Some dream of hot beaches, miles of sand and ocean breezes
I am more of a Lake Lady One of the “Great” lakes birthed that in me The rocks were uneven, slippery with seaweed and at times treacherous But The Lake offered lessons in community, transformation and genuineness that branded my soul The waves, rough stones, driftwood, sunsets, frigid waters, rancid mooneyes and vastness all played their part in shaping me All encounters at the lake, every childhood dream that unfolded there still calls to my soul and echoes in my bones All this, keeps me longing for my next sacred visit to The Lake We would sift for hours in the small pebbles, our closest version to sand On search for treasure Broken glass turned to precious nuggets of beauty Consequence of perpetual pounding, years of tumbling against denseness Endless days we spent hunting for glass stones, twinkles of white, green, tan and sky blue Then there was the prized lapis, a blue so royal and deep that our heart skipped a beat when sighted More valuable than diamonds or gold These glass stones at the lake’s edge led us to a deep understanding Time would smooth out our jagged, precarious edges as well We felt secure in knowing that beauty and joy could emerge from sharpness and brokenness Not all the stones were made of glass Not all were tiny and held in gentle hands There was also the legendary “Big Rock” You could find it down the right-away, our shared gateway to this marvelous realm Once you maneuvered down the steep bank you could sight it protruding from the ominous waters It called out to you and beckoned your company The walk out to The Big Rock was made challenging by the slippery path crowned with seaweed Exacerbated by strong waves that could knock over the strongest of ten-year-old legs Intensified by chilling 55 degree water Not even this could stop the lure of The Big Rock Arriving we stood atop a kingdom that belonged to only us, the children We ruled this space that suspended us above water Once upon this massive manifestation we were sturdy, bold and grounded When ready we would lunge from the big rock into the water beyond Taking care that we did not land on sharp bulges, knowing danger lurked We jumped at our own risk into the brisk waters With the assurance that The Big Rock would stand steady to greet us when we needed harbor or respite We didn’t notice it at the time but The Big Rock’s spirit sept into our bones It grounded and steadied us for trials and storms ahead When storms came through, The Lake could be unforgiving It is said that the tumbles of waves have seen heights up to 25 feet These squalls bring brown rollers thickened with muck It left us with ammunition for war Gobs of seaweed washed upon shore We collected the free offerings and pulled fresh handfuls of the green, silk that still clung on Piling high our stashes, getting ready to launch them Our wars had rules and we picked teams for the fight Most of the confrontation was manifest in the preparation and gathering The actual battle was short-lived and silly Splatting green bombs of goo at one another Hitting backs, legs, arms Occasionally, surprising the opposition with a pile upon their head Our seaweed battles taught us to compete with playfulness We used earth’s resources to build narratives that we acted out on the stage of life There was the Yin to this the Yang of The Lake Days when the stillness demanded that we hold our breathe Not disrupt the silence of this grand essence Perfect moments for skipping stones The model skipping stone, worth as much as blue glass Not too large, our small hands couldn’t manage But not too small that they couldn’t withstand the flight across the water Two skips upon the lining of lake was a sign of a beginner Some recall the hot, humid summer day in August when a neighborhood boy championed over 77 skips with a single stone Gliding upon the sacred surface for what seemed to be an eternity Too many for counting Skipping stones proved to us that miracles happen The solid weight of a rock can be held up and suspended in time and space by a fluid masterpiece We moved forward into our lives knowing that with exceptional substance and adroit action extraordinariness emerges The Lake was cold, always Even on the days it felt warm it was only in relation to the days of unbearable frigidness We had no patience to wait until it warmed The first robins poking around in the yard in March reminded us to venture back to The Lake The icepacks might still be solid and swimming unheard of but our spirits couldn’t wait another minute Wintery, dark months of frozenness were long and exaggerated and we needed to be awakened We didn’t have a minute to spare and couldn’t tolerate the thought of missing out on a single moment with The Lake So there we were inching our way into the all-but-frozen space Toe, foot, shin, thigh Stalling long enough to get numb and then inching a bit further Hands hovering over the water, resisting putting them in until necessary Blue and convulsing our bodies screamed for retreat We treaded on; numb, valiant, unrelenting Resolute to carry that blue glass stone out to the Big Rock to sit and watch the graceful seaweed pass back and forth over our crossed legs in the rhythm of unfolding waves Back and forth, entranced by the inhale and exhale The rise and fall of her breathe that translated to ripples of embrace over our bodies We sat upon The Big Rock as noble empresses ruling the world of childhood fantasy and vision The Lake called us in, each of us She imagined a world for us that would be full and bold and meaningful She held us for a while in truth of stillness at sunrise and harshness of storms at twilight She had the capacity; being large enough deep enough bold enough to hold these two truths together at once I am humbled and honored to be a Lady of the Lake, branded by lake moments that emboldened the child’s spirit and strengthened the lady’s soul You still swirl in me and garner hope, Provide beauty Encourage creativity Prioritize community and Provide assurance that all will be well
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I am a doer
Perhaps you can relate I find joy in checking off tasks from endless lists Triumph is felt when projects conclude Both the meaningful and mundane I show no discretion There is purpose to be found in finished feats that add to the greater good But there is also splendor in the mundane triumphs Such as finishing the last drops of shampoo from the bottle Seriously, why does that bring such pleasure? The absurdity of a doer The very act of doing is invigorating The drug of choice to fill voids and stay numb and taste bliss And doing serves me well most of the time Pleasing bosses and satisfying deadlines Conceding to the grinding culture that values what we produce more than who we are But for once, today – I do not “do” This day I sit Watching bluebirds and swallows perched Feeling the warmth of the lost sun on thighs and forearms and cheeks Smelling the newness awaken and open every crevice and potentiality Tasting the freedom of being, a hiatus from doing Gratitude seems to seep in Bees buzz a hum that zips the air with honesty Breezes shake through the leaves and dance past ears as reminders to breathe deeper Momma bluebird carries grubs to the house Adjusting each one in her beak just right before poking it through the hole Progenies chirp of gratitude as each twisting meal is delivered Have you ever watched a bluebird’s day? Perched high one moment, swooping down the next to gather sustenance Carrying it to nestled darlings Huddled deep awaiting nourishment Perhaps gazing out to glimpses of blue and green and twitters of light A vast world they have yet to encounter Still held tight by space and time Bright flashes of vibrant blue and tangs of burnt orange underneath flutter back out again in search of more The sacred dance of flight and song Departure and returning Have you ever stopped doing long enough to let the breeze shift your awareness, to dwell in life’s present moment Have you ever stopped long enough to forget the destructive dead-end patterns, Creating space for an alternative route to emerge? Have you ever paused deep enough to soak the moment’s depth and breadth into your soul? To develop snapshots of being Have you ever paused deep enough To build break walls to protect from the floods of doing Creating space for an alternate way of being to emerge? Today I think I may have On the wings of bluebirds Sacred pause Perched high in the Tamarack Space for being An invitation today from the bluebirds Perhaps tomorrow another invite in the form of whisper or howls, or specks or mountains Perhaps another invitation, possibly always an invite I hope again soon to RSVP “yes” As a career coach I witness many people grapple with the prospect of disappointment. The struggle to decide which path to step on to. The sacred grappling of life's decisions. Here is a story of one of those brave souls on the journey, Zinnia. “I’m going to disappoint you. But you knew that already,” I state firmly.
I recall the last time Zinnia sat before me begging for a clear, practical, and definitive answer. I finally had to be blunt with her, “We don’t sell that here. You have come to the wrong place.” Zinnia left despondent but the good news is that she is back. Her eyes long for some compassion, “Please just tell me what to do.” Zinnia is brilliant and excels in all she does. Without effort she masterfully turns out research papers, computes calculus problems and tackles chemistry labs. We rerun the script again. “Tell me about the classes you are in right now,” I say routinely. “Well, I have a costume design class – and I LOVE it!” She says as she tugs on her custom made skirt with bold colors and patters so mesmerizing that they demand the world to pay attention. “I am also in computer science,” Zinnia’s voice seems to disappear as she speaks these words. As if her actual soul is being squeezed out of her at the acknowledgement that she is actually taking this course. “And English,” she finds her voice again, although she still appears distant from the words that escape her lips. She has to think hard to remember the other classes she is in. Just moments ago, before she plopped down in my office she was sitting in one of those nameless classes. “Oh, I remember, Economics and History,” Zinnia’s shoulders drop and relax as she exhales a sigh of relief. It is as if she has just run a marathon trying to come up with that list. Zinnia is not the only nineteen-year-old floating around looking for meaning, direction and purpose. In fact, each year there are hundreds who sit in that very chair. Some days I even sit there. It is clear what makes her heart sing and brings her joy but my training keeps me from shoving it down her throat. I am supposed to shut up, get out of her way and let her come to it on her own. “Tell me about what keeps you from majoring in Theatre?” I ask slowly trying not to let on to my fatigue. She is silent. Then she breathes out the honest, uninspired answer, “I am afraid I can’t find a job when I graduate and my dad really wants me to go into Finance like him.” There she said it. “Give me the best reasons for why you should major in Theatre,” I dare her. Her eyes light up, she wiggles her body upright as if she was just given a boost of helium under her chair, “Well…,” She can’t decide if she wants to take the leap or not. For some reason it is easier for her to be more honest about the reasons she hates Finance than why she loves Theatre. It is almost as if she would betray her own flesh and blood by simply admitting to what she really feels. “What would your life be like if you decided on Theatre?” I try re-framing the question to give her another opportunity, another view. I can see in her eyes that she is saying the same words I said to her just minutes before. “I’m going to disappoint you. But you knew that already." The only thing is I can’t tell who she is saying these words to. It isn’t clear. Is she whispering them to me? Is she choking them down as she says them to herself? Is she saying them to her father? Is she screaming them to everyone who has EVER told her to be something she was not? I wait. I wait to see who she will say these words to. It is inevitable - she must ultimately say them to someone. With each breath and every ounce of my being I beg and plead. Say it to anyone, disappoint whoever you need to, but please just don’t say those words to the beautiful flower before me. Please don’t say them to Zinnia, she is on the verge of blooming and this flower promises to be bold, aromatic and inspirational. |
AuthorSome times I write. Even less than "some" times I share what I write. For those moments that I write and want to share I have done so here. Archives
December 2017
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