Observations from Island Time

Children collect all. 

Everything is a treasure...still.

What flashes silver and light? 

Moon beams hidden deep, 

come up from the belly of the sea, 

shining back at me. 

Parents are many things, 

but they are first and foremost gate keepers.

   The turbulent sea is often our reality. Gentle lapping waves belie the real and ever present battle for life beneath the lapping.

   Humans have the great privilege and choice of not choosing war, but rather peace. Do we?

On an island, bobbing is the main verb.

   Gray white hair and crisp linen shirt, someone grew you up, but you're still a little boy with your air planes and toys.  

   Even when it seems the hand of fate seeks and wills its way, you get to choose. You get to choose.

Big jet, loud and noisy, state your presence, your reason for being. 

Everyone who comes here is quiet. 

Almost.

Are you an inflated ego? 

Dried seaweed has a deeply satisfying crunch.

The fantastic things are tiny.

Children are echoes of our childhood. 

They call us home. 

 

   Thomas Wharton had me soaking up the sun and light in Every Blade of Grass. 

   I have decided coffee and books do not mix, ever. Three book stacks later the budget says, "ouch."

   Tiny little island, most homes are quiet and shuttered, but by nightfall laughter will ring loud. It's a Friday in summer, on a tiny little island. 

 The spirit is both fragile and resilient, at once.

    Every life distills down to something, maybe even one thing, what is that one thing?

   Everything on an island creaks and groans with age, and the strain of an isolated, but not alone, life.

   On an island, children and fog horns are the noisiest atoms around. 

   On an island one is tempted to say bad words when a 7 year old driving a Suburban passes you by, with a 12 year old in the passenger seat and no adults present. You didn't know you were so risk averse, nor life so fleeting, then you knew, and now you have been reminded.

What flashes all silver and light, 

breaking the surface of the water? 

A gleaming fish escaping...something bigger. 

 Reflections from time with lovely grandparents on the island,

  and a momento grandchildren make and leave behind.

 Goodbye little blue,

a bon voyage to you,

and on gleaming wings he flew.

Beautiful Shafts of Broken Light

    In our purest form we are light; in our purest, we are soul.

     Some ascribe a soul to everything. Maybe it is so, but if the rock, dog, or shell harbors a soul, I do not think they know it, at least not yet. Their potential waits.

    The shell, rock, and dog are for here and now, for us. Their presence reminds: Life is tender. Souls are tender. Handle with care. Look deeper. 

    They are hiding stories. Their beauty beckons us to seek and find, to look for the soul behind, beneath, and within. Each, like the books on the shelf, say, “Choose me, and I'll give you a glimpse of my story, and your soul.”

    The shell escaping the sea dazzles you and me. She has seen both the depths of the sea and tasted the lashing storm. She's been a home, for something – someone.“Be a home,” she says. Cradle her in your hand and she talks. She's been larger, now is smaller. Carved away by time, salt, sea, and abrasion. “Small is okay,” she whispers. “Small sparkles.”

    The dog snapping ferociously terrifies you and I. He's seen the back of a large hand, and cracked at the force. Fear once streamed from him, and he once quailed at ugly rebukes, but no more. His heart broke, cracked open, and roars his story. It echoes off the walls of the world. “I will terrify you first,” he roars. “I will be beaten no longer, but do the beating.” His soul groans not for release, but renewal. Once opalescent puppy eyes for someone, ovals of love, now he makes my soul constrict. My soul fills with anger; I pray for renewal.

    The rock, lying at feet, keeps her precious gems hidden, only in splitting her open will she release beauty. She cares not whether you seek her secrets, or let her lie quietly among the grasses. She is content to be the boy's treasure, or the chipmunk's resting place. She is happy to be pocketed, traveling far, or lying still. She knows what's within her. She waits for the one who comes with keen eye. “Look for the beauty within the mundane,” she says.

    Shells, dogs, and rocks speak. Even if they do not yet have a soul, one day they may, but they remind me of my soul, and of the other's soul. Surely the world is full of gleaming, broken, and hidden souls.

    We are soul. We are one. We come from the One True Soul, the Great Light. We arrive gleaming, become broken, and go into hiding. Treasures, us all. We are beautiful shafts of broken light. In embracing brokenness, we embrace each other. 

    Fusing broken shafts of soul light, fusing our light, bit by broken bit, we shine. Together.

Ocean Tides

  The ocean seeks capture.

Living, breathing, pulsing. 
Catch me, if you can.

Wash away time.

Wash away sorrow.

Wash away, with me.

I seek the capture:
to hold time,
standstill.

To dance yet, as ocean tides set. 

  And as the ocean embraces the chasm, so too I.
Let's span the horizons of the world;
Dark to light, and back again.

From fathoms deep,

to open sky,

my soul is safe in oceans wide. 

Capture me, God of the ocean and God of the shore:

I arrive in order to see, and with eyes for seeing.

Birthdays are for Joy

   Happy Birthday, Sweetheart. Twelve is a celebration, a triathlon, and an overcoming.

   Last year at this time you were being told you had severe, acute, and chronic colitis, for life, from Doernbecher. Oh, the story. It is thousands of words long, but only one word counts: God! He is good, and He is able. 

  He writes your story, not men or women; don't ever forget that. He led us north to Seattle Children's Hospital, and they said a very different thing: mild to moderate colitis and healing possible. "Yes, very likely an infection, not genetics, and we have patients who make a full healing." Full healing.  

   There is hope in front of you lovely girl. His grace reigns supreme. This past year He was, still is, our hope. We have hoped upon Him, and He met the need. He is able, and He is good. 

    And you have run your race with grace.

 You persevered. You gave all.
Yesterday's triathlon? A herald of healing.

 We are privileged to run beside you. 
We cheer for you with joy.

     Morrocan, for the girl who dreams words and worlds.

 May this next year be blessed and looked upon with anticipation.

   What does a twelve year old girl want for her birthday? That would be: pretty soaps, pretty papers, a pretty nightie, (on sale) and of course, outdoor gear. A Patagonia Sling Bag (Using the REI dividend and a 20% off coupon :-), an outdoor emergency sleeping bag, and Rite in the Rain paper, then there's a digital watch, books, and more books.

Exploring Summer

Do not fear to put thy feet

Naked in the river sweet;

Think not leech, or newt, or toad

Will bite thy foot when thou hast trod;

Nor let the water, rising high,

As thou wadest, make thee cry,

And sob; but ever live with me,

And not a wave shall trouble thee.

by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher

Building a Life, Bit by Bit

   Am I running behind? I don't know, maybe so. Some days it feels that way, but I'm letting go of my expectations about what summer days should be; summer days have rhythms of their own. Summer is a season in time for exploring, giving within community, and building our lives with a bit more freedom from school year routines. It's a time to sing, dance, read, or yes, even cry and whine. We've had a few of those days; hormones raging. Alas, this too shall pass.

   Summer is a time to help heal another, even if it's not what we expected of these sunny days. It's a time to help mend neighbors fences and get them hot wired, even if yours are not yet running.

   Because we build our lives bit by bit, brick by brick, and moment by moment.

 Trusting what we hold in the end will radiate beauty. 

   Then there's me, squirrelling away with the sheep in order to write, in order to create. Silence is a precious commodity around here because building a life is a noisy endeavor.

   I remind myself silence is over rated. I can survive without silence. I can, and will. It will be good for me. I can create in a loud space. I simply need be still.

   Pictures are from the Terry Lee Wells Discovery Museum in Reno, Nevada. Visiting a dear aunt and uncle recently, we beat the heat by building. I was quite surprised that the Smithsonian Spark!Lab was not the hit of the day, but rather The Shop. It's rare to see kids with real hand tools these days.  Let's change that this summer, shall we? Google Maker Camp is a good place to begin. It's a blast!