movingforwardslowly

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.

 

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.

Wind mills, tulips and other flowers can be found in Amsterdam.

It is the capital city of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, also known as Holland.

There once was a Count of Holland named Floris V.

He had many children. Some were out of wedlock. One was named Catherina.

She was not part of any official lineage.

Her spirit still spins around like the wind mills of Amsterdam.

Her wings sail with the revolving blades.

She has no ground to stand upon.

Her lonely shrieks fill the air on a starry night.

Perhaps, Edvard Munch and Vincent van Gogh could hear her cry.

I thought I was a hummingbird.

It turns out I’m a camel.

A two-humped camel at that.

My fate is to travel the long-and winding road,

Through a desert.

I have to remember that my destiny

Is in my own two hands.

I just need to keep hammering away, and like a camel 

I need to persevere and move steadily ahead.