Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Time Capsule Swallow


I finally have a moment. A moment to take a breath, sit back, smell the new kitchen air in my new nature-engulfed, heavily treed riverside home, and free fall into the existence of the day.

There's a sad, stark beauty to this life and I think it can be summed up in this truth:

When we are well, and connected, and living in a full, fresh way, time is a lightspeed silver jet above the clouds, and we are usually ram-jammed busy and unable to really step back and take mental snapshots of all of the beauty we are experiencing.

But when we are unwell, or sad, or low, or down on our luck, or not in the best frame of mind or relational atmosphere with those around us - we have all the time in the world. Too much, even.

Time is a taunter - a fickle minx that lurks in the shadows. We think we might grasp it and see a glimpse of its movement...and then it is gone. I think the best we can do with it is just to zen in - take a minute away from phones and computers, and just be in the stillness.

The day is getting on. The late day sun of the post 1:30 glow hits in, and we start to think about our homes. We get into our comfy mindspaces - filled with music and blanket forts and glow-in-the-dark star ceilings.

We tuck in for the winter, and hope we can sleep it off again and emerge renewed.





Wednesday, November 08, 2017

Where It All Comes From


Keep on keeping. Don't sleep when you're weeping. I can't believe that Slow Leaves came to town on October 13th and I played that show with him (Grant) and his pal (Rusty) and my homeboy Marc from Still Winter Hills.

Time is a tidal wave. It creeps up in the oceanic dark, under radar, and then throttles you -thrashing you to the ocean floor of existence and consciousness.

Sometimes I have dreams about long flowing hills. I don't know what that's about.

I also dream a lot about the ocean. And fields. And lost love. And withering hearts.

Some people in this life have saddened me more than others. Everyone is sad - we all carry around our buckets of sadness and regret and hate and hurt. But it's what we do beyond that point that makes us into who we are. Do we leave the buckets by the roadside...or keep carrying them?

I simply don't have the time for small-town/small-mind drama.

I live how I live, and I make tracks on the naysayers.

But isn't it beautiful to let go? TO just....release.

That, my friends, is where it all comes from.

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