Costumes...

Superficial layers of color and cloth, covering flaws, concealing anything real that might give insight into a heart or a soul. Longing to fit, to find a perfect piece in a fucked up puzzle, they sculpt and mold and otherwise modify until existence is minimal, and exhibition is the main. Seeking satisfaction, regardless of reality, nothing made of substance and genuine depth, but merely illusion and shallow deception, they stumble through, unknowing, careless of what is real or no. Pain is perpetuated, truth unknown, self-destructive source of motivation driving them on.

Together they perform, filling empty roles, playing false parts, life is a stage and the director is a whore. Souls are sold for the lust in their eyes, diverting deep emotion for the pleasure of the flesh. Dreams are discarded, love is denied. Whims of society decide which act goes on, an erotic portrayal of a marketing ideal or perversion of true passion, either way it isn’t real. Discouraged, disillusioned, denied… devastating awakening, time and time again… prices will be paid.

In Motion

A broken blanket of white shrouds the world around her as she makes her way out into the early morning silence. At the edge of escaping this world, on the verge of caving in, she does the only thing she knows to do… she moves. Often, simply finding motion is enough, a change of scenery, a change of space, anything to keep the blood flowing. Sometimes she has been able to find groomed trails, her course smooth and easy, built for running, and she has been able to move with abandon, fast and free. In these times she reaches goals, climbs mountains, exists within her dreams. In these times, she runs for the sake of running, for the thrill of being alive, simply to feel the sun on her face, a gentle breeze guiding her in celebration.

At other times she feels trapped and runs for her life, escaping as she is today, as she did yesterday, and the day before… As she wanders into the dimness she can hear the echoes of other such runs, voices calling to her, reminding her of failed attempts at breaking free. At these times the road is rough, uneven, strewn with pieces of her heart, with scattered shells of broken dreams, with hazards and traps and the lies people tell. Often she navigates the path on her knees, unable to rise above the anguish and devastation. Crawling through the landmines, pulling herself up when she can, moving uneasily, unsteadily, she is focused only on the step she can take. Anything to stop hurting. In the quiet cold of morning, she is drawn to contemplation, and the pattern of her history creeps into her consciousness. As she walks unseen in the darkness before dawn, she begins to see that location is not the ghost which haunts her, the answer isn’t found by starting over elsewhere. Relief, she understands, will only come by truly centering herself again and by standing within her pain, accepting it and allowing it to move beyond her on its own.

Her life has too often been about turning the page. She wonders if perhaps she should linger a bit more with each one, taking time to truly absorb the words, the moments. If she lived a while longer on the page, maybe she would begin to understand the story. Rather than rushing to the climax of each event, pausing instead to savor the depth of each chapter slowly, feeling the pain as well as the love, maybe then this book, this world would make more sense. Maybe then she wouldn’t keep re-learning the lessons. Her past is littered with roadmaps, each one an ill-equipped guide for finding her way home, unable to lead her beyond the struggle. She knows that geography isn’t the issue. Yesterday found her touching down briefly in three counties, only to find the same aching sense of isolation, stronger each time she landed. Silently she acknowledges that the answer won’t be found by moving on, the fears and frustrations faithfully follow. Solace will be found by moving within, by embracing the emptiness, and opening to possibilities. To this place there is no roadmap, instinct will be her guide. Gently she relaxes her grip on the page, and in letting go she finds comfort, releasing it to turn in its own time, knowing all will be as it should.

Winter Solstice

The longest night of the year… dark hours stretch unending before her, unyielding, unforgiving of this emptiness within. The loneliness seems to compound with each new moment hidden from the light, it builds within her, a pressure in need of release. Yet, where does she find such release… relief… room to breathe again? She wonders to herself just how long she has roamed, unable to pinpoint the beginning, unable to foresee an end. It has somehow become a part of her, this abyss beneath her breath.

Yet, now and then there is a soft stream of light, a ray of sun, the gentle glow of the moon … or maybe just the tail of a comet as it streaks through her world, rocking her, messing with her equilibrium, her sense of place. She closes her eyes at a sudden memory, of a glimpse once caught, the gentlest eyes she has ever seen. A gaze which tore at her substance, stirring feelings never before awakened. She sees those eyes everywhere, they call to her, captivate her, will not release her.

Desperately she looks for other eyes, failing miserably to refocus her heart and its attention. She clings to words, works of art which affect her deeply, yet cannot draw her away. She searches for new spaces, hoping perhaps a change in geography will make the difference. She wanders the earth in search of hope, in an attempt to find a new source of light, of heat. There is no rhyme or reason to this chase of hers, this expedition of the soul. There is no promise that she will find that union she longs for, that recognition. Nothing that will erase the memory of those eyes, nothing will fill the void they leave in her world. For in those beautiful eyes she saw her light, and when they looked away, darkness fell upon her world… she waits for them to shine on her again, knowing that with them returns the sun.

Open Water

Storms are passing over land, and through her life. She knows there is no point in talking about the weather, nothing will change, it will be as it is, regardless. The storms which thunder through her heart are no different. Beyond her control, wild and unsettling, they move through her world with a passion capable of turning it upside down. Some around her offer assistance, advice, direction… with no consistency from one suggestion to the next. Instinctively she drifts towards safe harbors, attempting desperately to drop anchor somewhere, to dock her craft out of reach of the wind, the driving rain, the rolling sea, the cold… She’d give anything to feel warm again, to feel safe, to rest.

As painful as it can be to ride out the storms, she wonders how the blood of the planet would circulate without them. Perhaps she senses her own need for turbulence, for motion. Without movement, she would stagnate, she knows that, believes it, and even understands at some unseen level. But in the midst of this hurricane which hovers over her soul, she desperately searches for the eye… for that moment of stillness where she can find the quiet space to catch her breath.

She debates with herself about the validity of sailing in the open waters, and wonders if perhaps it would be safer to cling more closely to the shoreline. But she’s been bashed against the rocks and has run aground in the sand before, she knows the presumed safety of land is an illusion… or maybe it’s better said that the land can be safe for some, but offers its own hidden dangers, its own method of destruction. The known risk of sailing alone at sea is sometimes less terrifying than the unknown which waits onshore, even in the face of a storm. Some prefer to avoid the sight of land completely, navigating the waters of this life by instinct, and by the unchanging nature of the sky. Weathering the rage of wind and rain in isolation, far from the coastline and its rocks. Some, however, throw caution to the wind and risk everything for a glimpse of life in the estuary, to witness the sunset from a bed of sand, and to watch the colors play off the rocks and the trees, at the treacherous and breathtaking edges of the ocean.

Ascent

Sometimes the outside world is simply surreal. It’s like being underwater, where life is silent and vision is altered. You feel isolated somehow, removed and separate. Underwater this is part of the adventure, the mystery… an expected part of the game. But feeling these things above the surface, on solid ground and in day to day experience is unsettling. As if the coffee spilled across the roadmap blurring the lines and coloring the world a muddy sort of brown. I guess it’s a little like being lost, or maybe just the anticipation of getting lost, of knowing that what lies ahead is unknown, and that your map is stained with coffee.

Inside the isolation, in the place where intellect and emotion meet, inside your head, the path is often clear. Some form of instinct presses you in a clear direction, the vision is detailed, your focus intense. That others don’t recognize your guideposts is irrelevant… this is your path. You are unable to do anything but follow it, so strong is the pull within you. Beyond the bubble of your existence, voices are distorted. Though you reach out, tentatively, into the waters around you, you never quite grasp what it is you’re longing for. The attempt is painful, and you bear many scars, each with a memory of loss. Bleeding, grieving, often you find yourself retreating within, to that known space, serene and silent. To the familiar, lonely place, under the surface, beneath the waves.

Now and then, in attempting to ascend, to rise above the liquid and its illusions, you find yourself looking into the watery eyes of a kindred soul. Together you struggle to stay afloat, to remain where the sunlight can reach your heart… to resist giving in, exhausted, knowing that in losing hope, you will find yourselves sinking into the darkness again. Rage against the pull from below, against the doubts and the depression. Look deeply into the other’s eyes, hold the gaze as if it were key to sustaining life. Know that you are not alone, know that together you are safe. Together, you’ll never be lost. If you look far enough into those eyes, connecting, uniting… truly, deeply together, loneliness will never claim you. Soon, you’ll notice you are no longer on the watery surface, but floating in the gentle warmth of a summer breeze.

Snow at Hood Canal

As I lay here last night, in the darkness within the storm, my senses heightened, I could hear the waves pounding, crashing against the rocks, against each other. Their rhythm moved me, feeding an energy that is increasing, building, gaining strength... far beyond my control. Like lovers pulsing, in intimate, intense motion with each other, they rolled and surged and tumbled over one another, again and again and again...

I wanted to move with them, engulfed by a power greater than my own. I longed to join in that dance. I wanted to be one with the breathing of the earth and the caressing of the waves. I wanted to fully embody the nature of water which is both soft and hard, gentle and powerful, able to support a small feather floating on its surface and move a mountain, carving its way through the rocks in search of the sea. I wanted to ride the earth as it shook, until we reached the place where lovers go, hearts pounding in unison, joyously abandoning the worries of this world, to join the cosmos in a dance of the senses, unmatched by those on earth...

And now the tide is out, and snow is falling… the serenity of this place is stunning. Even after the storm last night raged and shook my senses, all is quiet… there is peace, intimate and deep. It is breathtaking to lie here in bed, with the shades open to the waters, watching white lace as it falls from the sky, lending an easy gentleness to those hard marine edges… the docks, the rocks the timbers… softening the edge of the shoreline itself... slowly taking the watery shape of the swell, melting into it… becoming part of the rising and falling… of the breaking of the waves. Flowing in this new form to places beyond the edge.

This place is unaccustomed to soft white blankets, but somehow, this time, the offer is accepted. The silence is beautiful…