In The Meadow
In the meadow no one can hurt you.
No one can spread lies about you.
No one can attack you.
No one can make you feel bad.
No one can be mean to you.
No one can hurt you
In the meadow. Continue reading
In The Meadow
writing
Soon…
Soon the sun will rise above those trees at the top of the hollow, sending bright life giving light down to dry the dew in the meadow along the creek.
Soon the sunlight will pass through these trees around the meadow turning into angel’s fingers dancing across the flowers, touching every dew drenched petal and leaf and transforming a common green field into a magic carpet of sparkling rhinestones.
Everywhere hang garlands seemingly tossed casually like discarded diamond necklaces draped between the stems of the taller plants.
You can see this, and feel this too, if you know where to stand and look.
I can show you, but only if you come here early in the morning to the place I call Happy Hollow.
Surf to live. Live to surf.
Old man who can’t surf anymore has bleak, almost hopeless message about depression.
(the keyword is ‘almost’)
I’ve been battling severe depression all my life.
I don’t know how I’ve made it this far. I’m going to be 65 in a few weeks.
I’m currently so depressed I haven’t gotten out of the house in weeks or done any of the things I normally love to do this time of year. Continue reading
Desperado
I’m coming to this post via a sort of backwards completion process. Only the reverse of that. LOL.
Backwards completion is the method of visualizing your end point or goal and then figuring out how to get there. I did the opposite to come to the insight I hope to share in this post and this video compilation of images. One step in front of the other until I realized where I was. Continue reading
Anticipation
As I remembered it, in anticipation…
Soon the sun will rise above those trees at the top of the hollow, sending bright life giving light down to dry the dew in the meadow along the creek. Continue reading
Life On The Edge
There is a place called Three Fathom Harbour I’d seen on the maps and driven past a road to it on the way to Lawrencetown. We didn’t head over that way more than a couple times this year, so I never checked it out. I’d heard there was a pretty consistent surf break out on the point of land on the west side of it called The Wreck. I was told it was a nice easy walk out along the well maintained public Atlantic View Trail.
Edging…its a very long way down.
Finally in early October I determined we were going to go check it out, so off we went early one morning. As usual I brought along George and my phone and snapped a few shots along the way. Turns out the fork we took led to a very steep cliff and along the edge of it for a ways. Looking at the soft crumbling soil and remembering the heavy rains we’d had the past week, and George’s newfound penchant for living life on the edge…I decided to backtrack and find another route out to the point rather than the one along the cliff edge. I think I know the real reason the beach below it is called Terminal Beach. Very surprised there are no warning signs or flags or anything. A truly dangerous place… Continue reading
Being Here
While walking with George, my too excited puppy, this morning as we crossed the creek, the big blue heron who often visits early to fish in the various ponds on the property and who was hiding unobserved behind the new spring leaves on the bushes along the water, suddenly lifted off and took off elegantly and gracefully into the sky. That is always a good omen and an exhilarating moment.
As I walk in the morning like that, I often regress deeply into childlike wonder and awareness. The words that escaped my lips at that moment were “Look, there goes Billy the Blue” and the big bird was christened after one of my dearest friends, a pilot who also shares those skies. Continue reading
February
The little pear tree in the middle of the meadow looks so tiny, small and lonely in the sea of white snow which now buries its trunk up to its lowest branches. Out in the barn tiny mice are hidden away in nests of cardboard shreds and rope fibers and string and strips of fabric pulled from old rags and carefully constructed inside idle old farm equipment and wherever they think they can stay warm and safe for the winter. The hungry feral barn cats survive by sniffing them out for a meal, if they can, or venture up to the old log cabin where they know they will find a bowl of cat food left out for them on the back deck. They must summon up their bravery, or have their fear overcome by hunger, to sneak up there through the deep snow, for if they aren’t careful and stealthy, George, the dog at the cabin, will sound the alert if he hears them on the deck late at night. Then all hell will explode and wake the whole house as he jumps off the warm crowded bed to jump against the thick glass of the back doors making all the noise he can manage. Continue reading
Daddy’s Heaven
The other day while walking my property here, my little country home I call Happy Hollow, even though I’ve been very happy here for a long time, I had a deep sense that something was missing. I couldn’t shake it. I sat down and this wrote itself in one long stream of consciousness.
It is a meditation of sorts, a hymn to honor the happiness and the beauty I’ve been fortunate to find here, and also a prayer for what I never had. I’ve spent many, many happy hours here soaking in the beauty and peace and joy it brings me, but lacking someone to share it with. A partner, a friend, a lover, a soul mate, a child at heart like me, yet capable and responsible too, a grown-up who refuses to grow old. My other half in the truest sense. The partner I never found. Continue reading