Sunday 25 September 2016

The Living Dead



On a canoe ride in Cootes Paradise this week, we stopped to enjoy a picnic under this tree. I love trees. I am drawn to them. They inspire me to explore deep thoughts and emotions. As we sat I was not surprised my mind turned as it did.

More interesting to me than the limbs that thrive, are the dead ones. The ones that still cling to the trunk, some longer than others, evidence of the time and energy invested in their growth before their lives were terminated.

Even though they are dead, as the limbs age, rot, then are torn away from the trunk by a gust of wind or under the weight of winter ice, even then, the tree long thought to have dealt with the loss of life will find itself healing anew. Ten, twenty or fifty years from now the wound from the loss will never heal so fully that one who sits under it won't be able to see where the tree has been wounded.

Still, the tree grows majestically. It reaches it's thriving limbs out across the water. It drinks deeply. It provides oxygen, shade, food, shelter for wild life as well as for the pair of us looking for a place to catch our breath; feed our bodies; renew our spirits.

As my thoughts continue on to myself, I consider the number of ideas, dreams, and relationships that had to die in order for me to grow. Like the tree, the remnants of my abandoned things either cling to or have wounded me. I wonder how much easier life would be if my wounds and yours were worn externally or at least openly.

When we climb back into the canoe, I rest my hand on the tree, feel its strength. I glance back at the tangled bare limbs, thank them for their nakedness. In the moment we push off from shore I am deeply grateful for the beauty, for the truth. I look at all the places the tree tried to grow; tried and succeeded for some time before failing.

I see life. I see me. I see you too.





Sunday 4 September 2016

Wishing




I was standing here in Prince Edward Island looking at the water and wishing people were more like it.  Wishing I could look at them and see past any shit on the surface right down deep inside of them to all the life they wish they could hide. Wishing I could know if the waves on their surface are the only momentum they have or if they only exist to distract me from what's going on underneath. Wishing that a simple glance could tell me how shallow or deep they are.

I wish people could look at me and see who I am rather than get distracted by all the bullshit that's going on inside their own heads; wish it didn't make it impossible for them to see me clearly.

Some people look at water and they want it to be clear, revealing. Some people are disappointed when they look and don't see a reflection of themselves.

When water is dark, dirty or murky most of us turn away disinterested, disgusted by what we cannot know. We do not want to linger on the shore or lounge on the beach hoping the smell dissipates and the water clears. Not so with people. With people we assume mystery, we want to wade into their funk so we can work at finding out what's underneath.

Admittedly, sometimes a short vigil is warranted. A storm may have just passed. The water may simply need time to resettle.

Underneath all water seen and unseen, lays a bottom littered with debris and/or laden with treasure. Whether beautiful or parasitic, there is also some form of life.

What does water make you wish for?