I'm in WI visiting my sister. Last night we went to this great restaurant in an old power plant that sits right up along the river. River. RIVER. Not like a piddly little western river. This is a proper, raging mid-wester river. HUGE flowing dangerous water. Everywhere.
And as we sat at our table and watched the current I started to feel anxious. No. Not from the big currents nor the force of it. I was feeling anxious seeing that much water flowing away. How could they be so wasteful!
After being at Pole where we melt all the water we have, and then coming back to Colorado, which is quickly becoming the second great American dust bowl, I couldn't believe that these folks would let that much water, huge volumes of it, just flow away down stream!
Do you know what we could DO with that much water!
Today it's raining sideways. The gutters are full and there are puddles everywhere. The half-frozen ground is soaked, the sod bobbing like a raft on a lake. Gelatinous.
It makes me think about what it means to be parched, dry and barren . . . in land and in life.
Maybe instead of fearing this rain storm (I'm supposed to be driving half way across the state today), I should be drinking in the cleansing . . . slurping down the life.
I'll go with that for today.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
You can heal your life . . .
Throat: Avenue of expression. Channel of creativity.
I open my heart and sing the joys of love.
Sore Throat: The inability to speak up for one's self. Swallowed anger. Stifled creativity. Refusal to change.
It's okay to make noise. I express myself freely and joyously. I speak up for myself with ease. I express my creativity. I am willing to change.
I open my heart and sing the joys of love.
Sore Throat: The inability to speak up for one's self. Swallowed anger. Stifled creativity. Refusal to change.
It's okay to make noise. I express myself freely and joyously. I speak up for myself with ease. I express my creativity. I am willing to change.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Hippy Land, New Zealand
I just got back from Hippy Land.
My friend and I came off the ice and needed some time to regroup. She summered at McMurdo. I, at Pole, as always. When we were looking for a place to travel, a random coworker recommended we look at Takaka, to the north. He goes there frequently and loves it. Other good friends of mine travel there as well. My friend, having the better connection to the internet, did all the investigations and bookings. She found a house between Takaka and Pohara called Sweet Pea. In our email correspondence I could never seem to type it, so it came to be known between us as "Sweat Pea."
We traveled up with a friend who climbs there. He stays for months every year. He knew the way and seemed to appreciate the ride.
The town and the trip now seem pretty magical.
Takaka is in a long, green, peaceful valley, up and over an enormous hill, at the top most part of the South Island. It is rural and quiet and cow-filled. The clouds hover over the mountaintops like Bali Hai. There are pine trees and palm trees and bushes and flowers everywhere. The region is called Golden Bay, the top of which is ringed by Farewell Spit. The ocean is light green and turquoise. It laps up against the sand, and doesn't roar. Everything is covered in spider webs. The town is thick with spiders everywhere. The Sweat Pea was crawling with them.
Spiders encourage you to write and bring Grandmother energy.
I loved it.
The place was packed, no vacancy signs everywhere. But we never felt crowded or rushed. There were hippies. Lots of hippies. In vans and at the grocery and smiling at you as you came into their shops. Unlike in Hippievilles across America, though, these hippies coexisted nicely with the old people, normal looking people, tourists and children. Everyone seemed to be tolerant and kind and full of the natural enjoyment of life. Everyone was welcome.
And, I do believe, the place understood what my friend and I were there to do. We both have had big, hard seasons. For very different reasons.
My friend is going through a life change, reevaluating a relationship she's had for over 10 years. She needed a gentle, far away place to land, to think and just to be.
I was run ragged from my season. I needed a place to shake the badness off of me and a jumping point from which to look forward. I am starting to visualize The Woman I Want To Be.
Little magic offerings came to us while we were there. The house offered my friend a book, just sitting on the shelf one morning, called "Don't Look Back." It was written like a children's book, all about coming to the end of something that we thought would continue. It talked about the grief of it, but also how we must keep going forward. The book ends with "Don't look back. You aren't going that way." It chilled me when she read it out loud.
I had a little, drunken encounter with the climber who rode along. I don't know how it really ended. Not for him anyway. I may have put too much weirdness between us. But the gift of it to me was profound and remarkable. I had wanted it and one night at a dinner party at the Sweat Pea, it just rolled out effortless before me. It has been a long, long time since I kissed a man, or had one hold me while I slept. I actually was starting to think I would never have it again. But the Sweat Pea delivered. Broke the spell and gave me the great gifts of listening to a man breathe in his sleep, of touching his foot with mine, of being wrapped up in warm strong arms. Again. Finally.
Hippy Land didn't give anything flamboyantly. I think it just listens. And slowly blossoms before you. Small treats, left to be discovered. And it doesn't seem to need anything back. It's delighting in the community of happiness, of togetherness. Of life being lived in a very beautiful, quiet place.
I can see why it gets addictive . . . this Bali Hai, this Golden Bay.
Today I'm sitting in my hotel room, on the tenth floor of the Heritage. The day is cold and intermittently cloudy. My friend continued on to Tonga. The climber, of course, stayed behind. I am alone to reflect. To remember. To feel. And I am grateful for it. Grateful for all of it. I'm trying not to dread the weirdness I may have inflicted upon the climber. I'm trying not to dread the oncoming return home, back to the crazy makers who infected my season. I'm just trying to thank Takaka and the Sweat Pea.
Thank you for those few beautiful, restorative days.
Thank you for breaking the spell, and bringing us spiders, and letting us rest.
Thank you, Hippy Land, for all your Hippy Goodness.
My friend and I came off the ice and needed some time to regroup. She summered at McMurdo. I, at Pole, as always. When we were looking for a place to travel, a random coworker recommended we look at Takaka, to the north. He goes there frequently and loves it. Other good friends of mine travel there as well. My friend, having the better connection to the internet, did all the investigations and bookings. She found a house between Takaka and Pohara called Sweet Pea. In our email correspondence I could never seem to type it, so it came to be known between us as "Sweat Pea."
We traveled up with a friend who climbs there. He stays for months every year. He knew the way and seemed to appreciate the ride.
The town and the trip now seem pretty magical.
Takaka is in a long, green, peaceful valley, up and over an enormous hill, at the top most part of the South Island. It is rural and quiet and cow-filled. The clouds hover over the mountaintops like Bali Hai. There are pine trees and palm trees and bushes and flowers everywhere. The region is called Golden Bay, the top of which is ringed by Farewell Spit. The ocean is light green and turquoise. It laps up against the sand, and doesn't roar. Everything is covered in spider webs. The town is thick with spiders everywhere. The Sweat Pea was crawling with them.
Spiders encourage you to write and bring Grandmother energy.
I loved it.
The place was packed, no vacancy signs everywhere. But we never felt crowded or rushed. There were hippies. Lots of hippies. In vans and at the grocery and smiling at you as you came into their shops. Unlike in Hippievilles across America, though, these hippies coexisted nicely with the old people, normal looking people, tourists and children. Everyone seemed to be tolerant and kind and full of the natural enjoyment of life. Everyone was welcome.
And, I do believe, the place understood what my friend and I were there to do. We both have had big, hard seasons. For very different reasons.
My friend is going through a life change, reevaluating a relationship she's had for over 10 years. She needed a gentle, far away place to land, to think and just to be.
I was run ragged from my season. I needed a place to shake the badness off of me and a jumping point from which to look forward. I am starting to visualize The Woman I Want To Be.
Little magic offerings came to us while we were there. The house offered my friend a book, just sitting on the shelf one morning, called "Don't Look Back." It was written like a children's book, all about coming to the end of something that we thought would continue. It talked about the grief of it, but also how we must keep going forward. The book ends with "Don't look back. You aren't going that way." It chilled me when she read it out loud.
I had a little, drunken encounter with the climber who rode along. I don't know how it really ended. Not for him anyway. I may have put too much weirdness between us. But the gift of it to me was profound and remarkable. I had wanted it and one night at a dinner party at the Sweat Pea, it just rolled out effortless before me. It has been a long, long time since I kissed a man, or had one hold me while I slept. I actually was starting to think I would never have it again. But the Sweat Pea delivered. Broke the spell and gave me the great gifts of listening to a man breathe in his sleep, of touching his foot with mine, of being wrapped up in warm strong arms. Again. Finally.
Hippy Land didn't give anything flamboyantly. I think it just listens. And slowly blossoms before you. Small treats, left to be discovered. And it doesn't seem to need anything back. It's delighting in the community of happiness, of togetherness. Of life being lived in a very beautiful, quiet place.
I can see why it gets addictive . . . this Bali Hai, this Golden Bay.
Today I'm sitting in my hotel room, on the tenth floor of the Heritage. The day is cold and intermittently cloudy. My friend continued on to Tonga. The climber, of course, stayed behind. I am alone to reflect. To remember. To feel. And I am grateful for it. Grateful for all of it. I'm trying not to dread the weirdness I may have inflicted upon the climber. I'm trying not to dread the oncoming return home, back to the crazy makers who infected my season. I'm just trying to thank Takaka and the Sweat Pea.
Thank you for those few beautiful, restorative days.
Thank you for breaking the spell, and bringing us spiders, and letting us rest.
Thank you, Hippy Land, for all your Hippy Goodness.
The Season Was Horrible
Hello.
Hello again from the bottom of February. It's been since October, I see, since last I had a mind peaceful enough to write.
The season was horrible.
Now it's almost over. I'm in Christchurch after a week away in Hippy Land, getting ready to head back home. I've run an errand or two. Bought enough wine to get me to Friday. I have slept late and journaled in a restaurant. I have successfully avoided stopping to catch up with anyone from the ice. Just smiled sweetly and kept moving.
The season was horrible.
And it is taking days and days to get the feeling of it off me.
My friend and I traveled to Hippy Land, New Zealand when we came off the ice. I'll write more about that later. But while we were away, periodically, when a quiet moment would fall between us, one or the other would sigh. Deeply. The sigh of the released from torture. The sigh that let a little piece fall off. Released from our bodies so we didn't have to carry it around any longer.
The season was horrible.
Made so by the enormous number of new people. Yes. But not just new people. New people who didn't take the time to get it. Who never noticed they were new. It was their lack of new-awareness that caused so many problems.
The season was horrible.
Made so by arrogance.
The season was horrible.
Made so by lameness and lackadaisicalness.
The season was horrible.
Made so by the old, dead, oppressive belief that there is a "moral compass" that points to the Glistening Northern Star of Christian Belief, where all sins will be bludgeoned and judged.
Old, military, conservative, Christian fuckwits need never apply.
I have been driving around New Zealand in a rental car called Jucy. The mascot for which is an old 40's style bombshell in a very short skirt. She's even painted on the doors of the vans. I stayed in a town that has a family bike ride scheduled later in the month where clothing is optional. I drank a soda that had the slogan "Damn good drink" written right on it.
And I realize how I started cowering in the face of all of this because of the threat that one of the old, dead, oppressive Christian conservatives fuckwits would see . . . or hear . . . or discover.
Fuck them.
Fuck this horrible season.
And here I thought we got rid of these fucked up weirdos when we voted them down in November.
Argh!
Hello again from the bottom of February. It's been since October, I see, since last I had a mind peaceful enough to write.
The season was horrible.
Now it's almost over. I'm in Christchurch after a week away in Hippy Land, getting ready to head back home. I've run an errand or two. Bought enough wine to get me to Friday. I have slept late and journaled in a restaurant. I have successfully avoided stopping to catch up with anyone from the ice. Just smiled sweetly and kept moving.
The season was horrible.
And it is taking days and days to get the feeling of it off me.
My friend and I traveled to Hippy Land, New Zealand when we came off the ice. I'll write more about that later. But while we were away, periodically, when a quiet moment would fall between us, one or the other would sigh. Deeply. The sigh of the released from torture. The sigh that let a little piece fall off. Released from our bodies so we didn't have to carry it around any longer.
The season was horrible.
Made so by the enormous number of new people. Yes. But not just new people. New people who didn't take the time to get it. Who never noticed they were new. It was their lack of new-awareness that caused so many problems.
The season was horrible.
Made so by arrogance.
The season was horrible.
Made so by lameness and lackadaisicalness.
The season was horrible.
Made so by the old, dead, oppressive belief that there is a "moral compass" that points to the Glistening Northern Star of Christian Belief, where all sins will be bludgeoned and judged.
Old, military, conservative, Christian fuckwits need never apply.
I have been driving around New Zealand in a rental car called Jucy. The mascot for which is an old 40's style bombshell in a very short skirt. She's even painted on the doors of the vans. I stayed in a town that has a family bike ride scheduled later in the month where clothing is optional. I drank a soda that had the slogan "Damn good drink" written right on it.
And I realize how I started cowering in the face of all of this because of the threat that one of the old, dead, oppressive Christian conservatives fuckwits would see . . . or hear . . . or discover.
Fuck them.
Fuck this horrible season.
And here I thought we got rid of these fucked up weirdos when we voted them down in November.
Argh!
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Nothing Much
I am just home from a morning walk around the neighborhood. It's a beautiful, cool fall day. The leaves are yellow and the grass is surprisingly really, really green. I started heading east, mostly because I had to drop my Netflix in the mailbox on the way. And I noticed that the sun was warm on my face. It was different than heat . . . the total body heat of taking that same walk only months ago. I was cool, the breeze was cool, but the sun on my face was warm. And that made me think about South Pole, where the sun is never warm. It's up all the time, but it doesn't warm your skin. The power of the deep cold cancels it out.
When I started my walk there was no one around. Not even cars moving on the street. And it felt strange and quiet and early, even though it's 10 in the morning. As I looped around, though, I found where all the people were . . . peewee football games. Four different ones were going in the park. Skinny blond mom's standing in groups. Sullen older siblings hunched way down in their lawn chairs. Thick, square headed Dad's yelling instructions from under their oversized football jerseys and ball caps. 100,000 SUV's in the parking lot.
Who would ever let those tiny little guys play football?
This morning I am dull and numb. I should be doing all kinds of fretting and stewing and mostly I am able to stare at the Facebook and hope that something changes. That's about it. I can't seem to even listen to the NPR rattling on in the background. Dull and numb and lacking any motivation.
In a week I will be leaving and I know that traveling and opening and enduring will take all the energy I have. Today I just want to sit in front of the computer and stare. Meanwhile my clothes are all over the floor of the bedroom, waiting to be wadded up and stuffed in every corner of my bags. I have shopping to do, letters to write. Check books to balance.
Bha.
I think I'll stare instead.
When I started my walk there was no one around. Not even cars moving on the street. And it felt strange and quiet and early, even though it's 10 in the morning. As I looped around, though, I found where all the people were . . . peewee football games. Four different ones were going in the park. Skinny blond mom's standing in groups. Sullen older siblings hunched way down in their lawn chairs. Thick, square headed Dad's yelling instructions from under their oversized football jerseys and ball caps. 100,000 SUV's in the parking lot.
Who would ever let those tiny little guys play football?
This morning I am dull and numb. I should be doing all kinds of fretting and stewing and mostly I am able to stare at the Facebook and hope that something changes. That's about it. I can't seem to even listen to the NPR rattling on in the background. Dull and numb and lacking any motivation.
In a week I will be leaving and I know that traveling and opening and enduring will take all the energy I have. Today I just want to sit in front of the computer and stare. Meanwhile my clothes are all over the floor of the bedroom, waiting to be wadded up and stuffed in every corner of my bags. I have shopping to do, letters to write. Check books to balance.
Bha.
I think I'll stare instead.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Sexier Than Shit
What is it about LL Cool J?
I'm the type of guy . . .
And Sonic Youth?
Kool Thing . . . sitting with a kitty . . . .
I'm transported.
I'm the type of guy . . .
And Sonic Youth?
Kool Thing . . . sitting with a kitty . . . .
I'm transported.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Then and Now and Then and This . . . Again
One of the beauties, and certainly one of the horrors, of Facebook is that it can suddenly reflect your past right at you -- over coffee.
Boom.
They come back and find you . . . "Kenyon Beth? Oh my GOD!" and then suddenly waves of it wash up and there is LW (who is now LR) and her adoring Dr. Husband and two lovely children. She lives in NY and runs their Planned Parenthood. She's still as beautiful as she was when she was 20. And she's done everything right. Or so it seems.
And of course she enthusiastically wants to know about me . . .
And I feel really strange writing it.
"I was a secretary and performed with a local improv group that took itself too seriously. Then I was so poor I sold everything and worked in Antarctica. Because the party party lifestyle and the fact that I didn't have to deal with "real life" in America was so great -- I stayed there and hid for years. Now I'm half back, but ruined forever. I no longer believe in the healing magic of love and I think kids just make you old too soon and suck up all your money. I drink too much, never bathe, and hang out with ruffians who hunt with bows, drive huge trucks, and get into bar fights."
Whooo hooo.
And suddenly I wonder . . . was I just fooling myself way back then? Was I always THIS, and just pretending to be Then?
I always sort of felt out of water most of the time I was in college . . .
Or was I wholly me Then as well, and just evolved into This? Did Then provide the blocks for This?
Or is THIS totally not who I am, and somehow I was blown off the path of what I always should have been, and ruined everything forever?
Have I failed? Miserably?
Or have I just walked a path that doesn't look normal when viewed with Then's eyes, but seems really cool and great and happy-making Now?
Have you noticed this theme before? I certainly have . . . since I've been writing about it for what seems like years. I'm hoping it's just about being in that middle age . . . I'm old enough to look back and have a past with some significance -- and I'm positioning myself for the next half -- trying to make it all seem connected somehow.
My sister is working on a project about narrative and how we try to force our lives into one.
Maybe that's just what's plaguing me . . .
Boom.
They come back and find you . . . "Kenyon Beth? Oh my GOD!" and then suddenly waves of it wash up and there is LW (who is now LR) and her adoring Dr. Husband and two lovely children. She lives in NY and runs their Planned Parenthood. She's still as beautiful as she was when she was 20. And she's done everything right. Or so it seems.
And of course she enthusiastically wants to know about me . . .
And I feel really strange writing it.
"I was a secretary and performed with a local improv group that took itself too seriously. Then I was so poor I sold everything and worked in Antarctica. Because the party party lifestyle and the fact that I didn't have to deal with "real life" in America was so great -- I stayed there and hid for years. Now I'm half back, but ruined forever. I no longer believe in the healing magic of love and I think kids just make you old too soon and suck up all your money. I drink too much, never bathe, and hang out with ruffians who hunt with bows, drive huge trucks, and get into bar fights."
Whooo hooo.
And suddenly I wonder . . . was I just fooling myself way back then? Was I always THIS, and just pretending to be Then?
I always sort of felt out of water most of the time I was in college . . .
Or was I wholly me Then as well, and just evolved into This? Did Then provide the blocks for This?
Or is THIS totally not who I am, and somehow I was blown off the path of what I always should have been, and ruined everything forever?
Have I failed? Miserably?
Or have I just walked a path that doesn't look normal when viewed with Then's eyes, but seems really cool and great and happy-making Now?
Have you noticed this theme before? I certainly have . . . since I've been writing about it for what seems like years. I'm hoping it's just about being in that middle age . . . I'm old enough to look back and have a past with some significance -- and I'm positioning myself for the next half -- trying to make it all seem connected somehow.
My sister is working on a project about narrative and how we try to force our lives into one.
Maybe that's just what's plaguing me . . .
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