movingforwardslowly

I hear Moana singing and I think of spirals and tunnels. The sound waves echo around and around and it takes me down a time tunnel, from radio waves to gamma waves to thoughts of ships and anchors, then back to Hawaiian surf boards.

The ocean has been a constant in my life. I was born on an island in the tropics. We moved away before I got to know it. My father learned to sail there, though I don’t remember this.

We moved to a North Pacific coastal town and then onward to a North Atlantic coastal town. Both coasts had beaches. At five we traveled on an ocean liner from the North Pacific Ocean to the South China Sea.

I learned about banana trees, monsoons, and whole roasted pigs with apples in their mouths, and chocolate covered ants. Before we left the South China Sea I learned about rock gardens and tea ceremonies, and kimonos.

At eight we moved back to the Pacific coast, and lived on a Naval base. I learned about war and absent fathers. My brother listened to The House of the Rising Sun, the Beach Boys, and the Doors. I learned how to macrame and play piano. My sister chose the flute.

By the time I was twelve we had settled in the Mid-Atlantic. We became anchored inland, no longer on a coast. Decades passed, we all went off to college. I was the only one to return home and back into my parent’s daily life. Soon after my return my parents split away from one another. My life became divided.

Eventually both my parents passed. My siblings have not returned since then. The past is now the past.

My life has moved on. My vision still works, and I live from day to day anchored in the present. This past summer I bought an anchor T-shirt. It serves as a symbol of my past and both my parents who had worn gold anchors on their lapels. I don’t wear it every day, only now and then, and as the weather chills it will be put away until the weather warms again.

 

 

 

 

Sitting in the sun today, I had thoughts of an abalone half shell. Long ago I had inherited a lovely old basket full of show shells. This is how the abalone came into my possession.

I remembered how the abalone’s color sparkled in the sun. The pastel pink and sea-foam green of its inner side blended naturally. Its outer shell was encrusted with evidence of a past life where other life forms had snugly attached themselves to it.

I knew nothing of its personal past. I just knew it had to have lived a past life in a distant sea. Either a diver or a stormy surf must have brought it up to shore. It wore nature’s artistry with a humble modesty.

One day I had decided to showcase it in a miniature garden I was making. It sat among an array of miniature plants. Since the plants were within their element of soil, they flourished and became overgrown. The abalone was in an alien habitat, and it could not compete. It sank into the soil as the plants took over.

Today my memory of it sent me searching for it. When I found it I saw no evidence of its pastel pink and sea foam green. All its vivid color was covered over with a dark rich soil embedded in its every crevice. I cleaned it out and washed it with a mild soap. I’ll have to soak it in a bowl of water to see if I can bring back its former glory.

 

 I am a spiral, not a braid. I can twirl and curl, spring and stretch.

A braid is always holding hands within. It is always neat and well-behaved.

Step on to my spiral spinner. I will wind you up, then let you go.

I hope you are a ballet or disco dancer or have an iron stomach.

Stand tall and hold your ground for the dizzying motion can throw you down.

 

Numbers bounce. Words sink. Periods stay.

A rhyme can soar while reason stumbles.

Numbers rumble, roll, and tumble.

Words mix and match. The meanings get lost.

Interpreters, translators, and liaisons are at a loss.

There is no script or cipher. All the symbols cry and defy.

We will not stand on the spot, hang on the peg,

Or step in the hole. You cannot order us.

The dreamy days of summer are coming to a close. All the random thoughts that like to cycle through my head will have to take a back burner.

The reality of  paid work will be upon me next week. Year round I’m a caregiver to my adult daughter. There is one continuous season to this work, and I am the boss.

Naturally when someone else pays you, they are the boss. And bosses have bosses. Such is the living and working in the real world.

I’m actually looking forward to getting out of my head, and getting involved again with the education of the young people in my community.

This work definitely keeps me grounded, and helps me to sharpen my communication skills with young people.

I have a tendency to think with outdated words.  I need to keep updating myself with the language of today.

We all want to hold onto time, and yet, time is a concept with abstract words.

What exactly do we want to hold onto?

A snapshot of our life, a state of being, a permanent situation. A chance to make a difference or a chance to make more money. Staying young becomes a quest.

We all want more time to fill our days and nights with business, pleasure, and even ecstasy. We all compete for more time. We don’t want to believe it is all a ruse.

In the long run all  will dim and most will be forgotten. Life is inherently impermanent. As individuals we perish, as a collective group we sustain our species for a little while longer. Life as we know it will eventually end.

The clouds can hold onto time in suspended animation. However, one cannot really live in an animated state.

In the meantime, let’s celebrate the ones we love and give thanks for the passage of time. If time didn’t pass for us we would just be river stones.

 

The other day when I was down by the river I saw many squirrels scampering around.

There was one little squirrel that was particularly attentive to me. He crawled up very close and hugged the ground. He looked like he was begging me for something.

The only thing I could think to say to him was that I had no peanuts with me. I promised him that next time I come down to the river I would bring him some.

Today, I brought a bag of Hope and Harmony farms Raw in the Shell Peanuts.

My little squirrel friend was nowhere to be seen, and I saw no other squirrels around.

It felt like I was at a different river today, though the river looked the same.

I left several peanuts on the ground in hopes that he would find them after I was gone.

I’ll try to find him another day.

 

Today’s journey led me to a gravel road. A wrong turn to be exact.

It went on much longer than expected. It reminded me of childhood summers, and my family’s trips to see my father’s parents.

They lived on a farm out in the middle of rural farmland in the state of Missouri. We always pronounced it with an “ah” sound at the end, and not a long “e” sound.

On these trips we had to drive for miles on gravel roads.

When all the family was together my grandfather would pile all of the grandkids (9 of us) in the back of his pick-up truck, and drive over the hills at high enough speed that the back end would lurch up and our stomachs would drop on the way down.

It was a greater thrill than any roller-coaster ride.

In today’s world the child welfare police would probably want my grandfather’s neck.

However, I must say it was a thrill I will always remember.

This photo is of my grandparent’s farmhouse.

The river peacefully saunters on its way. The air is dry and pleasant.

The temperature goes unnoticed. There are no highs or lows, only a middle ground of comfort.

I wonder what secrets the river has washed away or hidden in its depths.

On slow days the sky can see its reflection. And the river calmly hides behind this mask.

Don’t be deceived for the river has plenty of fury it can build upon.

In its fury it has no patience for sky reflections.

Most days it will let the wind caress it, and gentle lines give evidence of the wind’s direction.

Humans gravitate towards the river for it can provide food and a pathway to adventure.

The river is both a giver and a taker.

The stifling heat is keeping me inside.

I’ve only ventured out to feed the fish.

The other day I started to cut the old lilac down.

My husband helped.

The process is ongoing. I’ll finish when the weather turns.

I haven’t decided what all will fill the space.

My hairdresser Azy showed me pictures of peaches on her peach tree.

I now have peach envy.

I still have thoughts of the red witch hazel, Diane.

I don’t plan to plant till fall, and possibly next early spring.

So, I have time on my side to think.

Early evening I’ll venture out again to do a little watering.

Even the pond fountain looks a little defeated.

Images of the slow motion capture of water drops comes into my mind.

This too will pass.