shine on as flashlight in my tunnel, for this vision
align lights in this room just so
no flicker too irradic, no clouds to overcome its glow
the full moon this week tightened the screws in my timing; oiled its automation that i might understand,
how things must come to be
i’d be a fool to turn an eye, i know i would to the eccentricity with which the stars, however pale in my alaskan sky, ding the majestic chords to my life, soft mallots making melody. i’d be ignorant to deny the force of gravity…the tide, the moon and whatever other bigger things face me to this direction…
light is on me now; spot
small acts build into the bigger thing
and every so often what seems small explodes into a transformation of the mind, magnitude off the charts…unknown lengths of satisfaction.
tragedy, understanding, peace and then joy.
once the beer room, twice the junk room…it had been the place to hide things which had no home. forming a long convoluted twist of things to do later on:
knit a hat
have people over;
there was not even room to step.
an inch for the eye, the turned knob of this room revealed abandoned life. virtually, fulfillment tossed into a monopoly of the untouched.
but beneath all the suppression, vision had not yet escaped me. i even knew back in february what i wanted of that cubicle space. though smaller than the master bedroom, i had painted it a pleasant wasabi hue over the winter and it did not meet the heat of the rising sun. it had potential; it spoke to me and i couldn’t wait to speak back. anymore,
i am a sorter, jason is a hoarder and so into piles went our things. objects idenitified by their use, their color, their size…
under every nook and cranny, eagerly, i stole the crowding creatures and reestablished them into labeled sections of my living room, attaching each to a like-minded category. when all had been named and tagged, only dog hair and pennies remained. and even those, then were vacuumed up by my bagless hoover.
piece by piece, i arranged into this vacant space, filling in with furniture. placing with purpose, confident its alignment be necessary to the whole room. the bed, the bedside tables, the poppy art painting from Horchow, specific pictures, accenting pillows, linens. the room was complete in a matter of hours. swiftly, without concern or confusion….the room simply became what it should be.
the new beer room, now,
had a bit more challenge to is construction. not merely could it be a beer room, any longer…considering the junk that had eventually piled into the prior establshment. i knew i had to expand this idea of a dedicated room, and dedicate it to all our hobbies, our projects. make them easily accessible, eager, inviting.
and so it was done…over a few days, in an open-pantry style, our to-do list unmangled into an effective space with which to live them out. soon, we will have people over, invite them into our favorite things. our substance. our hearts now will be tangible to our friends, shared with our closest.
over those long, laborous days, though,
seeing this project through
much more was done for my heart than had been done in years. though i have found clarity and understanding in many things, these last couple days brought to me, beyond my own will or wisdom, the reclamation of my heart in its most unabused, unsubjected state.
you see, the upturning of boxes, invited me to explore these dust-laden interests, long-buried under heaps of wasted medium, purpose, expression unexpressed..muted.
as i uncovered my yarns, my woodburning tools, my paint, my fabric, my color…
waves of imagination ebbed and frothed over my thoughts.
this may seem the natural sequence that any ordinary person should follow when opening something left unopened for a good length of time. its true…i followed this story up to the catharsis of the end…i walked away from this experience renewed
but with something more, a double ending. and times that, as well:
for one thing, i recognized a pattern. instantly, it was, this discovery of rhythm, the discard of self so that what walks about in its given days, hours and nights, be void of any sense of soul, loving…mercy, compassion…the things which allow a person to thrive rather than go through the motions, unoiled hinges, chaotic behavior, misunderstood frustration. distance, static.
without meeting the needs of one’s heart, it can not grow. perspective does not cultivate if you can’t even catch the thoughts spinning through one’s head
or slow them down or hear them.
one box, in particular…long forgotten, pushed aside: an old army chest which belonged to my grandpa during the second world war. (there were two of them actually). he cared for these so much, he once had them dipped in oil before transport by ship over the atlantic. now, these oil-dipped crates, aged and worn, gave no notice of their former concern but the contents still maintained immeasurable value.
the innards of these boxes, locked away, i had misplaced the keys and mostly, wasn’t sure how much i really wanted them open.
but this day, i found the key and as the boxes could be used for other things, i knew it needed to be done. purposeful in my pursuit, there was not one star or one cloud hung in my sky which did not mean to be there.
on this full, unshadowed moonlit night, i lifted the lids of these crates,
filled, i thought, only with mystery, pieces of a puzzle which has never added to much. fragments of a death, a sullen 23rd of june some years ago: pictures, stains, intentions, handwriting analysis, ballistics, motive, means, opportunity.
i knew all this remained in the box, as it has for months and years.
but as i took each one by hand and lifted the objects from their casket, ironically i also came to discover hope. yes, an illuminated coffin also a discarded hope chest. a tunnel with one teardrop of light, enough of it to guide a focused heart. i discovered substance, which i only knew to be lost.
a piece of me, i could no longer smell. a piece of me, i could no longer feel, taste.
the lifted objects gave way to Mike’s sketches, his art displayed in the museum, pictures, souvenirs of something good, something quenching for thirst in me, dryer than a desert this deep yurning to sense him near, to sense me near.
and here it was, in my hands, videos from my childhood. pictures i thought been trashed. gnomes which he collected. yearbooks, sketches, awards…
i spoke out loud in this rotation of moment, philosophy leaning into tomorrow, night reflecting a glimmer of day,
“i will not bury you this way. you will not be buried, not your soul. your body has been buried, yes, but i will not bury your soul.”
and then i turned to me,
looking around at my crafts which had been heaped, buried alive under dirt and discard,
“i will not bury you this way….you are meant to live, i will not bury your soul, you are not dead.”
like a ritual, i took in hand the things which made my life a mystery and replaced them with care into one of the army chests (the other blending into the abstract idea of home). when all the mystery had been replaced, i looked at this and said,
“all this is suffering,”
my brother Alex taught me this, he is a buddhist man. what i said to this box, had not been a plan in me. i had no agenda, but it came from my soul. somewhere inside of me, i needed to let this go.
i needed to tangibly acknowledge the parts of my past which are suffering.
and in the same instance, glorify all that which even once brought me joy.
you can not, please never
bury that which brings you joy.
life is not worth living without it.
like dawn rising from a dream, like the roosters singing hallelujah to another morning come…i entered into a new day that night,
the lamp for my path, reignited, fueled. i am able to drive on, sinking into my motions, the soul sets itself at ease in these bones,
the fuzzy wake from meditation, i completed a long thoughtful breath and swiftly shifted gear.