was soon fast asleep.
He was tired. He was tired of being in the shop, of being by himself, but more importantly, he was tired of being with himself. He pulled on his sweater, grabbed a light jacket as a precaution and locked up. He should probably keep the shop open but just now he did not care about the state of the economy, his or anyone else's. He needed to walk.
He did his best not to catch the eyes of those he passed along the village streets. The last thing he wanted to do was to get stranded in idle conversation. He made it down to the paths and found himself automatically turning toward her cottage. He stopped abruptly and reversed directions. He had no idea where she might be, but running into her was also not what he wanted to do. He let his feet pick a path through the rough rocks, eventually drifting down closer to the shore and the sea. He wandered without thought for time or place, content to let the scent and sound of the sea fill him. A wave pitched hard on the rock outcropping near him, drawing his head up quickly. A sharp stab of light made him blink and stumble, almost fall in fact. There was something oddly familiar about this particular piece of the coast. He drew back from the rocky shoreline and headed toward an inland path, the wind playing in his ear like miniature tin-whistles riffling off a faery reel.
The hand on his back was so sudden, he almost let out a scream. Instead he spun on his heel, lost his footing and landed, sharply on the ground, twisting his wrist in the process. Looking up he could make out a face, shot-full round by that same glaring light from the sea. It was so bright that all he could really discern were crinkled eyes, lips and wisps of hair that seemed to be dancing to the reel on the wind. He put up a hand to block out the light and gasped a bit at the pain in his wrist.
"Ya' poor dear, you've taken a bit of a fall now. Haven't ye?" said the figure in the light.
He recognized that voice. It could not possibly be her, but it sounded just like the old crone from his past. The one who had insisted he had been taken by the faeries. He pulled away from the sound.
"Now, don't be shrinkin' away from me, lad. Ye have less to fear from me than ye do from yourself, I'm thinkin'," she said. Then she took his twisted wrist in her hand and examined it, clucking a bit as she turned her head from side to side. She took an old silk from her pocket and bound it up, twisting the silk through his fingers and around his thumb like an expert physician. "Keep that on for a day or two and I'm sure you'll no have any trouble with that."
He just stared at her. "I can see ye have not improved your wit since last we chatted. Vera well, I won't take much time then. Ye need to keep that lass away from the caverns. Her bairns musn't be allowed down to the shore. The Fair Folk have their ways, and what's fair to them doesn't always sit well in the world of men. I can be no plainer than that, Roary James. You see to keeping things right on this side." She patted him on the knee in what seemed like a fond manner and pulled herself up. Then she simply walked away. She did not even look back, just let herself get swallowed by the giant haze of light. He followed her as long as he could before the light made him deflect his gaze. He thought he might rest there in the sun on the rock, but he felt a pressing urgency to get back to town. He eased up and began the journey back.
As night began to fall around him, he accepted the fact that he was lost. He did not know where he was. He had been wandering for the last two hours and he did not seem to be getting any closer to the village and had not found any landmarks that pointed out the direction. This made no sense to him. He had lived here his whole life. A person does not get lost on the shores of his own life. It just wasn't possible. Still, there he was, all turned about, with a madwoman's ramblings in his head and her scarf on his wrist. with no idea of how to get home. He looked about for a bit of shelter and finding nothing better settled at the base of a small rise. At least it acted as a bit of wind break, he thought, as he settled his jacket around his shoulders and tucked his legs up tight. It was going to be a long night.
He woke to a beautiful, soft sun-tinted morning. A perfect sky and the purr of the sea behind him. He stretched, instantly reminding himself of his wrist by twisting in the wrong direction. He stood to get his bearings and was surprised to find that he had slept right next to the path to the village. He had been less than 10 minutes away from his own bed and had slept out here. He was definitely a bit touched in the head. Hopefully no one had marked his absence and he would have no explaining to do. He did not see how it would be possible to convince anyone that he had experienced any of what had occurred out on the shore. He fingered the silk scarf, but rejected it as proof. It could have come from anyone. No, best he keep the latest bit of fantasy to himself or they would be wanting to lock him up for treatment.
He slipped into town and into the shop, leaving the closed sign out. He thought about making some tea, but stretched out on the little cot instead and was soon fast asleep.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Participles and Portents (10)
Dew and Substitutes
There was so much to do in preparation for her family's arrival that it was easy to push the confrontation with Roary out of her mind. She made it a point to visit the cavern early the following day. She managed the "weed-n-feed" with a bit more style this time and was happy to note that the bird seemed to take her presence almost for granted.
In the village she picked up extra foodstuffs, making the staff laugh when she talked about her younger son's love of blueberry bagels. They did not have any of those, but they did have plenty of blueberry scones, so she picked up a few of those, hoping the substitute would work. She purchased some fresh coffee for her mother and an extra brick of the fine aged red cheddar for her eldest son. As she walked back through the village, she made mental notes of the shops that she wanted to bring each person to, pausing briefly at the thought of the antique bookstore. Pity to skip that one, Ian would love it. However, after everything that had come to pass, she did not think it would be a good idea to spend anymore time with Mr. Roary James or expose her family to his rather odd fancies.
She made her way back to the cottage and spent the day scrubbing and preparing. She would need to be at the airport very early the next morning so things needed to be just right before she went to bed for the evening. She was just sitting down to a welcome cup of tea, long after cleaning the last dinner dish, when she realized she had not made plans for taking care of the bird. Well, there was nothing she could do about it now. She wasn't able to walk on water, so she would have to go get her family and then take care of it on the 'morrow.
She tamped down the fire in the sitting room and took a last tour through the other sleeping chambers, plumping pillows and spreading the quilts to make sure the beds looked inviting. As she turned to leave the boys' room, her toe kicked something just sticking out from under the corner of one of the beds. She stooped to pick it up in the faint light. "Faith in faeries," she whispered, "it's my notebook."
"How in blazes did it get in here?" she thought. She did not spend time in these guest rooms. She had not even made the beds or bothered with any decorations until today. No, it wasn't her doing that the book had made it into this room, of that much she was certain. "But how, or who?" she pondered. She went back to the kitchen and poured out the tea. This required a stronger libation. She took down the Tullamore Dew, poured herself a couple of fingers worth and carried the book and the cup off to her sleeping chamber. The room was really quite pretty when everything was in its place. The light green, pale amber and yellow quilt blended well with the oaken wood tones. And the prize piece of furniture, the intricately carved and well worn rocker, was simply the most beautiful piece she had ever seen. For some reason it was easier to cover it than to see it sitting there unused and apparently unwanted. She pulled the quilt off the bed and curled up in the rocker with the notebook and her whisky. She had a great view of the night sky from this vantage point.
She rocked and sipped. Thinking back on the last few days, remembering the rain the sea and the song, she felt somehow wind-tossed and timeless, on the brink of exhalation. Then she crashed forward into the combined vision of the broken bird and Roary's concerned face as he told her that she had no idea what she had gotten herself into. She dropped the quilt and stood abruptly. He had no right to invade here or, for that matter, in the cavern or anywhere at all.
Yet that night she found herself reading the book he had added to her purchases, like a moth to the flame.
There was so much to do in preparation for her family's arrival that it was easy to push the confrontation with Roary out of her mind. She made it a point to visit the cavern early the following day. She managed the "weed-n-feed" with a bit more style this time and was happy to note that the bird seemed to take her presence almost for granted.
In the village she picked up extra foodstuffs, making the staff laugh when she talked about her younger son's love of blueberry bagels. They did not have any of those, but they did have plenty of blueberry scones, so she picked up a few of those, hoping the substitute would work. She purchased some fresh coffee for her mother and an extra brick of the fine aged red cheddar for her eldest son. As she walked back through the village, she made mental notes of the shops that she wanted to bring each person to, pausing briefly at the thought of the antique bookstore. Pity to skip that one, Ian would love it. However, after everything that had come to pass, she did not think it would be a good idea to spend anymore time with Mr. Roary James or expose her family to his rather odd fancies.
She made her way back to the cottage and spent the day scrubbing and preparing. She would need to be at the airport very early the next morning so things needed to be just right before she went to bed for the evening. She was just sitting down to a welcome cup of tea, long after cleaning the last dinner dish, when she realized she had not made plans for taking care of the bird. Well, there was nothing she could do about it now. She wasn't able to walk on water, so she would have to go get her family and then take care of it on the 'morrow.
She tamped down the fire in the sitting room and took a last tour through the other sleeping chambers, plumping pillows and spreading the quilts to make sure the beds looked inviting. As she turned to leave the boys' room, her toe kicked something just sticking out from under the corner of one of the beds. She stooped to pick it up in the faint light. "Faith in faeries," she whispered, "it's my notebook."
"How in blazes did it get in here?" she thought. She did not spend time in these guest rooms. She had not even made the beds or bothered with any decorations until today. No, it wasn't her doing that the book had made it into this room, of that much she was certain. "But how, or who?" she pondered. She went back to the kitchen and poured out the tea. This required a stronger libation. She took down the Tullamore Dew, poured herself a couple of fingers worth and carried the book and the cup off to her sleeping chamber. The room was really quite pretty when everything was in its place. The light green, pale amber and yellow quilt blended well with the oaken wood tones. And the prize piece of furniture, the intricately carved and well worn rocker, was simply the most beautiful piece she had ever seen. For some reason it was easier to cover it than to see it sitting there unused and apparently unwanted. She pulled the quilt off the bed and curled up in the rocker with the notebook and her whisky. She had a great view of the night sky from this vantage point.
She rocked and sipped. Thinking back on the last few days, remembering the rain the sea and the song, she felt somehow wind-tossed and timeless, on the brink of exhalation. Then she crashed forward into the combined vision of the broken bird and Roary's concerned face as he told her that she had no idea what she had gotten herself into. She dropped the quilt and stood abruptly. He had no right to invade here or, for that matter, in the cavern or anywhere at all.
Yet that night she found herself reading the book he had added to her purchases, like a moth to the flame.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Participles and Portents (9)
Fire and Regrets
She was really just too blasted angry to care what he had to say. She stuffed her gear back into the pack and pointedly ignored him. Picking up the flashlight she set off to the crevice and the fine clean air that awaited her; clean because it would not reek of Roary, damn the man, James.
He watched her packing, her moves efficient and full of anger. He knew there was no point in talking to her, yet he felt the need to make her understand. She simply had no idea what she had gotten herself into. Crazy, stupid Americans, they simply had no idea of what could happen in this wild and untamed land. He watched as she heaved the pack onto her back and strode off with the flashlight. There was nothing else he could do, he had followed her this far, he would simply have to continue. Glancing back at the sleeping bird and his calm companions, he sighed. At least some peace seemed to be coming from all of the upheaval. Whether or not it would remain peaceful was something no one would be able to predict.
She could hear him behind her. It really was a shame that he did not have the decency to wait until she was clear of the area before coming out. He may have followed her in, but he most certainly should have had the courtesy to wait and not be seen following her out. She picked up speed in the hopes that she could get out and scramble down the rock and over the strand quickly enough to avoid another conversation with him. She made her way out and onto the ledge, secured the flashlight and was happy to note that the tide had not yet rolled in. She would not be stuck here with him. Breathing in her relief, she pulled on her gloves and began the climb down. She went a bit too fast, lost her footing just near the end and landed in an ungainly heap on the rock. "Blast it all to Hell," she grumbled. Getting up she checked to make sure she was all in one piece (with the day she was having, it seemed likely that she would break something). Grateful to find all the parts in working order, if a bit bruised, she took off at a brisk speed for the cottage. When she reached the path she looked back, smiling when she saw him just managing to find his own purchase on the rocks before the strand. Fabulous, she would get back to the cottage well before he could gain on her.
"That woman moves like quicksilver," he thought. There would be no catching her now, which meant going to the cottage and trying to get her to agree to talk to him. He wasn't sure if he could face her in that space. Would she be able to see his guilt in his face? He began to wish fervently that he had not read any of that little green note book. He knew far more about Ms. Lin Carroll than he should. He was certain he knew more than she would ever tell another soul. Why he had not stopped reading when he realized what the little book was he could not explain. He was just captivated by the words and the drawings there. The way she used symbols, calligraphy and language to express so much more than the words alone could do was hard to resist.
It struck him then that it was not at all strange that the bird had let her try to heal it. There was a certain uniqueness about her that drew trust from a person. And he had more than defiled any reasonable definition of trust when he read that little book of hers. He found himself at the cottage door, his hand poised to knock. He stood there, suspended for a moment, then he turned and took the path to the village. He had to talk with her, but on neutral ground, preferably in daylight. He was not going to face her in the cottage over her firelight. Besides, he had a great deal of research to do if he was going to try to explain what he thought she had stumbled into. Enough to see him through the night at least, or at least he hoped it was enough to see him through the night.
She was really just too blasted angry to care what he had to say. She stuffed her gear back into the pack and pointedly ignored him. Picking up the flashlight she set off to the crevice and the fine clean air that awaited her; clean because it would not reek of Roary, damn the man, James.
He watched her packing, her moves efficient and full of anger. He knew there was no point in talking to her, yet he felt the need to make her understand. She simply had no idea what she had gotten herself into. Crazy, stupid Americans, they simply had no idea of what could happen in this wild and untamed land. He watched as she heaved the pack onto her back and strode off with the flashlight. There was nothing else he could do, he had followed her this far, he would simply have to continue. Glancing back at the sleeping bird and his calm companions, he sighed. At least some peace seemed to be coming from all of the upheaval. Whether or not it would remain peaceful was something no one would be able to predict.
She could hear him behind her. It really was a shame that he did not have the decency to wait until she was clear of the area before coming out. He may have followed her in, but he most certainly should have had the courtesy to wait and not be seen following her out. She picked up speed in the hopes that she could get out and scramble down the rock and over the strand quickly enough to avoid another conversation with him. She made her way out and onto the ledge, secured the flashlight and was happy to note that the tide had not yet rolled in. She would not be stuck here with him. Breathing in her relief, she pulled on her gloves and began the climb down. She went a bit too fast, lost her footing just near the end and landed in an ungainly heap on the rock. "Blast it all to Hell," she grumbled. Getting up she checked to make sure she was all in one piece (with the day she was having, it seemed likely that she would break something). Grateful to find all the parts in working order, if a bit bruised, she took off at a brisk speed for the cottage. When she reached the path she looked back, smiling when she saw him just managing to find his own purchase on the rocks before the strand. Fabulous, she would get back to the cottage well before he could gain on her.
"That woman moves like quicksilver," he thought. There would be no catching her now, which meant going to the cottage and trying to get her to agree to talk to him. He wasn't sure if he could face her in that space. Would she be able to see his guilt in his face? He began to wish fervently that he had not read any of that little green note book. He knew far more about Ms. Lin Carroll than he should. He was certain he knew more than she would ever tell another soul. Why he had not stopped reading when he realized what the little book was he could not explain. He was just captivated by the words and the drawings there. The way she used symbols, calligraphy and language to express so much more than the words alone could do was hard to resist.
It struck him then that it was not at all strange that the bird had let her try to heal it. There was a certain uniqueness about her that drew trust from a person. And he had more than defiled any reasonable definition of trust when he read that little book of hers. He found himself at the cottage door, his hand poised to knock. He stood there, suspended for a moment, then he turned and took the path to the village. He had to talk with her, but on neutral ground, preferably in daylight. He was not going to face her in the cottage over her firelight. Besides, he had a great deal of research to do if he was going to try to explain what he thought she had stumbled into. Enough to see him through the night at least, or at least he hoped it was enough to see him through the night.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Participles and Portents (8)
It's All About the Giving
The weather was wonderful, just a slight breeze and a nice lift of warmth from the sun. She wondered if the layers would be too much, but thought perhaps the cavern would have a bit of chill, shielded from the warmth of the days as it was. Making her way down the path to the shoreline and across the treacherous rocks, she did her best to shed herself of the thoughts that swirled unbidden in her mind. She needed to just let go. The note book was lost. Perhaps irretreivably, and if that was so, it was just one more loss along the road. She would just have to learn to live with that. She had dealt with far more, she would deal with this too.
She found her way to the small strip that separated her from what had been her bit of shelter and had turned out to be far more the night before. She slipped the pack onto both shoulders and made her way up to the ledge where she had hidden from the rain. Peering up through the sun, she could just make out the small edge that hid the entrance to the cavern. She slipped the backpack around and drew out the flashlight, slipping it into her front jacket pocket. Then she fastened the pack back on and began the climb, pleased that she had remembered her gloves this time. They made the climbing a bit more difficult as it was harder to feel the rock beneath her hands, but they protected her already torn palms and that was worth the extra effort to secure her hold. Reaching the entrance, she said a quick prayer that all would be as right as it could be when she reached the cove, flicked on the light and began the return journey.
The larger beam allowed her to see her path more clearly. She was surprised to note how lucky she had been not to stumble on the rough hewn path or cut herself on the jutting edges of the walls along the way. Perhaps it was a good thing that she had only the penlight to guide her the night before, else she might have gone no farther than this passage in waiting out the storm. She made it to the cavern and set down the pack. She took out the gauze, plaster and ointment and set them to the side. Then she pulled out the golf-ball retreiver. It seemed like an even crazier idea now that she was here. But with nothing else to work with, she was going to try it. She made her way down to the cove, holding her breath in anticipation of what she might find.
The bird was still there. She could just make out the slow breathing in the rise and fall of its shape as it lay with its head still turned to tuck under the wounded wing. She skirted around the ledge that rose around the pebbled beach-like area and out as far toward the surf as she dared. Looking up she strove to find a place to hold onto. She needed something to anchor one hand while she leaned out with the retriever in the hopes that it would catch some vegetation and drag it back to her. She smiled. In all the times she had gone retrieveing balls with her Dad, she had never failed to come up with weed from the bottom of the ponds. He, on the other hand, usually came up with the prizes, the sought after golf balls. She could remember him standing at the side of the water-hazards holding up ball after ball, triumphant. As if he had struck gold. That wide lop-sided grin on his face. Wiping a slow tear from her cheek, she grabbed at the upper rock ledge and leaned out. "Give us a hand, Da," she whispered, and she stuck the retriever down into the sea with its maw open. Holding tight to the rock ledge and leaning out as far as she could in order to get the tool as deep as she could, she let it sink in, then closed its grip. She could feel herself starting to slip on the wet edge. She struggled to regain her footing, her feet sliding on the wet rock. Pulling as hard as she could with her one anchored arm she became alarmed as her fingers slipped there too. This was not the place to take a swim. The sea was far too active. She dug in with the tips of her fingers and willed the toes of her boots to hit something, anything that they could hold ground against. Just as she was sure she was going in, she felt her finger tips find a slight groove in the rock ledge and dug in. Her body swaying wildly at this point, she swung herself backward and landed, tool in hand, hard on her backside on the rock ledge. Her head banged against the rock wall, but she didn't care. She wasn't in the sea, she hadn't lost her ball-retreiver, life was good. When her breathing had recovered, she opened her eyes to check her "catch."
"Thank you, Da," she said to the wind and the sea spray. She had pulled up a small fist full of sea weed. Not enough for more than a day's feeding, but certainly more than her bird-friend had seen of late. She gingerly pulled herself up and carefully made her way back to the pebbled beach. She used the tool to present the food to the bird, laying it just in reach of it, should it unwind that graceful neck. It didn't move at all. Concerned she ran for the medicinal aid she had brought, added a bottle of water and went back to him.
She approached perhaps too fast. She got no nearer than 5 feet when the cacophany began. It was so loud she fell to her knees in an effort to cover her ears and not drop what she carried. His two guardians were shrieking a clear warning to stay away. She stared at them plaintively. Couldn't they see their friend needed help?
"Just what the Hell do you think you are doing here? You canna be touchin' that bird."
Her head swiveled so fast it could have come right off her neck. What the blazes was he doing here?
She would have recognized the voice anywhere after this morning, but here in this sacred cathedral, here it was very wrong.
"It is you who doesn't belong here. And you have no idea what I can and cannot do. Just stay out of my way."
Roary was on her so fast it seemed like he simply appeared from the far side of the cavern's darkness to be next to her there. He took her by the shoulders and shook her, none too gently. "You have no idea what you are into, Lass."
"I think I do. This swan needs help and I intend to provide it. Now leave off." She stared at him. The stubborn tilt of her chin was nothing in comparison to the absolute iron will reflected in her eyes. She calmly moved each of his hands from her shoulders, one by one, as if they were a taint that needed cleansing. Then she stood and moved away from him. She started to hum the chant from the night before. He knelt there as she had left him, transfixed by the sounds she was making.
The wounded bird lifted his elegant neck just enough to give her the single-eyed stare of the night before. She went to him without hesitation, lifting a strand of the seaweed and offering it to him. He took it from her, the beak careful not to nip her fingers. It was clear there was some sort of truce between them, a trust or something. She unwrapped the bandage from the night before. Roary saw this for the first time and gradually began to realize that she had already been here. The questions about the cove and the book about the birds made sense now, at least the book about the birds did. He watched as she washed the wound and used the flashlight to look at it more thoroughly, continuing to hum as she did so. He did not even notice that he had begun to hum along with her. In fact, he did not even notice that the other swans had settled down into the cove and were no longer shrieking. They were simply watching, keenly watching what was transpiring. She lathed ointment onto some gauze, dried the area with more gauze and bandaged the wound, tying it up as she had before. She looked the bird in the eye. "You need to eat you know and you should keep the wing dry. I can come tomorrow and try to put a plaster on this. According to the book I read, this should heal in a few days, maybe a week if we keep it clean and help it stitch back together. I think you will be able to fly again then. I don't know why, but I think you understand much of what I am trying to tell you. I just want you to know, I promise that I will give and do whatever it takes to help you out of this plight." The swan raised its head a bit higher and looked at her a bit longer and perhaps more curiously than it had before. They shared a long glance. She was tempted to pat its beautiful neck, but did not dare that intimacy. She simply nodded and then packed her things and moved away. When she had retreated, she was happy to note that he was eating at least a bit of her offering.
The smile lasted until she turned to see Roary sitting there.
"Why are you here?" she demanded.
"I followed you," he said simply.
"What?"
"I followed you. All that nonsense about birds and the interest in the area, it intrigued me. I wanted to know what you were doing. So I followed you. I never would have guessed in a million years that you would be mixed up in tale over 300 years old."
"You are a very strange man, and a stalker to boot. I would appreciate it if you would just go. I did not call you and I don't need you, as you can plainly see. If you go now and leave me in peace, I won't need to talk to the Guarda about your behavior."
"Ah, but you do need me. You have no idea what you have stumbled into. And you certainly don't know the geasa you have just pledged or what it could mean to you," he said mysteriously.
The weather was wonderful, just a slight breeze and a nice lift of warmth from the sun. She wondered if the layers would be too much, but thought perhaps the cavern would have a bit of chill, shielded from the warmth of the days as it was. Making her way down the path to the shoreline and across the treacherous rocks, she did her best to shed herself of the thoughts that swirled unbidden in her mind. She needed to just let go. The note book was lost. Perhaps irretreivably, and if that was so, it was just one more loss along the road. She would just have to learn to live with that. She had dealt with far more, she would deal with this too.
She found her way to the small strip that separated her from what had been her bit of shelter and had turned out to be far more the night before. She slipped the pack onto both shoulders and made her way up to the ledge where she had hidden from the rain. Peering up through the sun, she could just make out the small edge that hid the entrance to the cavern. She slipped the backpack around and drew out the flashlight, slipping it into her front jacket pocket. Then she fastened the pack back on and began the climb, pleased that she had remembered her gloves this time. They made the climbing a bit more difficult as it was harder to feel the rock beneath her hands, but they protected her already torn palms and that was worth the extra effort to secure her hold. Reaching the entrance, she said a quick prayer that all would be as right as it could be when she reached the cove, flicked on the light and began the return journey.
The larger beam allowed her to see her path more clearly. She was surprised to note how lucky she had been not to stumble on the rough hewn path or cut herself on the jutting edges of the walls along the way. Perhaps it was a good thing that she had only the penlight to guide her the night before, else she might have gone no farther than this passage in waiting out the storm. She made it to the cavern and set down the pack. She took out the gauze, plaster and ointment and set them to the side. Then she pulled out the golf-ball retreiver. It seemed like an even crazier idea now that she was here. But with nothing else to work with, she was going to try it. She made her way down to the cove, holding her breath in anticipation of what she might find.
The bird was still there. She could just make out the slow breathing in the rise and fall of its shape as it lay with its head still turned to tuck under the wounded wing. She skirted around the ledge that rose around the pebbled beach-like area and out as far toward the surf as she dared. Looking up she strove to find a place to hold onto. She needed something to anchor one hand while she leaned out with the retriever in the hopes that it would catch some vegetation and drag it back to her. She smiled. In all the times she had gone retrieveing balls with her Dad, she had never failed to come up with weed from the bottom of the ponds. He, on the other hand, usually came up with the prizes, the sought after golf balls. She could remember him standing at the side of the water-hazards holding up ball after ball, triumphant. As if he had struck gold. That wide lop-sided grin on his face. Wiping a slow tear from her cheek, she grabbed at the upper rock ledge and leaned out. "Give us a hand, Da," she whispered, and she stuck the retriever down into the sea with its maw open. Holding tight to the rock ledge and leaning out as far as she could in order to get the tool as deep as she could, she let it sink in, then closed its grip. She could feel herself starting to slip on the wet edge. She struggled to regain her footing, her feet sliding on the wet rock. Pulling as hard as she could with her one anchored arm she became alarmed as her fingers slipped there too. This was not the place to take a swim. The sea was far too active. She dug in with the tips of her fingers and willed the toes of her boots to hit something, anything that they could hold ground against. Just as she was sure she was going in, she felt her finger tips find a slight groove in the rock ledge and dug in. Her body swaying wildly at this point, she swung herself backward and landed, tool in hand, hard on her backside on the rock ledge. Her head banged against the rock wall, but she didn't care. She wasn't in the sea, she hadn't lost her ball-retreiver, life was good. When her breathing had recovered, she opened her eyes to check her "catch."
"Thank you, Da," she said to the wind and the sea spray. She had pulled up a small fist full of sea weed. Not enough for more than a day's feeding, but certainly more than her bird-friend had seen of late. She gingerly pulled herself up and carefully made her way back to the pebbled beach. She used the tool to present the food to the bird, laying it just in reach of it, should it unwind that graceful neck. It didn't move at all. Concerned she ran for the medicinal aid she had brought, added a bottle of water and went back to him.
She approached perhaps too fast. She got no nearer than 5 feet when the cacophany began. It was so loud she fell to her knees in an effort to cover her ears and not drop what she carried. His two guardians were shrieking a clear warning to stay away. She stared at them plaintively. Couldn't they see their friend needed help?
"Just what the Hell do you think you are doing here? You canna be touchin' that bird."
Her head swiveled so fast it could have come right off her neck. What the blazes was he doing here?
She would have recognized the voice anywhere after this morning, but here in this sacred cathedral, here it was very wrong.
"It is you who doesn't belong here. And you have no idea what I can and cannot do. Just stay out of my way."
Roary was on her so fast it seemed like he simply appeared from the far side of the cavern's darkness to be next to her there. He took her by the shoulders and shook her, none too gently. "You have no idea what you are into, Lass."
"I think I do. This swan needs help and I intend to provide it. Now leave off." She stared at him. The stubborn tilt of her chin was nothing in comparison to the absolute iron will reflected in her eyes. She calmly moved each of his hands from her shoulders, one by one, as if they were a taint that needed cleansing. Then she stood and moved away from him. She started to hum the chant from the night before. He knelt there as she had left him, transfixed by the sounds she was making.
The wounded bird lifted his elegant neck just enough to give her the single-eyed stare of the night before. She went to him without hesitation, lifting a strand of the seaweed and offering it to him. He took it from her, the beak careful not to nip her fingers. It was clear there was some sort of truce between them, a trust or something. She unwrapped the bandage from the night before. Roary saw this for the first time and gradually began to realize that she had already been here. The questions about the cove and the book about the birds made sense now, at least the book about the birds did. He watched as she washed the wound and used the flashlight to look at it more thoroughly, continuing to hum as she did so. He did not even notice that he had begun to hum along with her. In fact, he did not even notice that the other swans had settled down into the cove and were no longer shrieking. They were simply watching, keenly watching what was transpiring. She lathed ointment onto some gauze, dried the area with more gauze and bandaged the wound, tying it up as she had before. She looked the bird in the eye. "You need to eat you know and you should keep the wing dry. I can come tomorrow and try to put a plaster on this. According to the book I read, this should heal in a few days, maybe a week if we keep it clean and help it stitch back together. I think you will be able to fly again then. I don't know why, but I think you understand much of what I am trying to tell you. I just want you to know, I promise that I will give and do whatever it takes to help you out of this plight." The swan raised its head a bit higher and looked at her a bit longer and perhaps more curiously than it had before. They shared a long glance. She was tempted to pat its beautiful neck, but did not dare that intimacy. She simply nodded and then packed her things and moved away. When she had retreated, she was happy to note that he was eating at least a bit of her offering.
The smile lasted until she turned to see Roary sitting there.
"Why are you here?" she demanded.
"I followed you," he said simply.
"What?"
"I followed you. All that nonsense about birds and the interest in the area, it intrigued me. I wanted to know what you were doing. So I followed you. I never would have guessed in a million years that you would be mixed up in tale over 300 years old."
"You are a very strange man, and a stalker to boot. I would appreciate it if you would just go. I did not call you and I don't need you, as you can plainly see. If you go now and leave me in peace, I won't need to talk to the Guarda about your behavior."
"Ah, but you do need me. You have no idea what you have stumbled into. And you certainly don't know the geasa you have just pledged or what it could mean to you," he said mysteriously.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Participles and Portents (7)
Neither Lost Nor Found
She took her packages to the local pub, finding a small corner table near the window. It was a small but welcoming place that served all day, having most of its business in the afternoons and evenings when the locals came in for their pints. The seafood chowder was excellent and she could only hope their morning fare would be as good.
After placing her order she opened the wrapping and pulled out the book on birds. First things first, she needed to try to figure out how bad the injury was. She read through the basic anatomy section. From what she gathered, the area where the gash was located would definitely impair the swan's ability to take flight, at least until it was healed. She would need to get a better look at the wound to see if any of the ligatures were damaged to know more.
Next up, what would the bird need in terms of food? Here the news was worse. Wild swans apparently ate mostly underwater vegetation. "How in the world am I going to get that?" she wondered. The patron at the table gave her a sidelong glance. Apparently she had said that out loud. She would have to guard her thoughts a bit more carefully. She was getting too used to being alone and talking to herself, she supposed. She searched in her bag and took out a pen and fumbled around looking for her notebook. It wasn't there. She had left it back at the cottage. She tore off a piece of the wrapping paper and began to make a list of what she thought she would need. "Gauze, some sort of antibiotic ointment would probably be helpful, a plaster of some kind perhaps, maybe a rake or a golf-ball retreiver would make it possible to get some of the vegetation near the cove?" she mumbled as she made out her list. She glanced around. Not loud enough to be heard that time, thank goodness. It would really be helpful if she knew a veterinarian that she could turn to, but she was reluctant to try and find one. Something told her that this was not a task that the town folk would willingly help with. She couldn't quite put her finger on why, but she knew it wasn't something they would want to hear more about, much less participate in. She fingered Roary's card. No, she could not call him. He had been just a bit too odd over the book request. She drank her tea then, adding plenty of the milk that came with it and practically swallowing the scones whole. She had not realized just how hungry she was until the food had arrived. She added some provisions for herself to the list, paid her fare and left.
In the end almost everything was easy to purchase, though the man at the golf shop did think it was really odd that she wanted a ball retriever. Apparently there were not a lot of water hazards on the courses nearby. She supposed she was lucky that he even kept a few in stock. Armed with her purchases she made her way back to the cottage. She changed into layers of clothing and packed her backpack this time. She did not intend to spend the night, but she did want to go prepared. She added a full-sized flashlight, her camera and a tin of sardines to the bag at the last minute. Though why she even had sardines was beyond her. She did not like them, but the shopkeeper had insisted that they were a regular part of one's larder in this area so she had purchased them. She was just about out of the door when she remembered her note book. She set the pack down and went back to get it. She really did not want to go back to the little cove and not have a place to set down her thoughts.
She combed through all the paper on her desk, but it wasn't there. She sorted through the clothes that draped the old rocking chair, hunted through her larger jacket pockets, tore her travel cases apart, and still could not find it. "Where the bleeding hell did I put it?" she asked the room. She spent the next hour making a thorough search of the cottage and even the grounds surrounding the cottage. The little green notebook had simply disappeared. She went from concerned, to frantic, to crushed. That little book held the last two years of her life. Well, figuratively at least. She had kept that with her and recorded the best and worst of all that had passed - everything that had brought her to this place in this time. Now it was missing, probably through some self-destructive compulsion on her part, but still gone. She slid to the floor in front of the stove and let herself silently weep. So much had been lost, ripped apart and rearranged over the last 24 months, to lose this too, this small little bit of what was left, seemed like too much to bear. How was anyone supposed to find a way to absorb all of it? God, how was she going to find her way? Why did everyone seem to think she already had? She let the tears slide silently down her cheeks until they dried, leaving their remnants behind like empty river beds.
"Enough," she breathed, as she pushed herself off the floor. She rummaged around until she found some loose paper that had not yet been drawn or scribbled on, stuffed it haphazardly into the backpack and slung the pack almost violently over her shoulder. She had things to do that had nothing to do with a past she couldn't change. She strode out, pulling the door closed and locking the latch behind her. She had wasted a lot of time. If she was going to make it to the cove and back again tonight, she would have to hurry.
She took her packages to the local pub, finding a small corner table near the window. It was a small but welcoming place that served all day, having most of its business in the afternoons and evenings when the locals came in for their pints. The seafood chowder was excellent and she could only hope their morning fare would be as good.
After placing her order she opened the wrapping and pulled out the book on birds. First things first, she needed to try to figure out how bad the injury was. She read through the basic anatomy section. From what she gathered, the area where the gash was located would definitely impair the swan's ability to take flight, at least until it was healed. She would need to get a better look at the wound to see if any of the ligatures were damaged to know more.
Next up, what would the bird need in terms of food? Here the news was worse. Wild swans apparently ate mostly underwater vegetation. "How in the world am I going to get that?" she wondered. The patron at the table gave her a sidelong glance. Apparently she had said that out loud. She would have to guard her thoughts a bit more carefully. She was getting too used to being alone and talking to herself, she supposed. She searched in her bag and took out a pen and fumbled around looking for her notebook. It wasn't there. She had left it back at the cottage. She tore off a piece of the wrapping paper and began to make a list of what she thought she would need. "Gauze, some sort of antibiotic ointment would probably be helpful, a plaster of some kind perhaps, maybe a rake or a golf-ball retreiver would make it possible to get some of the vegetation near the cove?" she mumbled as she made out her list. She glanced around. Not loud enough to be heard that time, thank goodness. It would really be helpful if she knew a veterinarian that she could turn to, but she was reluctant to try and find one. Something told her that this was not a task that the town folk would willingly help with. She couldn't quite put her finger on why, but she knew it wasn't something they would want to hear more about, much less participate in. She fingered Roary's card. No, she could not call him. He had been just a bit too odd over the book request. She drank her tea then, adding plenty of the milk that came with it and practically swallowing the scones whole. She had not realized just how hungry she was until the food had arrived. She added some provisions for herself to the list, paid her fare and left.
In the end almost everything was easy to purchase, though the man at the golf shop did think it was really odd that she wanted a ball retriever. Apparently there were not a lot of water hazards on the courses nearby. She supposed she was lucky that he even kept a few in stock. Armed with her purchases she made her way back to the cottage. She changed into layers of clothing and packed her backpack this time. She did not intend to spend the night, but she did want to go prepared. She added a full-sized flashlight, her camera and a tin of sardines to the bag at the last minute. Though why she even had sardines was beyond her. She did not like them, but the shopkeeper had insisted that they were a regular part of one's larder in this area so she had purchased them. She was just about out of the door when she remembered her note book. She set the pack down and went back to get it. She really did not want to go back to the little cove and not have a place to set down her thoughts.
She combed through all the paper on her desk, but it wasn't there. She sorted through the clothes that draped the old rocking chair, hunted through her larger jacket pockets, tore her travel cases apart, and still could not find it. "Where the bleeding hell did I put it?" she asked the room. She spent the next hour making a thorough search of the cottage and even the grounds surrounding the cottage. The little green notebook had simply disappeared. She went from concerned, to frantic, to crushed. That little book held the last two years of her life. Well, figuratively at least. She had kept that with her and recorded the best and worst of all that had passed - everything that had brought her to this place in this time. Now it was missing, probably through some self-destructive compulsion on her part, but still gone. She slid to the floor in front of the stove and let herself silently weep. So much had been lost, ripped apart and rearranged over the last 24 months, to lose this too, this small little bit of what was left, seemed like too much to bear. How was anyone supposed to find a way to absorb all of it? God, how was she going to find her way? Why did everyone seem to think she already had? She let the tears slide silently down her cheeks until they dried, leaving their remnants behind like empty river beds.
"Enough," she breathed, as she pushed herself off the floor. She rummaged around until she found some loose paper that had not yet been drawn or scribbled on, stuffed it haphazardly into the backpack and slung the pack almost violently over her shoulder. She had things to do that had nothing to do with a past she couldn't change. She strode out, pulling the door closed and locking the latch behind her. She had wasted a lot of time. If she was going to make it to the cove and back again tonight, she would have to hurry.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Participles and Portents (6)
Odds and Ends
Stepping into the shop was like stepping back in time. How many old bookstores had she prowled? Too many perhaps. She breathed in the scent of timeless volumes: the dust, aged leather bindings and the distinct scent of binding and repair. "Someone is caring for this treasure," she thought. A sudden movement at the edge of her sight-line caught her attention and she was snapped from her reverie.
Tilting her head to the left, she was caught in the equally startled gaze of what must have been the proprietor. She felt transparent standing there, rather like a window. His eyes, so startling blue you could see the color from a distance, seemed to look straight through her. She wondered briefly if he could see the blood pounding in her veins, like the waves washing hard against the rocks along the shore, or if he simply saw the street beyond her. All in all, she would rather he saw the street. She realized he was speaking then, though she could not make out what he had said. It wasn't the deep brogue or the heavy bass-brushed tones of his voice. It was simply that somehow she was hearing the night's music again, standing there, trapped in his blue gaze.
He moved then, emerging from behind the sales desk and breaking the hold. She turned to the window, breathing deeply. She really needed more sleep and much, much less wine. She supposed that actually having that cup of tea might have helped as well, in addition to a much needed breakfast. She was tired and letting the events of the past hours affect her far too much. She set her shoulders, braced and squared them, then she turned to face him. He was actually a fine looking man, if you liked them on the lean side. His shoulders were a bit wider than you would expect for a man that thin. He had that wind-whipped, slightly curly hair that was common to the region and a face that made it clear he was a plantation-bred Irishman. Too much length in the nose and around the cheek to be pure Irish, that meant he almost had to be a blend of pure root with the transplants of English or Scottish along the line. She focused on what he was saying then. Yes, indeed he could be of service. She needed two items. A book about the history of the coast here, something that documented the ancient legends and mysteries of the area, and another about the anatomy and healing of large birds.
She watched with some amazement as his rather expressive face went from pensive, to intriqued, to troubled as she spoke. What, she wondered, could bring those emotive shadows to bear from such innocuous requests. Odd though the combination might be, it certainly was not a request that should trouble the shopkeeper. She waited for him to find his way through the stacks and return with a selection of books. He returned with four volumes. Two of the volumes dealt with legends about the area, a third was a book of Irish myth and legend and the fourth dealt directly with the biology of large birds. She handed him the first two and the final one for purchase. He raised one thick brow and added the fourth to her stack, ringing up only the purchase price of the three she had selected. "I'm thinking you'll be wantin' this last one, whether you know it or not," he said. Then he smiled at her and accepted her payment. He added his card to the package as he wrapped and tied the bundle. "If you find you need anything, anything at all, you can reach me easy enough."
She took the package from him as if it were made of glass, stepping backward to reach the door. This whole visit seemed oddly out of place, even perhaps set out of time. She slipped out the door and pulled his card free of the twine that held it in place. "Roary James, Antiquarian Books and Curios," she read. "Curious indeed," she thought.
Stepping into the shop was like stepping back in time. How many old bookstores had she prowled? Too many perhaps. She breathed in the scent of timeless volumes: the dust, aged leather bindings and the distinct scent of binding and repair. "Someone is caring for this treasure," she thought. A sudden movement at the edge of her sight-line caught her attention and she was snapped from her reverie.
Tilting her head to the left, she was caught in the equally startled gaze of what must have been the proprietor. She felt transparent standing there, rather like a window. His eyes, so startling blue you could see the color from a distance, seemed to look straight through her. She wondered briefly if he could see the blood pounding in her veins, like the waves washing hard against the rocks along the shore, or if he simply saw the street beyond her. All in all, she would rather he saw the street. She realized he was speaking then, though she could not make out what he had said. It wasn't the deep brogue or the heavy bass-brushed tones of his voice. It was simply that somehow she was hearing the night's music again, standing there, trapped in his blue gaze.
He moved then, emerging from behind the sales desk and breaking the hold. She turned to the window, breathing deeply. She really needed more sleep and much, much less wine. She supposed that actually having that cup of tea might have helped as well, in addition to a much needed breakfast. She was tired and letting the events of the past hours affect her far too much. She set her shoulders, braced and squared them, then she turned to face him. He was actually a fine looking man, if you liked them on the lean side. His shoulders were a bit wider than you would expect for a man that thin. He had that wind-whipped, slightly curly hair that was common to the region and a face that made it clear he was a plantation-bred Irishman. Too much length in the nose and around the cheek to be pure Irish, that meant he almost had to be a blend of pure root with the transplants of English or Scottish along the line. She focused on what he was saying then. Yes, indeed he could be of service. She needed two items. A book about the history of the coast here, something that documented the ancient legends and mysteries of the area, and another about the anatomy and healing of large birds.
She watched with some amazement as his rather expressive face went from pensive, to intriqued, to troubled as she spoke. What, she wondered, could bring those emotive shadows to bear from such innocuous requests. Odd though the combination might be, it certainly was not a request that should trouble the shopkeeper. She waited for him to find his way through the stacks and return with a selection of books. He returned with four volumes. Two of the volumes dealt with legends about the area, a third was a book of Irish myth and legend and the fourth dealt directly with the biology of large birds. She handed him the first two and the final one for purchase. He raised one thick brow and added the fourth to her stack, ringing up only the purchase price of the three she had selected. "I'm thinking you'll be wantin' this last one, whether you know it or not," he said. Then he smiled at her and accepted her payment. He added his card to the package as he wrapped and tied the bundle. "If you find you need anything, anything at all, you can reach me easy enough."
She took the package from him as if it were made of glass, stepping backward to reach the door. This whole visit seemed oddly out of place, even perhaps set out of time. She slipped out the door and pulled his card free of the twine that held it in place. "Roary James, Antiquarian Books and Curios," she read. "Curious indeed," she thought.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Participles and Portents (5)
Antique Mysteries
Luckily the only thing that barred his way from the lone window in the bedroom was an old-fashioned rocking chair. Unfortunately, it was piled high with blankets and discarded clothes. Odd that everything else was so neatly kept, yet the woman let her most personal items just pile in the chair. He slid the rocker out of the way and eased open the interior shutters, opening the window. The small rose bushes beneath would likely scratch his legs, but there really was no other option. He could not chance getting caught in the cottage. Heaving one leg over the window's edge he reached back to pull the rocker into place, spilling a few clothes on the floor. 'Damn it all to Hell," he muttered, then swung himself out, drawing the shutters closed and closing the exterior window as softly as he could. He could feel the blood trickling down his leg where the thorns from the rose bushes had punctured and torn his calves. He waited there at the window, listening to be sure she was in the cottage before he made his way round the side and off to the relative safety of one of the side paths that led through the rocky terrain. He heard her drop her basket on the table, the clatter of the tea pot filling with water. He smiled at the mumbled curses as she struggled to light the ancient stove-top. Then he set off.
He edged slowly round the cottage, then moved quickly to the path lest he be seen lurking about too close to the rental. Everyone in the village knew, of course, of the strange dark-haired woman renting the rambling old place. It definitely would make tongues wag if he were seen loitering about. Once on the path he headed straight toward the village. It was nearing opening hours and he needed to get to his shop.
Opening the door, he was greeted first by the wonderful chime of the entry bells and then the earthy scent of old dusty volumes. His was an antique book store, filled here and there with a few curios, enough to get the tourists' attention, but not enough to detract from the bookish feel of the shop. As always, the tall stacks brimming with knowledge and tales from the past put him at ease in ways that no person ever had. He strode to the rear and ducked behind the little curtain that separated the shop from his small office. He hung up his coat, fingering the little green notebook thoughtfully, then setting it on his desk. Smiling at the remembered American curses, he went about the tasks of making his morning tea and putting plaster on his legs. There was something almost magical about that first morning cup. The strong full flavor cut by a bit of rich cream. It was his one full indulgence and he savored every sip. Counting colesterol was not his favorite pasttime, but with his heredity, it was necessary. He picked up the notebook and, with his cup, made his way to the desk at the front of the store.
Sitting there and brooding over the morning's events, he stared out of the window. It had all seemed so clear last night. He could hear the pure notes calling from the sea. He could picture the intricate dance of the music in his head, and could almost place faces to the lovely voices. It seemed the faces were just on the edges of his memory, lost to him, like the frayed edges of a dream. He knew he should give up this endless searching, but somehow he was just driven to find the key that would unlock that vision and place faces with those voices. He couldn't explain it, but it had become a compulsion for him. Lord knew the town folk had become to think he had gone "between." As the old woman up the strand had said, "Ye've been on't the other side, lad. There's a piece'o ye there now, don't be expectin' ta feel whole again. They own that part, sure." He was beginning to think her mad ramblings were true.
"Blast and damn," he thought, "the tea's gone cold." He made his way back to refresh the cup wondering if he would see any traffic in the shop today, and hoping, oddly enough, that no one would come. Hot tea in hand, he leaned back in his chair and opened the little notebook. Her handwriting was a mixture of neat small entries, hasty looping scrawls and intricate artistic curving letters. It was actually quite interesting just to look at, such distinctively different styles. Whoever she was, she was, at minimum, unique. He flipped back to the front of the notebook, focused now on reading the content.
The bells chimed, bringing him abruptly to his feet. He slid the notebook into his desk drawer, somehow terribly conscious that he should not be looking at it at all. Glancing to see who had come in, he felt the color drain from his face.
Luckily the only thing that barred his way from the lone window in the bedroom was an old-fashioned rocking chair. Unfortunately, it was piled high with blankets and discarded clothes. Odd that everything else was so neatly kept, yet the woman let her most personal items just pile in the chair. He slid the rocker out of the way and eased open the interior shutters, opening the window. The small rose bushes beneath would likely scratch his legs, but there really was no other option. He could not chance getting caught in the cottage. Heaving one leg over the window's edge he reached back to pull the rocker into place, spilling a few clothes on the floor. 'Damn it all to Hell," he muttered, then swung himself out, drawing the shutters closed and closing the exterior window as softly as he could. He could feel the blood trickling down his leg where the thorns from the rose bushes had punctured and torn his calves. He waited there at the window, listening to be sure she was in the cottage before he made his way round the side and off to the relative safety of one of the side paths that led through the rocky terrain. He heard her drop her basket on the table, the clatter of the tea pot filling with water. He smiled at the mumbled curses as she struggled to light the ancient stove-top. Then he set off.
He edged slowly round the cottage, then moved quickly to the path lest he be seen lurking about too close to the rental. Everyone in the village knew, of course, of the strange dark-haired woman renting the rambling old place. It definitely would make tongues wag if he were seen loitering about. Once on the path he headed straight toward the village. It was nearing opening hours and he needed to get to his shop.
Opening the door, he was greeted first by the wonderful chime of the entry bells and then the earthy scent of old dusty volumes. His was an antique book store, filled here and there with a few curios, enough to get the tourists' attention, but not enough to detract from the bookish feel of the shop. As always, the tall stacks brimming with knowledge and tales from the past put him at ease in ways that no person ever had. He strode to the rear and ducked behind the little curtain that separated the shop from his small office. He hung up his coat, fingering the little green notebook thoughtfully, then setting it on his desk. Smiling at the remembered American curses, he went about the tasks of making his morning tea and putting plaster on his legs. There was something almost magical about that first morning cup. The strong full flavor cut by a bit of rich cream. It was his one full indulgence and he savored every sip. Counting colesterol was not his favorite pasttime, but with his heredity, it was necessary. He picked up the notebook and, with his cup, made his way to the desk at the front of the store.
Sitting there and brooding over the morning's events, he stared out of the window. It had all seemed so clear last night. He could hear the pure notes calling from the sea. He could picture the intricate dance of the music in his head, and could almost place faces to the lovely voices. It seemed the faces were just on the edges of his memory, lost to him, like the frayed edges of a dream. He knew he should give up this endless searching, but somehow he was just driven to find the key that would unlock that vision and place faces with those voices. He couldn't explain it, but it had become a compulsion for him. Lord knew the town folk had become to think he had gone "between." As the old woman up the strand had said, "Ye've been on't the other side, lad. There's a piece'o ye there now, don't be expectin' ta feel whole again. They own that part, sure." He was beginning to think her mad ramblings were true.
"Blast and damn," he thought, "the tea's gone cold." He made his way back to refresh the cup wondering if he would see any traffic in the shop today, and hoping, oddly enough, that no one would come. Hot tea in hand, he leaned back in his chair and opened the little notebook. Her handwriting was a mixture of neat small entries, hasty looping scrawls and intricate artistic curving letters. It was actually quite interesting just to look at, such distinctively different styles. Whoever she was, she was, at minimum, unique. He flipped back to the front of the notebook, focused now on reading the content.
The bells chimed, bringing him abruptly to his feet. He slid the notebook into his desk drawer, somehow terribly conscious that he should not be looking at it at all. Glancing to see who had come in, he felt the color drain from his face.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Participles and Portents (4)
Crossing Paths
The cottage had been put neatly back to rights. Whoever she was - she was fastidious - he would give her that much. "Why the hell is she here?" he wondered. It did not matter. What mattered was finding what he needed. He had searched everywhere but the sleeping chambers the prior day.
Running his hands through the rough tumble of curls on his head, he looked about the small kitchen and sitting area for any spots he might have overlooked. He would have to be more careful this time. It wouldn't do to have her calling the locals in. He was lucky she hadn't done that already. Brave chit she was (or profoundly stupid), either way it worked in his favor. He didn't have the guarda on his back and that helped a great deal. They weren't the sort of blokes who would understand what he was trying to do. Their kind never did.
He felt the rough stubble on his jaw, remembered he had not shaved in several days. Best not get caught looking like this, he thought, he would scare her right out of her socks if she caught him now. Where was she anyway? He had not seen her leave for her morning trot along the cliffs. Odd occupation that, for a woman alone here on the coast, to go off running every morning. He shook his head, "Enough." He was not here to dwell on some foolish American. He needed to start searching.
He started in the unused chambers first. There were two of them: each had linens laid out, but the beds were not yet made. It was clear that someone had taken the time to oil and polish the old wood frames of the beds and heavy wooden armoires. He found three old-fashioned bed-warmers and wondered if the strange woman with the wild dark hair would be crazy enough to try to use these to comfort her guests when the nights became chill. He hoped for the guests' sake that summer held its heat and these were for decoration only. Easier to wrap a brick of heated peat and let it smolder in your bed, all the while praying not to start a fire, than to sleep without burning your feet on one of those archaic metal devices. Though he had to admit the pans would smell a good deal better. He rummaged through the armoire in the largest room, empty but for a few hangers and two new Aran sweaters. Grumbling he got down on the floor and scrummed up under the bed on his back. Using his torch he inspected the bottom coils. Nothing hidden there either. He checked under the side table for good measure, no reason to get up only to have to crawl around like a snake to check these lower areas again. Who was it that said St. Patrick had driven all the snakes from Ireland? Apparently, human snakes did not count.
He rose gingerly, inspected the layers of linens, the windows and sighed. This room was clean. It did not even yield an interestingly creaky floorboard. He checked the next empty room with similar results. Finally he came to her chamber. This space was different from all the other rooms in the cottage. Here was the chaos of living. She had jumpers tossed about and bits of paper everywhere. It was going to be much more difficult to search this space and leave it exactly as he had found it. Perhaps with this much going on, she would not notice a few things out of place, but he suspected she would sense it even if she could not reasonably determine that things had been shifted.
He was about a third of the way through his "treasure hunt" when he heard the sounds of her unmistakable footfall coming up the path. He would have to find another time to search this room. He needed to find a way out. He spotted the small window that led out to the garden in the rear of the cottage. He had it open with one leg in the air when he spotted the little green book. "Why not?," he thought, " She canna' be making a huge fuss over missing such a tiny thing with the place being such a wreck." He slipped it inside his shirt pocket, zippered his jacket and heaved himself out the window. Turning back to close it, he could just catch the faint lilt of a tune. She was singing. He knew that melody. He knew it very well indeed.
The cottage had been put neatly back to rights. Whoever she was - she was fastidious - he would give her that much. "Why the hell is she here?" he wondered. It did not matter. What mattered was finding what he needed. He had searched everywhere but the sleeping chambers the prior day.
Running his hands through the rough tumble of curls on his head, he looked about the small kitchen and sitting area for any spots he might have overlooked. He would have to be more careful this time. It wouldn't do to have her calling the locals in. He was lucky she hadn't done that already. Brave chit she was (or profoundly stupid), either way it worked in his favor. He didn't have the guarda on his back and that helped a great deal. They weren't the sort of blokes who would understand what he was trying to do. Their kind never did.
He felt the rough stubble on his jaw, remembered he had not shaved in several days. Best not get caught looking like this, he thought, he would scare her right out of her socks if she caught him now. Where was she anyway? He had not seen her leave for her morning trot along the cliffs. Odd occupation that, for a woman alone here on the coast, to go off running every morning. He shook his head, "Enough." He was not here to dwell on some foolish American. He needed to start searching.
He started in the unused chambers first. There were two of them: each had linens laid out, but the beds were not yet made. It was clear that someone had taken the time to oil and polish the old wood frames of the beds and heavy wooden armoires. He found three old-fashioned bed-warmers and wondered if the strange woman with the wild dark hair would be crazy enough to try to use these to comfort her guests when the nights became chill. He hoped for the guests' sake that summer held its heat and these were for decoration only. Easier to wrap a brick of heated peat and let it smolder in your bed, all the while praying not to start a fire, than to sleep without burning your feet on one of those archaic metal devices. Though he had to admit the pans would smell a good deal better. He rummaged through the armoire in the largest room, empty but for a few hangers and two new Aran sweaters. Grumbling he got down on the floor and scrummed up under the bed on his back. Using his torch he inspected the bottom coils. Nothing hidden there either. He checked under the side table for good measure, no reason to get up only to have to crawl around like a snake to check these lower areas again. Who was it that said St. Patrick had driven all the snakes from Ireland? Apparently, human snakes did not count.
He rose gingerly, inspected the layers of linens, the windows and sighed. This room was clean. It did not even yield an interestingly creaky floorboard. He checked the next empty room with similar results. Finally he came to her chamber. This space was different from all the other rooms in the cottage. Here was the chaos of living. She had jumpers tossed about and bits of paper everywhere. It was going to be much more difficult to search this space and leave it exactly as he had found it. Perhaps with this much going on, she would not notice a few things out of place, but he suspected she would sense it even if she could not reasonably determine that things had been shifted.
He was about a third of the way through his "treasure hunt" when he heard the sounds of her unmistakable footfall coming up the path. He would have to find another time to search this room. He needed to find a way out. He spotted the small window that led out to the garden in the rear of the cottage. He had it open with one leg in the air when he spotted the little green book. "Why not?," he thought, " She canna' be making a huge fuss over missing such a tiny thing with the place being such a wreck." He slipped it inside his shirt pocket, zippered his jacket and heaved himself out the window. Turning back to close it, he could just catch the faint lilt of a tune. She was singing. He knew that melody. He knew it very well indeed.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Participles and Portents (3)
Night Song
I drifted with the rhythm of the sea, hovering in the sea's spray, of no more importance than a tiny droplet yet fully aware of the power behind the thrust of its full countenance. Here, in my hovering heights, I caught the first ripples of sound. A sweet clarion call that carried above the sea. A full and exquisite twining of tenor, soprano and bass, each so pure that they almost hurt to hear, yet together they filled you up completely. I felt myself, this small droplet of spray, straining to bring more into my being. The song was an an ancient one, full of the old cadences and in an archaic form of Gaelic. It was somehow both full of joy and yet intensely melancholy. I listened, entranced in my liquid form, suspended and unmoving - sensing somehow that should I allow the smallest of movements the song might end. What a tragedy that would be. I held as long as I could to this altered form and then, unable to resist the press of the sea, was forced against the rock and fell to the pebbled beach below. The beauty slowly breaking apart as I broke, its voices separating and then dissipating.
I woke with a sharp ray of light over my eye and a pebble digging into my cheek, noting with a wry bit of humor that the saliva that had pooled at the edge of my lip and chin were not nearly as graceful as the dream I had just surrendered. I pushed myself up hand over hand, the way you learn how to do in late pregnancy, and sat legs akimbo, remembering the dream. I noticed then, rather pleasantly, that there was just a bit over half of the wine left. Apparently I had not had as much as I had thought the night before. I took a few sips and folded some cheese into a bit of bread, breathing deep, content in my isolation. It occurred to me then that I would need to get back to the cottage soon. My family would be joining me in just over a day or so and I had much to do to prepare for their arrival. It is not as if I had left suddenly. It had taken time to make the arrangements to have the months of time away, yet as with any decision like this, I knew they did not understand the needs that drove me. I suppose to most people three months of extended leave from all that you know seems like an extraordinary amount of time to take. Maybe all the more so, if you are someone they expect to be solid and consistent - the kind of person who never does anything out of lock step. But my life had changed so dramatically over the last three years, it was time for me to find myself again. I just couldn't continue to plod along as if everything still fit. Sure, the clothes in the closet were still the right size, I knew the routes to work and home, my gym routine continued the same days and hours of the week. Even the patterns of evenings out were the same. But somehow the person who did these things, it just wasn't me anymore and I felt increasingly as if I did not fit in that "skin". Hence the sabbatical. I wasn't sure if I hoped to find my way back to harmony with all that I knew or find the next path, but I needed something. Bored with contemplating the questions which continued to yield no answers for me, I rose and stretched. I was eager to see the little cove again and, if willing to admit it, anxious to extend my stay in what I had come to think of as the cathedral of sacred song.
I made my way back to the little cove I had found the day before to say my good-byes and my thank-you's for the shelter. What I found there left me cold. Washed against the pebbled shore was a torn and bloodied swan, its long and graceful neck curled into a wing that gaped with a ragged gash just at the turn of the upper joint. Here bright red lined the inner fold of the wound and lines of crimson crusted the edges and marred the ivory feathers. Transfixed by the sight I almost did not note the pair of swans, necks entwined, issuing a low-throaty keen out in the waves of the cove. This vision brought a shiver to my spine and, for some unfathomable reason, a flash in brilliant clarity of the night song from my dream.
Driven at last to action, I scrambled back into the cave. I found the wine and what was left of the bread. I searched for something that would make a decent bandage for the wound. My shawl was far too riddled with grit. I pulled off my jacket, feeling the crisp bite of the morning wind in the cavern's shade. The shirt was not perfectly clean, but it was far better than anything else I had with me. It would have to do. I stripped it off quickly. Shivering in the morning wind, I used my teeth and all the strength I could muster to rip the shirt into manageable pieces. I slipped back into my jacket, gathered the rest of my makeshift medical supplies and the remains of the food I had with me, and hurried back to the cove.
The broken bird lay there still, unmoving. Uncertain of my reception I approached cautiously, humming the chant from my dream as an offering of friendship and a form of comfort. The long neck moved warily as I came near and one clear black eye stared me down, but other than that there was no other resistance. The other two swans, however, were circling in the air, making a riot of unpleasant sound that came forth as a strident warning to my ears. Disregarding their hovering menace, I bent to my task. I used the wine to clean the wound I could see and gently moved the wing to see if there was more hidden damage. There were a few other scrapes but none as bad as the gash. I washed everything as clean as I could. All the while, the bird stared at me with that one bright black eye. I saturated a section of shirt and folded it up, pressing it along the gash, and then used the remaining fabric to tie it on as securely as possible. I soaked a piece of bread in some wine and offered it the bird. It simply looked away. I tried some dried bread and a bit of cheese; these it ate slowly yet readily enough.
I rose and crumbled what was left of the bread and cheese around the area, careful to keep a good deal close to the broken bird and the rest out of reach of the lapping sea. I took one last look at my patient and whispered a promise to return, then left to pack what remained of my things.
As I moved away I noiced the cacophony of his two friends eased. Turning, I saw them settle in the cove and pick at the crumbled remains of the meager offering I had left. Somehow reassured, I turned my face to the crevice and braced for the new scrapes that would no doubt mark my passage home, if home indeed the cottage had become.
I drifted with the rhythm of the sea, hovering in the sea's spray, of no more importance than a tiny droplet yet fully aware of the power behind the thrust of its full countenance. Here, in my hovering heights, I caught the first ripples of sound. A sweet clarion call that carried above the sea. A full and exquisite twining of tenor, soprano and bass, each so pure that they almost hurt to hear, yet together they filled you up completely. I felt myself, this small droplet of spray, straining to bring more into my being. The song was an an ancient one, full of the old cadences and in an archaic form of Gaelic. It was somehow both full of joy and yet intensely melancholy. I listened, entranced in my liquid form, suspended and unmoving - sensing somehow that should I allow the smallest of movements the song might end. What a tragedy that would be. I held as long as I could to this altered form and then, unable to resist the press of the sea, was forced against the rock and fell to the pebbled beach below. The beauty slowly breaking apart as I broke, its voices separating and then dissipating.
I woke with a sharp ray of light over my eye and a pebble digging into my cheek, noting with a wry bit of humor that the saliva that had pooled at the edge of my lip and chin were not nearly as graceful as the dream I had just surrendered. I pushed myself up hand over hand, the way you learn how to do in late pregnancy, and sat legs akimbo, remembering the dream. I noticed then, rather pleasantly, that there was just a bit over half of the wine left. Apparently I had not had as much as I had thought the night before. I took a few sips and folded some cheese into a bit of bread, breathing deep, content in my isolation. It occurred to me then that I would need to get back to the cottage soon. My family would be joining me in just over a day or so and I had much to do to prepare for their arrival. It is not as if I had left suddenly. It had taken time to make the arrangements to have the months of time away, yet as with any decision like this, I knew they did not understand the needs that drove me. I suppose to most people three months of extended leave from all that you know seems like an extraordinary amount of time to take. Maybe all the more so, if you are someone they expect to be solid and consistent - the kind of person who never does anything out of lock step. But my life had changed so dramatically over the last three years, it was time for me to find myself again. I just couldn't continue to plod along as if everything still fit. Sure, the clothes in the closet were still the right size, I knew the routes to work and home, my gym routine continued the same days and hours of the week. Even the patterns of evenings out were the same. But somehow the person who did these things, it just wasn't me anymore and I felt increasingly as if I did not fit in that "skin". Hence the sabbatical. I wasn't sure if I hoped to find my way back to harmony with all that I knew or find the next path, but I needed something. Bored with contemplating the questions which continued to yield no answers for me, I rose and stretched. I was eager to see the little cove again and, if willing to admit it, anxious to extend my stay in what I had come to think of as the cathedral of sacred song.
I made my way back to the little cove I had found the day before to say my good-byes and my thank-you's for the shelter. What I found there left me cold. Washed against the pebbled shore was a torn and bloodied swan, its long and graceful neck curled into a wing that gaped with a ragged gash just at the turn of the upper joint. Here bright red lined the inner fold of the wound and lines of crimson crusted the edges and marred the ivory feathers. Transfixed by the sight I almost did not note the pair of swans, necks entwined, issuing a low-throaty keen out in the waves of the cove. This vision brought a shiver to my spine and, for some unfathomable reason, a flash in brilliant clarity of the night song from my dream.
Driven at last to action, I scrambled back into the cave. I found the wine and what was left of the bread. I searched for something that would make a decent bandage for the wound. My shawl was far too riddled with grit. I pulled off my jacket, feeling the crisp bite of the morning wind in the cavern's shade. The shirt was not perfectly clean, but it was far better than anything else I had with me. It would have to do. I stripped it off quickly. Shivering in the morning wind, I used my teeth and all the strength I could muster to rip the shirt into manageable pieces. I slipped back into my jacket, gathered the rest of my makeshift medical supplies and the remains of the food I had with me, and hurried back to the cove.
The broken bird lay there still, unmoving. Uncertain of my reception I approached cautiously, humming the chant from my dream as an offering of friendship and a form of comfort. The long neck moved warily as I came near and one clear black eye stared me down, but other than that there was no other resistance. The other two swans, however, were circling in the air, making a riot of unpleasant sound that came forth as a strident warning to my ears. Disregarding their hovering menace, I bent to my task. I used the wine to clean the wound I could see and gently moved the wing to see if there was more hidden damage. There were a few other scrapes but none as bad as the gash. I washed everything as clean as I could. All the while, the bird stared at me with that one bright black eye. I saturated a section of shirt and folded it up, pressing it along the gash, and then used the remaining fabric to tie it on as securely as possible. I soaked a piece of bread in some wine and offered it the bird. It simply looked away. I tried some dried bread and a bit of cheese; these it ate slowly yet readily enough.
I rose and crumbled what was left of the bread and cheese around the area, careful to keep a good deal close to the broken bird and the rest out of reach of the lapping sea. I took one last look at my patient and whispered a promise to return, then left to pack what remained of my things.
As I moved away I noiced the cacophony of his two friends eased. Turning, I saw them settle in the cove and pick at the crumbled remains of the meager offering I had left. Somehow reassured, I turned my face to the crevice and braced for the new scrapes that would no doubt mark my passage home, if home indeed the cottage had become.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Participles and Portents: (2)
Cavern Song:
I awoke with the very unpleasant sensation that something was amiss. Unfortunately, this was not just remnants from a troubled sleep brought on from the sharp rocks digging into my back. Standing, I was able to discern that I had definitely outstayed my welcome in my refuge. The tide was coming in, and apparently had been for some time, given that I was now quite separated from the shore by a good thirty feet.
While this may not seem insurmountable, I knew the terrain that lay beneath the salty spray. And though my swim stroke was fairly strong, I doubted it would fare well against the sharp crags that hid just below the swells. As they say, I was now out of the proverbial frying pan and into the fire. Surveying my surroundings it was clear that my little refuge would not stay dry through the full rising of the tide. I needed to find another place to bide my time. My basket was a definite nuisance if I intended to climb the rock wall, but I did not want to leave it behind. Making do with what was at hand I wrapped my shawl around the opening and tied it fast, then used my belt to make a loop that I could slip over my shoulder, creating a kind of sling effect. With the basket seated precariously on my back, I once again bemoaned the lack of gloves and began to look for purchase for my travel upwards.
There were no great choices, but a few that held promise, so I began my onerous climb. After about 20 minutes, and with a well scraped elbow and palm, I made it to a small ridge. Grateful for the rest, I hauled myself up and swung the basket over my head, letting it fall beside me. The sun was beginning its downward crest. I was far enough away from the tide to feel secure, but I needed to consider what I would do until I could climb down and make my way home. Home, I guess that was a first, a first time for me to think of the little cottage as home. Rather than let myself get caught up in this reverie, I stood and began to look for possibilities for what looked to be a long night. What presented itself was a slight cleft in the wall of rock that continued to rise beside me. The darkness that pervaded it seemed to indicate some depth beyond, perhaps a cavern? I felt around my pockets, hoping that that I at least had my little pen-light with me.
I found my keys and was grateful to note that the small pen-light was still dangling from the ring. It would not provide much light, but it would provide some. I slung the basket back over my shoulder and slipped into the cleft. It was noticeably colder in this space. I felt somehow as if I were intruding. The space felt pristine, untouched and my presence sullied it. I moved as quickly as I dared through the small passage, hoping I might break through to a spot where a mere human might feel more accepted. The rough rock walls slowly curved and arched over head. The passage seemed oddly smooth under my feet. It rose in a slight incline for about 20 feet and then changed direction, moving off to the left, and began to slope downward ever so slightly. After walking through the rock maze with its omnipresent voice of silence for what seemed like over half an hour the narrow passage suddenly opened and I found myself in a small cavern at last. It glowed dimly with reflected light. I could just make out the sound of the sea. I dropped my basket on a ledge and followed the sound around a slight bend. Just below the rock I stood on, perhaps a drop of two feet, was a small cove of crushed rock. Here the waves lapped almost gently on the shore. Satisfied that I was safe in my newfound place of solace, I made my way back to the interior of the cavern to consider how I would spend the night.
I had no other light source with me and knew I should preserve the pen-light. I turned it off and was very happy to find that the reflected light provided just enough glow to allow me to see my environment and rummage through the basket's contents. I realized I was famished and set about the task of dividing what I had purchased into portions that would see me through a couple of days (just in case a storm set in and I had to wait it out in this lap of luxury).
I set aside five chunks of the ripe red cheddar. Irish red cheddar is perhaps my favorite cheese and I had planned on a full-fledged feast of indulgence. In fact, I was supposed to be in front of the peat fire, savoring this entire wedge with some brown bread and the wine I had purchased. I laughed, "Just as well my plans when awry. It will save me the time of having to work off eating too much at one sitting.” I separated the brown bread in the same fashion. Then I looked at the wine. It was the only drink I had with me. The only water available was of the sea, and it would do me no good. So Fruit of the Gods it would have to be. Only, how was I going to get the bottle open? I had not planned on needing a corkscrew in a cavern by the sea. As I pondered this new dilemma, I sat back upon the rock ledge. “Curiouser and curiouser," I thought, “Who would have imagined I would be able to strand myself on a rock in the sea?” And that is when it occurred to me to push the cork down into the bottle - which if you must know is much easier said than done.
Much, much later, a victorious cork-pusher (namely me) began to drink quite happily from the lovely bottle of red table wine. I drank and ate my first portion, and then did my best to settle myself down for a nap, which must have worked as I do not remember anything more until the dreams began.
I awoke with the very unpleasant sensation that something was amiss. Unfortunately, this was not just remnants from a troubled sleep brought on from the sharp rocks digging into my back. Standing, I was able to discern that I had definitely outstayed my welcome in my refuge. The tide was coming in, and apparently had been for some time, given that I was now quite separated from the shore by a good thirty feet.
While this may not seem insurmountable, I knew the terrain that lay beneath the salty spray. And though my swim stroke was fairly strong, I doubted it would fare well against the sharp crags that hid just below the swells. As they say, I was now out of the proverbial frying pan and into the fire. Surveying my surroundings it was clear that my little refuge would not stay dry through the full rising of the tide. I needed to find another place to bide my time. My basket was a definite nuisance if I intended to climb the rock wall, but I did not want to leave it behind. Making do with what was at hand I wrapped my shawl around the opening and tied it fast, then used my belt to make a loop that I could slip over my shoulder, creating a kind of sling effect. With the basket seated precariously on my back, I once again bemoaned the lack of gloves and began to look for purchase for my travel upwards.
There were no great choices, but a few that held promise, so I began my onerous climb. After about 20 minutes, and with a well scraped elbow and palm, I made it to a small ridge. Grateful for the rest, I hauled myself up and swung the basket over my head, letting it fall beside me. The sun was beginning its downward crest. I was far enough away from the tide to feel secure, but I needed to consider what I would do until I could climb down and make my way home. Home, I guess that was a first, a first time for me to think of the little cottage as home. Rather than let myself get caught up in this reverie, I stood and began to look for possibilities for what looked to be a long night. What presented itself was a slight cleft in the wall of rock that continued to rise beside me. The darkness that pervaded it seemed to indicate some depth beyond, perhaps a cavern? I felt around my pockets, hoping that that I at least had my little pen-light with me.
I found my keys and was grateful to note that the small pen-light was still dangling from the ring. It would not provide much light, but it would provide some. I slung the basket back over my shoulder and slipped into the cleft. It was noticeably colder in this space. I felt somehow as if I were intruding. The space felt pristine, untouched and my presence sullied it. I moved as quickly as I dared through the small passage, hoping I might break through to a spot where a mere human might feel more accepted. The rough rock walls slowly curved and arched over head. The passage seemed oddly smooth under my feet. It rose in a slight incline for about 20 feet and then changed direction, moving off to the left, and began to slope downward ever so slightly. After walking through the rock maze with its omnipresent voice of silence for what seemed like over half an hour the narrow passage suddenly opened and I found myself in a small cavern at last. It glowed dimly with reflected light. I could just make out the sound of the sea. I dropped my basket on a ledge and followed the sound around a slight bend. Just below the rock I stood on, perhaps a drop of two feet, was a small cove of crushed rock. Here the waves lapped almost gently on the shore. Satisfied that I was safe in my newfound place of solace, I made my way back to the interior of the cavern to consider how I would spend the night.
I had no other light source with me and knew I should preserve the pen-light. I turned it off and was very happy to find that the reflected light provided just enough glow to allow me to see my environment and rummage through the basket's contents. I realized I was famished and set about the task of dividing what I had purchased into portions that would see me through a couple of days (just in case a storm set in and I had to wait it out in this lap of luxury).
I set aside five chunks of the ripe red cheddar. Irish red cheddar is perhaps my favorite cheese and I had planned on a full-fledged feast of indulgence. In fact, I was supposed to be in front of the peat fire, savoring this entire wedge with some brown bread and the wine I had purchased. I laughed, "Just as well my plans when awry. It will save me the time of having to work off eating too much at one sitting.” I separated the brown bread in the same fashion. Then I looked at the wine. It was the only drink I had with me. The only water available was of the sea, and it would do me no good. So Fruit of the Gods it would have to be. Only, how was I going to get the bottle open? I had not planned on needing a corkscrew in a cavern by the sea. As I pondered this new dilemma, I sat back upon the rock ledge. “Curiouser and curiouser," I thought, “Who would have imagined I would be able to strand myself on a rock in the sea?” And that is when it occurred to me to push the cork down into the bottle - which if you must know is much easier said than done.
Much, much later, a victorious cork-pusher (namely me) began to drink quite happily from the lovely bottle of red table wine. I drank and ate my first portion, and then did my best to settle myself down for a nap, which must have worked as I do not remember anything more until the dreams began.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Participles and Portents
Beginnings:
The fine salt-spray lifts from the rocks to tangle my hair as I gaze at the sea, my lonely promonitory shared by only a few gulls and the weak shafts of light that are just now beginning to break as the sun rises higher to greet the day. I have traveled here on this sojourn to find the parts of me I have lost over the years. This place feels ripe for the task with its jagged landscape, home to many a wayfarer who found refuge from the sea on its rough-edged shore. As the sun begins to strengthen I breathe deeper and turn to make my way back down my little path to the small thatched cottage that will be my home for this summer. It is time for some tea and perhaps some brown bread, if my stomach has the courage to face it this morning.
What I find when I enter my refuge is a far cry from what I expect. My neatly shelved items are spread about: the bread is crumbled on the floor, tea shaken from its tin. My evening shawl has been dragged from the hearth chair and lies in the muck from the fire. Only my sleeping chamber seems undisturbed.
I can find nothing that tells me of who or what has caused this damage. I find it hard to believe that even the strong winds that blow here could have managed this. The bread seems to have been crushed. I sigh. “No big matter,” I mumble to myself. It was time for a trip into the village. I can clean this easily enough. And this I do. When things have been set to rights and I have washed up, I make sure to bar the door against the wind and what I assume are animal intruders. Then I set off to the village to refresh my stores.
The crisp wind and bright sun lighten my spirits as I make my way up the stony path into the village. I find myself laughing along with the children as they chase a ball that has gotten away from the pitch. I try reminding myself that here the game is not soccer, but it is useless. I still think of it in my native ways. I make my purchases sparingly, knowing I will want to come back soon. Mine is a solitary existence and the trips to the village give me time with people. I have come to know a few, not well, but enough to greet by name, and I am hoping this will grow to more over the months I will be here.
By the time I leave a mist has risen and I can tell that the rain will fall soon. The midday rain seems like a ritual here on the craggy shore. I pull my shawl over my head and start down the path, my head tilted downward to ward off the rain when it starts and to check the path for ruts. I am caught up in my thoughts, rummaging around in the attic of my past and do not even notice that I have gone down instead of climbing at the curve that should have taken me toward my little cottage. And this is how I find myself near the sharp crags and the roar of the sea as the rain begins. In fact, it is the howl of the sea as it rages and throws itself against the rock that breaks my trance.
I stand there transfixed by the sheer power of its rage as the rain soaks me through to the bone. Finally I realize that I should find some shelter. Through the haze of the sea mist and the pouring rain I glimpse the possibility of relief, an outcropping of rock that appears to have just enough of a cleft to hide me and my basket from the worst of nature’s fury. I pick my way carefully, grateful that I am not weighed down by old-fashioned skirts and that my boots are thick-soled and meant for climbing. I do note, glumly, that I miss my gloves. I guess I am not as practical as I had thought. Eventually, I make it to my little piece of shelter and am relieved to find it is dry. In fact, it provides just enough space for me to slide down with my back against the rock and sit, knees against my chest, and peer out at the raging rain and sea. I wish I had my notebook to try and capture this place and its look and feel on the page. It is with this thought that I let myself drift off to sleep, lulled by the constant rhythm of nature’s protest.
The fine salt-spray lifts from the rocks to tangle my hair as I gaze at the sea, my lonely promonitory shared by only a few gulls and the weak shafts of light that are just now beginning to break as the sun rises higher to greet the day. I have traveled here on this sojourn to find the parts of me I have lost over the years. This place feels ripe for the task with its jagged landscape, home to many a wayfarer who found refuge from the sea on its rough-edged shore. As the sun begins to strengthen I breathe deeper and turn to make my way back down my little path to the small thatched cottage that will be my home for this summer. It is time for some tea and perhaps some brown bread, if my stomach has the courage to face it this morning.
What I find when I enter my refuge is a far cry from what I expect. My neatly shelved items are spread about: the bread is crumbled on the floor, tea shaken from its tin. My evening shawl has been dragged from the hearth chair and lies in the muck from the fire. Only my sleeping chamber seems undisturbed.
I can find nothing that tells me of who or what has caused this damage. I find it hard to believe that even the strong winds that blow here could have managed this. The bread seems to have been crushed. I sigh. “No big matter,” I mumble to myself. It was time for a trip into the village. I can clean this easily enough. And this I do. When things have been set to rights and I have washed up, I make sure to bar the door against the wind and what I assume are animal intruders. Then I set off to the village to refresh my stores.
The crisp wind and bright sun lighten my spirits as I make my way up the stony path into the village. I find myself laughing along with the children as they chase a ball that has gotten away from the pitch. I try reminding myself that here the game is not soccer, but it is useless. I still think of it in my native ways. I make my purchases sparingly, knowing I will want to come back soon. Mine is a solitary existence and the trips to the village give me time with people. I have come to know a few, not well, but enough to greet by name, and I am hoping this will grow to more over the months I will be here.
By the time I leave a mist has risen and I can tell that the rain will fall soon. The midday rain seems like a ritual here on the craggy shore. I pull my shawl over my head and start down the path, my head tilted downward to ward off the rain when it starts and to check the path for ruts. I am caught up in my thoughts, rummaging around in the attic of my past and do not even notice that I have gone down instead of climbing at the curve that should have taken me toward my little cottage. And this is how I find myself near the sharp crags and the roar of the sea as the rain begins. In fact, it is the howl of the sea as it rages and throws itself against the rock that breaks my trance.
I stand there transfixed by the sheer power of its rage as the rain soaks me through to the bone. Finally I realize that I should find some shelter. Through the haze of the sea mist and the pouring rain I glimpse the possibility of relief, an outcropping of rock that appears to have just enough of a cleft to hide me and my basket from the worst of nature’s fury. I pick my way carefully, grateful that I am not weighed down by old-fashioned skirts and that my boots are thick-soled and meant for climbing. I do note, glumly, that I miss my gloves. I guess I am not as practical as I had thought. Eventually, I make it to my little piece of shelter and am relieved to find it is dry. In fact, it provides just enough space for me to slide down with my back against the rock and sit, knees against my chest, and peer out at the raging rain and sea. I wish I had my notebook to try and capture this place and its look and feel on the page. It is with this thought that I let myself drift off to sleep, lulled by the constant rhythm of nature’s protest.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Be Happy Love, Be Happy
Have you ever struggled with that old cliche, the one that starts with "If you love something (someone) set it free?" If you have,or if you are, then I suppose this post is for you as much as it is for me.
Loving enough to let go is a very hard thing to do. To smile and walk away is a very, very, hard thing to do. Yet, it is the right thing to do for those you love when they need to leave. And, unfortunately, in this life those times do come. Whether it is in the relationship of parent to child, lover to lover, or friend to friend, those times do arise. And when they do the art of letting go is by far one of the greatest challenges of a loving heart.
This letting go, when what you want most is to pull that person closer to you is so very difficult. Made more difficult still because in loving them you understand that they need to feel that you are okay with the change. That wherever they go, whatever it is they need to do or become that requires the leaving, you will be fine. This is the essential art in letting go. Letting go without letting those you love see you struggle.
I am not suggesting that you tell them not to let the door hit them in the proverbial *#$ on the way out. Of course they will know you love them as they leave. But even in knowing this, they will believe that you are or will be - essentially whole. And there in lies the conumdrum. Because you are not whole, as they take such a very big part of you with them when they go. I suppose this is eased if you know there will be a time when you will see them again, even if that time is months away. Yet, there is so much that is missed in the intervening time. So much life being lived and not shared. This part is the ache and the rub. And of course, if you know that the leaving is more on the level of permanancy - well then that definitely takes on more dimension.
I struggle now having just let someone go who means so much to me. I know I will see them again very soon. Yet in that small stretch of time so much will happen. There will be momentous and even small interactions that will shape and change my loved one's character. It is inevitable, as that is what life does, it shapes and molds us with the confluence of people and events, like river water carving rock. And when next we meet, we will both be different people, perhaps in very small ways, or perhaps in quite profound ways. I mourn the loss of time, yet celebrate the opportunities for growth that they will have.
If there were an easier path, I would surely take it. I think most of us would. But loving takes a stout heart and a brave countenance. So I smile and wave, "Be safe, have fun, live well and love well." And then I walk away, with each step repeating my mantra, "Be happy love, be happy."
Loving enough to let go is a very hard thing to do. To smile and walk away is a very, very, hard thing to do. Yet, it is the right thing to do for those you love when they need to leave. And, unfortunately, in this life those times do come. Whether it is in the relationship of parent to child, lover to lover, or friend to friend, those times do arise. And when they do the art of letting go is by far one of the greatest challenges of a loving heart.
This letting go, when what you want most is to pull that person closer to you is so very difficult. Made more difficult still because in loving them you understand that they need to feel that you are okay with the change. That wherever they go, whatever it is they need to do or become that requires the leaving, you will be fine. This is the essential art in letting go. Letting go without letting those you love see you struggle.
I am not suggesting that you tell them not to let the door hit them in the proverbial *#$ on the way out. Of course they will know you love them as they leave. But even in knowing this, they will believe that you are or will be - essentially whole. And there in lies the conumdrum. Because you are not whole, as they take such a very big part of you with them when they go. I suppose this is eased if you know there will be a time when you will see them again, even if that time is months away. Yet, there is so much that is missed in the intervening time. So much life being lived and not shared. This part is the ache and the rub. And of course, if you know that the leaving is more on the level of permanancy - well then that definitely takes on more dimension.
I struggle now having just let someone go who means so much to me. I know I will see them again very soon. Yet in that small stretch of time so much will happen. There will be momentous and even small interactions that will shape and change my loved one's character. It is inevitable, as that is what life does, it shapes and molds us with the confluence of people and events, like river water carving rock. And when next we meet, we will both be different people, perhaps in very small ways, or perhaps in quite profound ways. I mourn the loss of time, yet celebrate the opportunities for growth that they will have.
If there were an easier path, I would surely take it. I think most of us would. But loving takes a stout heart and a brave countenance. So I smile and wave, "Be safe, have fun, live well and love well." And then I walk away, with each step repeating my mantra, "Be happy love, be happy."
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
On Magic...........
Twas the eve before Thanksgiving - and though I don't expect any faery magic to occur - I am not discounting the possibility (of magic at least). Seems now is the time to find what it is that makes the world magic and to be Thankful for it.
Magic comes in many ways into our lives. Very often I think we miss it. Sometimes when we are still enough we catch it, that quicksilver thrill of it running through our veins and we know its blessing. But most of the time we take it for granted, and that is perhaps why so many people do not believe in magic at all. I for one do believe.
While not a fan of snow removal, I can assert a certain wonder in the magic of those beautiful white flakes and the way they transform the world around us as they fall. The magic of a child's sweet grin as they stare out the window in anticipation of their first snowman of the season. And of course the magic of that first cup of hot chocolate brimming with marhsmallows as we stumble through the door covered in snow.
Then there are the more common magic moments, the sudden burst of color when you crest a hill and the sunset catches you, or when the streaks of light form through the clouds like beacons to the sky. And the magic of the perfect timbre of voice on the other end of the phone line, or better yet just across the table over morning tea.
And what of the magic of the ties that bind? Your Mom's perfectly timed call - just to see how you are doing - when how you are doing is just at a low enough ebb that what you needed was that check in? Your closest friend calling or emailing from across the universe with a bounce and a smile? Like a southern Leprechaun(ess)? making your day - and bringing the lilt and the magic that goes with her presence in your life.
Or the magic of having friends that are so perfectly in tune with you that being who you are requires no etiquette editing - it just flows. Aye, there's magic in the world. Whether its as simple as knowing who is calling before your pick up the phone or as direct as the freshness of the gifts from nature and those you love - its all magic.
Happy Thanksgiving - may we all have reasons to give Thanks - and all find a bit of Magic in our day and our days..............
Magic comes in many ways into our lives. Very often I think we miss it. Sometimes when we are still enough we catch it, that quicksilver thrill of it running through our veins and we know its blessing. But most of the time we take it for granted, and that is perhaps why so many people do not believe in magic at all. I for one do believe.
While not a fan of snow removal, I can assert a certain wonder in the magic of those beautiful white flakes and the way they transform the world around us as they fall. The magic of a child's sweet grin as they stare out the window in anticipation of their first snowman of the season. And of course the magic of that first cup of hot chocolate brimming with marhsmallows as we stumble through the door covered in snow.
Then there are the more common magic moments, the sudden burst of color when you crest a hill and the sunset catches you, or when the streaks of light form through the clouds like beacons to the sky. And the magic of the perfect timbre of voice on the other end of the phone line, or better yet just across the table over morning tea.
And what of the magic of the ties that bind? Your Mom's perfectly timed call - just to see how you are doing - when how you are doing is just at a low enough ebb that what you needed was that check in? Your closest friend calling or emailing from across the universe with a bounce and a smile? Like a southern Leprechaun(ess)? making your day - and bringing the lilt and the magic that goes with her presence in your life.
Or the magic of having friends that are so perfectly in tune with you that being who you are requires no etiquette editing - it just flows. Aye, there's magic in the world. Whether its as simple as knowing who is calling before your pick up the phone or as direct as the freshness of the gifts from nature and those you love - its all magic.
Happy Thanksgiving - may we all have reasons to give Thanks - and all find a bit of Magic in our day and our days..............
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Poetic Bits and Pieces
A little poetry for the weekend........ Something for the upcoming Holiday -
Urban Thanksgiving
breathing is taken for granted
like touch and smell
Often it is the scent that is missed
A step no longer heard
Missing
a hard wheeze would be a gift
one last movement
a sensory wonderland left forgotten
until the moment it slipped beneath the wave
Drowned
chipped and gapped pottery is more useful in times of thirst
famine lies often at the laden table
fingers fail to prick on metal tines
Silent
And on a more upbeat note....
Alliteration for the SoulSunlight reflects the shadows on the wall
Spinning fragments of used color
Soft frayed edges
Splayed warm fingers
Supporting the bend
Supple
Spine
Tingling on tip-toe
Twirling in the rising heat
Twilight elongates pulsing health
Titillating whispers spark the night
Tasting
Touched
Tuned
Here's to staying tuned, and to a Holiday that leans toward feasting not only on great food, but also great company.......
Urban Thanksgiving
breathing is taken for granted
like touch and smell
Often it is the scent that is missed
A step no longer heard
Missing
a hard wheeze would be a gift
one last movement
a sensory wonderland left forgotten
until the moment it slipped beneath the wave
Drowned
chipped and gapped pottery is more useful in times of thirst
famine lies often at the laden table
fingers fail to prick on metal tines
Silent
And on a more upbeat note....
Alliteration for the SoulSunlight reflects the shadows on the wall
Spinning fragments of used color
Soft frayed edges
Splayed warm fingers
Supporting the bend
Supple
Spine
Tingling on tip-toe
Twirling in the rising heat
Twilight elongates pulsing health
Titillating whispers spark the night
Tasting
Touched
Tuned
Here's to staying tuned, and to a Holiday that leans toward feasting not only on great food, but also great company.......
Friday, November 19, 2010
Closer to Believing - ELP
For those who have never listened to "Closer to Believing" I thought I would share the lyrics -
Truly a song worth listening to if you get a chance........
Closer to Believing
I am closer to believing
Than I ever was before
On the crest of this elation
Must I crash upon the shore
And with the driftwood of acquaintance
Light the fire to love once more
I am wind blown...I am times.
To be closer to believing
To be just a breath away
On the death of inspiration
I would buy back yesterday
But there's no crueller illusion
There's no sharper coin to pay
As I reach out... It slips away
From the opium of custom
to the ledges of extremes
Don't believe it till you've held it
Life is seldom what it seems
But lay your heart upon the table
And in the shuffling of dreams
Remember who on earth you are
I need me
You need you
We want us
But of course you know I love you
Or what else am I here for
Only you not face to face
But side by side for evermore
And I need to be here with you
For without you what am I
Just another fool out searching
For some heaven in the sky
Take me closer to believing
Take me forward lead me on
Through collision and confusion
While there's life beneath the sun
You are the reason I continue
So near for so long
So close yet so far away
I need me
You need you
We want us to live forever
Don't let the curtain fall
Measure after measure
Of writing on the wall
That burns so brightly
It blinds us all
I need me
You need you
We want us to be together
On Sundays in the rain
Closer than forever
Against or with the grain
To ride the storms of love again
So be closer to believing
Though your world is torn apart
For a moment changes all things
And to end is but to start
And if your journey's unrewarded
May your God lift up your heart
You are windblown
But you are mine
Truly a song worth listening to if you get a chance........
Closer to Believing
I am closer to believing
Than I ever was before
On the crest of this elation
Must I crash upon the shore
And with the driftwood of acquaintance
Light the fire to love once more
I am wind blown...I am times.
To be closer to believing
To be just a breath away
On the death of inspiration
I would buy back yesterday
But there's no crueller illusion
There's no sharper coin to pay
As I reach out... It slips away
From the opium of custom
to the ledges of extremes
Don't believe it till you've held it
Life is seldom what it seems
But lay your heart upon the table
And in the shuffling of dreams
Remember who on earth you are
I need me
You need you
We want us
But of course you know I love you
Or what else am I here for
Only you not face to face
But side by side for evermore
And I need to be here with you
For without you what am I
Just another fool out searching
For some heaven in the sky
Take me closer to believing
Take me forward lead me on
Through collision and confusion
While there's life beneath the sun
You are the reason I continue
So near for so long
So close yet so far away
I need me
You need you
We want us to live forever
Don't let the curtain fall
Measure after measure
Of writing on the wall
That burns so brightly
It blinds us all
I need me
You need you
We want us to be together
On Sundays in the rain
Closer than forever
Against or with the grain
To ride the storms of love again
So be closer to believing
Though your world is torn apart
For a moment changes all things
And to end is but to start
And if your journey's unrewarded
May your God lift up your heart
You are windblown
But you are mine
Spilled Milk? I Think Not...
I believe there are times when we simply choose to regret too much. Awhile ago, when I was facing a significant illness in my immediate family, one of my mentors told me to "live with no regrets." At that moment the advice seemed crystal clear. And in fact, it made making decisions during that time much easier. I did not hesitate to do what I thought would bring me closer to living a life with no regrets, particularly when it came to this person I loved so much, who was in fact so ill.
Why is it so much easier to live life with this focus when we have an immediate concern on our minds? And why is it so much harder to do this when everything is running at a steady and methodical pace? I like to believe that I am practical or pragmatic enough to know that there will always be decisions that we question later. Did we say the right thing in any particular moment? Did we make the best choice? Did we turn down the path that would lead us to the greatest harmony? Have we helped as much as we could, or as often? Yet in each of these there lies a simple inherent flaw - the concept of regret. If we make our choices out of our center; if we are conscious of what we believe are the potential consequences; moreover, if we are conscious of what we do not know and accept that we cannot predict all of the outcomes, but are willing to accept the outcome we are indeed choosing - why then would we second guess the decisions we make? Why is there room for regret?
Is it that we often make our decisions with out such deliberation? Are we just moving through patterns of behaviour, without considering breaking our personal molds? Is this what gives us pause? Have we become so pre-conditioned to our concept of ourselves and how we expect we will react that our actions are predetermined? And is it this that gives us cause for regret?
Or is it the occasional bout of spontaneity that makes us uncomfortable, and is it here that we question ourselves? When we act freely, moving directly from the center of who we are and simply express that inner person - is it then that we step back and question and indeed possibly regret having shown the world too much about ourselves?
Of course there are times where regret stems simply from the unintended consequences of an action. (Where those consequences impair others in truly negative ways, or in a less selfless environment where they impact the self negatively.) I suppose those moments will always yield regret. But should they? Would it not be better if they yielded a charge to action? A need not to regret, but to change; to change to the extent possible that negative result. And where this is not possible, to learn from that moment and to grow internally so that avoiding such unintended consequences in the future is ingrained in your decision making in the future? What is there truly to regret in having learned to be a better person?
There really is something in old cliches. And the one about spilled milk, well, it does say alot. The best we can do is clean up after ourselves, and learn from that moment and hopefully avoid the waste, and any breaking of the pitcher in the future.
So, back to point. To live a life without regret - that is not an easy task. It requires a great deal of conscious living, a strong dose of humility and the recognition that failing is not truly the measuring rod. It is in the art of getting up that we find our measure of grace.
Here's to living with our eyes, our hearts and our spirits wide open.
May the road rise up to greet you
and the wind be always at your back.
Why is it so much easier to live life with this focus when we have an immediate concern on our minds? And why is it so much harder to do this when everything is running at a steady and methodical pace? I like to believe that I am practical or pragmatic enough to know that there will always be decisions that we question later. Did we say the right thing in any particular moment? Did we make the best choice? Did we turn down the path that would lead us to the greatest harmony? Have we helped as much as we could, or as often? Yet in each of these there lies a simple inherent flaw - the concept of regret. If we make our choices out of our center; if we are conscious of what we believe are the potential consequences; moreover, if we are conscious of what we do not know and accept that we cannot predict all of the outcomes, but are willing to accept the outcome we are indeed choosing - why then would we second guess the decisions we make? Why is there room for regret?
Is it that we often make our decisions with out such deliberation? Are we just moving through patterns of behaviour, without considering breaking our personal molds? Is this what gives us pause? Have we become so pre-conditioned to our concept of ourselves and how we expect we will react that our actions are predetermined? And is it this that gives us cause for regret?
Or is it the occasional bout of spontaneity that makes us uncomfortable, and is it here that we question ourselves? When we act freely, moving directly from the center of who we are and simply express that inner person - is it then that we step back and question and indeed possibly regret having shown the world too much about ourselves?
Of course there are times where regret stems simply from the unintended consequences of an action. (Where those consequences impair others in truly negative ways, or in a less selfless environment where they impact the self negatively.) I suppose those moments will always yield regret. But should they? Would it not be better if they yielded a charge to action? A need not to regret, but to change; to change to the extent possible that negative result. And where this is not possible, to learn from that moment and to grow internally so that avoiding such unintended consequences in the future is ingrained in your decision making in the future? What is there truly to regret in having learned to be a better person?
There really is something in old cliches. And the one about spilled milk, well, it does say alot. The best we can do is clean up after ourselves, and learn from that moment and hopefully avoid the waste, and any breaking of the pitcher in the future.
So, back to point. To live a life without regret - that is not an easy task. It requires a great deal of conscious living, a strong dose of humility and the recognition that failing is not truly the measuring rod. It is in the art of getting up that we find our measure of grace.
Here's to living with our eyes, our hearts and our spirits wide open.
May the road rise up to greet you
and the wind be always at your back.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Measure after Measure........
"Take me closer to believing than I've ever come before. For a moment changes all things..." Hmmm... there are just some songs that never really get out of your head (thank you Emerson Lake and Palmer for this one).
This last year (or so) has been such a wild ride. I had been closer to believing than I ever was before, yet a moment did change everything. Actually just six simple words repeated on two separate days. Yet they completely changed my understanding of the life I had been living for the last two years. How easy it is to skew the world to a view that is so completely distanced from reality. How easier it is still for others to let you ride along there. Not because there is any malice in doing so, just because it is easier to let it ride.
Yet here I am wondering if that song has reason to echo in my head. And what are the consequences? How blind does it make us when we allow ourselves to believe? Conversely, how empty are we if we simply refuse not to?
And since a moment changes all things. and to end is but to start - then what have any of us to loose? I thought perhaps I needed to think this out again - now I see, it is better not to be thinking at all.
I am closer to believing - and I think its time to start...What is that other line?.... Ah yes,
"Measure after measure...Like writing on the Wall"
It really is a great song.........
This last year (or so) has been such a wild ride. I had been closer to believing than I ever was before, yet a moment did change everything. Actually just six simple words repeated on two separate days. Yet they completely changed my understanding of the life I had been living for the last two years. How easy it is to skew the world to a view that is so completely distanced from reality. How easier it is still for others to let you ride along there. Not because there is any malice in doing so, just because it is easier to let it ride.
Yet here I am wondering if that song has reason to echo in my head. And what are the consequences? How blind does it make us when we allow ourselves to believe? Conversely, how empty are we if we simply refuse not to?
And since a moment changes all things. and to end is but to start - then what have any of us to loose? I thought perhaps I needed to think this out again - now I see, it is better not to be thinking at all.
I am closer to believing - and I think its time to start...What is that other line?.... Ah yes,
"Measure after measure...Like writing on the Wall"
It really is a great song.........
Sunday, November 14, 2010
On Transcedence
I am reading a book that speaks to the existential isolation of man within his universe. The author attempts to explain how man interacts with language and signs within his world and with other people in an attempt to transcend his essential separateness.
It is interesting to note that in this view of the world, only man is seen as having this concern with his essential "selfness". Animals are portrayed as not discerning this break from nature and from each other.
As we move from our infant stage, gradually becoming capable of responding to the world around us with language and signals so that we are able to communicate, we by default isolate ourselves. This isolation results from our inability to directly transfer our thought or vision to others. We are limited by the language we have available to us. In this we often fall into the trap of trying to assure ourselves that we are being "seen" as we see ourselves, or more often as we would wish to be seen. Thus creating a constant cycle of discomfort as we are never truly able to discern if this is happening or not.
This is further complicated by the evolving social depiction of what is best, or how to be best. Hence the love of the material, the desire to perfect our physical to fit stereotypes of beauty. This can create the corruption of the vision of the self based on our desires to be accepted and perhaps even loved within these contexts.
The art then of transcendance is captured less in our religious and spiritual consensus, as one would expect, but in our ability to cope with these internal demands (shaped in part by our understanding of external expectations.) In seeking transcendance we can be driven in many directions. There are those who seek to stand above the crowd by exceeding in each category of the externally defined perfection of modern life. Hence these people are beautiful, successful, and kind (at least from the public view). These are often the people who are the least kind to themselves and the most likely to be hyper-competitive with those around them. There is of course, the other extreme, those who reject these definitions and strive to reach the polar opposite. They find satisfaction in shocking the mass-senses. Whatever might be the most objectionable is where they choose to act. Be this their state of dress or hygiene to their choice to reject all aspects or the material. Often these individuals find themselves moving in the opposite direction as they mature. Perhaps these two sterotypes are most commonly balanced by those who seek transcendance through either dominance in knowledge or through the arts. These are also forms of the extreme. When knowledge is used as the key, it allows the individual to know all - at some cost to their relationship with others - as they then must know what others think and feel and from where they are driven better than the individual themselves. This blocks their ability to ever truly know anyone as their eyes and ears are forever closed to another's point of view. This point of view being predetemined by their certain knowledge in advance. For the artist in transcendant posture, they often miss the world they live in, by transcribing that which has already occurred or focusing on that which is yet to come. They are too trapped in the habit of painting the past, or in trying to show the world a picture of the future, to truly live in the moment.
How then does the average human escape these traps and reach transcendance? How do we learn to overcome our separateness and find our bond with each other and with our world? This seems at the surface to either be a question that has no answer or to be truly pendantic in nature.
After completing the text regarding the cosmic approach to transcendance, my reaction is less vaguely defined. I think perhaps transcendance occurs only when we open ourselves to the moment we are living in. When we deliberately choose not to edit the moment or ourselves as we live it.
This is not an easy task, it requires us to somehow trust as a child would that the moment and those within it will not judge us. It also requires us to neither judge ourselves nor the participants of the moment. We are by the nature of our society, trained to make these judgements. If we can suspend judgement long enough to live truly in the moment, we can transcend our otherness and truly "BE" a part of our world.
What we do with this experience is ours alone, individually, to absorb and apply. It can help us to truly be comfortable in our skin; to become closer to those around us; to find joy in the act of daily living - or perhaps it will provide a small oasis of calm and nothing more. However, this art of transcendance leads, it seems to me, to the type of nirvana that is so often described within the Eastern religious tomes. I know that meditation is prescribed as a means of getting there. But this is really just the portal for opening oneself to the moment. It is not the end game in and of itself.
The idea of meditation is to free yourself from your self-limiting boundaries such that you are capable of interacting with the world without the limiting filters so easily applied by our judgemental selves.
I think perhaps this art of transcendance relies first and foremost on the ability to accept oneself as a complete being. To stop looking toward a point where you will become enough or reach happiness; to not have a destination in mind - no "tipping point" that will enable the self to embrace its totality with love and acceptance. To transcend one must find a way to accept the human condition of the self in this moment and each moment going forward. You are a whole and complete human being, worthy of every breath and complete, beautiful and substantial in your own right. This in turn leads to respect for others around you, in their natural state. They too are transcendant and whole. In this paradigm all belong within the circle of understanding.
Though we will remain limited by language, we can transcend through acceptance and celebration of the self.
The otter is a wonderful creature, they live in bounty, with true zest for life. Even as they forage for food, they can be seen to flow with the cosmos and to enjoy every moment. Perhaps that is the art of transcendance. To realize that at the core, we are all "otters of the universe" and to begin to celebrate this innate capacity for joy in each and everyone of us.
Live, love, laugh ...........and dance as often as you can, even if everyone is watching.
It is interesting to note that in this view of the world, only man is seen as having this concern with his essential "selfness". Animals are portrayed as not discerning this break from nature and from each other.
As we move from our infant stage, gradually becoming capable of responding to the world around us with language and signals so that we are able to communicate, we by default isolate ourselves. This isolation results from our inability to directly transfer our thought or vision to others. We are limited by the language we have available to us. In this we often fall into the trap of trying to assure ourselves that we are being "seen" as we see ourselves, or more often as we would wish to be seen. Thus creating a constant cycle of discomfort as we are never truly able to discern if this is happening or not.
This is further complicated by the evolving social depiction of what is best, or how to be best. Hence the love of the material, the desire to perfect our physical to fit stereotypes of beauty. This can create the corruption of the vision of the self based on our desires to be accepted and perhaps even loved within these contexts.
The art then of transcendance is captured less in our religious and spiritual consensus, as one would expect, but in our ability to cope with these internal demands (shaped in part by our understanding of external expectations.) In seeking transcendance we can be driven in many directions. There are those who seek to stand above the crowd by exceeding in each category of the externally defined perfection of modern life. Hence these people are beautiful, successful, and kind (at least from the public view). These are often the people who are the least kind to themselves and the most likely to be hyper-competitive with those around them. There is of course, the other extreme, those who reject these definitions and strive to reach the polar opposite. They find satisfaction in shocking the mass-senses. Whatever might be the most objectionable is where they choose to act. Be this their state of dress or hygiene to their choice to reject all aspects or the material. Often these individuals find themselves moving in the opposite direction as they mature. Perhaps these two sterotypes are most commonly balanced by those who seek transcendance through either dominance in knowledge or through the arts. These are also forms of the extreme. When knowledge is used as the key, it allows the individual to know all - at some cost to their relationship with others - as they then must know what others think and feel and from where they are driven better than the individual themselves. This blocks their ability to ever truly know anyone as their eyes and ears are forever closed to another's point of view. This point of view being predetemined by their certain knowledge in advance. For the artist in transcendant posture, they often miss the world they live in, by transcribing that which has already occurred or focusing on that which is yet to come. They are too trapped in the habit of painting the past, or in trying to show the world a picture of the future, to truly live in the moment.
How then does the average human escape these traps and reach transcendance? How do we learn to overcome our separateness and find our bond with each other and with our world? This seems at the surface to either be a question that has no answer or to be truly pendantic in nature.
After completing the text regarding the cosmic approach to transcendance, my reaction is less vaguely defined. I think perhaps transcendance occurs only when we open ourselves to the moment we are living in. When we deliberately choose not to edit the moment or ourselves as we live it.
This is not an easy task, it requires us to somehow trust as a child would that the moment and those within it will not judge us. It also requires us to neither judge ourselves nor the participants of the moment. We are by the nature of our society, trained to make these judgements. If we can suspend judgement long enough to live truly in the moment, we can transcend our otherness and truly "BE" a part of our world.
What we do with this experience is ours alone, individually, to absorb and apply. It can help us to truly be comfortable in our skin; to become closer to those around us; to find joy in the act of daily living - or perhaps it will provide a small oasis of calm and nothing more. However, this art of transcendance leads, it seems to me, to the type of nirvana that is so often described within the Eastern religious tomes. I know that meditation is prescribed as a means of getting there. But this is really just the portal for opening oneself to the moment. It is not the end game in and of itself.
The idea of meditation is to free yourself from your self-limiting boundaries such that you are capable of interacting with the world without the limiting filters so easily applied by our judgemental selves.
I think perhaps this art of transcendance relies first and foremost on the ability to accept oneself as a complete being. To stop looking toward a point where you will become enough or reach happiness; to not have a destination in mind - no "tipping point" that will enable the self to embrace its totality with love and acceptance. To transcend one must find a way to accept the human condition of the self in this moment and each moment going forward. You are a whole and complete human being, worthy of every breath and complete, beautiful and substantial in your own right. This in turn leads to respect for others around you, in their natural state. They too are transcendant and whole. In this paradigm all belong within the circle of understanding.
Though we will remain limited by language, we can transcend through acceptance and celebration of the self.
The otter is a wonderful creature, they live in bounty, with true zest for life. Even as they forage for food, they can be seen to flow with the cosmos and to enjoy every moment. Perhaps that is the art of transcendance. To realize that at the core, we are all "otters of the universe" and to begin to celebrate this innate capacity for joy in each and everyone of us.
Live, love, laugh ...........and dance as often as you can, even if everyone is watching.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Go Follow the Sun
Here I am looking at the night sky and it is only a bit after 4 pm. Where-ever did the summer go? Seems like only a moment ago that the sun streamed through the window well past the dinner hour. Now we move into the time of year that I struggle the most with, when I wake in the dark and go home in the dark.
Isn't it odd that we find such comfort in the dark when we curl up to sleep, yet are so discomfited by its embrace when awake? I suppose the challenge now is to find a way to capture the sun in my days and carry it with me, whether I can physically see it or not.
This morning I spoke with my Mom. She is on an incredible journey through the South with a great friend. JoAnn has the most infectious laugh. Just hearing the southern trill that rings through her laughter sets a person at ease. So imagine two light-hearted souls traveling the back woods to visit the old haunts of famous writers like Faulkner and Harper Lee. They managed to line these up in a great circular loop that took them from home and back again, through all the strangest places (and all the most noted antiquarian bookstores), without missing an author along the way. I found, in listening to the story of their journey as I made my way through the night sky that was somehow morning in my neck of the woods, that the sun came through in all its golden shades. And perhaps that is how people can carry that magic with them.
The sun may fade from the sky during winter, but it stays with the people we love. When we take the time to connect, to hear their stories and experience their laughter it seems that those wonderful rays just shine. I am ever so thankful to have a Mom that lives life with such a bold paintbrush. And if I think about it, I know there are a few other people in my life that are capable of helping me find the sun in these darker days of the year.
My wish for everyone is that they have the same connections in their lives and the vision to reach out when they need that warmth to boost their days.
Happy Winter............and Thanks Mom, I love you very much, for all that you are and all the joy that you bring to me and the rest of the world at large.
Isn't it odd that we find such comfort in the dark when we curl up to sleep, yet are so discomfited by its embrace when awake? I suppose the challenge now is to find a way to capture the sun in my days and carry it with me, whether I can physically see it or not.
This morning I spoke with my Mom. She is on an incredible journey through the South with a great friend. JoAnn has the most infectious laugh. Just hearing the southern trill that rings through her laughter sets a person at ease. So imagine two light-hearted souls traveling the back woods to visit the old haunts of famous writers like Faulkner and Harper Lee. They managed to line these up in a great circular loop that took them from home and back again, through all the strangest places (and all the most noted antiquarian bookstores), without missing an author along the way. I found, in listening to the story of their journey as I made my way through the night sky that was somehow morning in my neck of the woods, that the sun came through in all its golden shades. And perhaps that is how people can carry that magic with them.
The sun may fade from the sky during winter, but it stays with the people we love. When we take the time to connect, to hear their stories and experience their laughter it seems that those wonderful rays just shine. I am ever so thankful to have a Mom that lives life with such a bold paintbrush. And if I think about it, I know there are a few other people in my life that are capable of helping me find the sun in these darker days of the year.
My wish for everyone is that they have the same connections in their lives and the vision to reach out when they need that warmth to boost their days.
Happy Winter............and Thanks Mom, I love you very much, for all that you are and all the joy that you bring to me and the rest of the world at large.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)