|Photo: Arctic Tern, photograph by Arthur Morris.|
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
It's amazing how things change. One day. Love and Patience. And then another. Pain and Anger. It's not that the previous feelings go away, but they are suddenly accompanied by strangers. Perhaps there were even moments when these others had already arrived, peering through glass windows and knocking on doors, and only just now did they make their way in. Their entrance is unsettling and shocking, as much a shock as it was when it became known that the lock didn't break, there was just never a lock in the first place. Should there have been? Feelings, however, often do not make sense. Neither are they mutually exclusive. The wonder comes from the crowded interior, where the walls remain strong and sturdy, but the space fills in. And who would have known that in this one little house they could find a place to fit? Forget the picture frames that hang, the clock on the desk, the corner in which an end table sits, for only the best can appreciate such beautiful decorations and treat these details with respect. Like lungs, the rooms are finally full of substance. Do we breathe air, smoke, or love? Nevertheless, I've learned from the words of the best, that when the pressure gets too intense that the only way to deal is to find a means for release. Part of that comes with, or from, a stroke of gratitude in a moment of grace. How long does it take to turn all of those "No's" that deny song and dance into one simple "Yes"? How many times must one take this stance? Affirmation waits in the wings until it's offered an embrace, when what forced its way in is finally met face to face. Like a man's recurring nightmare, leading to twenty-some years of being scared, and when he finally owned up to address his own fear. This dreamlike state is unclear but it is not uncontrolled--consciousness of health grows out of commitments to one's strength. And experiences like this work their way from the dark pits of inarticulate stomachs, the weight of lightlessness, into ashen birds that continue their flight, even when they don't know how far and for how long they can fly.