The Snow

The warmth from the running car, masks the chill of the cold. “Goodnight”, I say as I swing my legs onto the driveway, and step into the unplowed snow. “Thump” the door closes, and I’m very quickly left alone. I exhale into the cold, and start walking towards the house.

From here I can see that all the lights are off, except mine. The house is still, and the only sounds are: the wind blowing through the trees, my footsteps, and my breath. The snow squeaks, and crunches, as my feet sink into the cold drifts. The moon’s pale glow, illuminates my path. The barren trees cast long twisted shadows, and the evergreens are an indistinguishable mass of darkness.

I continue to trudge towards the house. The driveway is long. I stop. I look up, staring into the vastness of space. My warm breath spirals upward, dissipating into the night.

There are so many stars. I’m so small.

I start to pray.

d.

Hooky

Yesterday, I did a few things that I love. I spent the evening with friends–cooking, talking and staying up till I was sleepy. The highlight of the day, though, was sailing. Not that it was a great day for it, and not that it was perfect. But, it was immensely enjoyable.

I’m not sure what it is about sailing that I love, and I won’t pretend to be awesome at it–many people are much better than I. But, I don’t tire of it; yesterday my hand was starting to get muscle spasms because I’d been out sailing so long. The sensible thing to do would have been to turn around to go in–but I was just going out for the second time–so I continued. Some weeks, if the wind is good, I’ll sail every day.

One of the things about sailing that I think resonates with me is that it connects you to your surroundings in a very intimate way. You learn to feel the wind; you learn the rhythm of the waves.

Perhaps, reader, you have seen a bad movie in which someone claims, or you’ve read somewhere in a book, that the sea was ‘calling’ to someone. You may have dismissed it as poor writing, or as a bad metaphor–which would show that you aren’t a sailor.

I understand what it is like to be called by the sea. It starts in the wind–at first you’re just more aware of the wind. You’re siting in your back yard, and you see it on the upper branches of the trees, or on the long grass of a nearby field. With time you start to recognize that you’re always aware of it–that you sense it, and find its absence agitating. Then you start to find yourself wandering along the water. You might not know why, but you find yourself watching the sea. Staring at it. Mesmerized by it. Feeling it tug on your heart with each little gust.

You might still be doubtful of the personification. Calls to me? Like it can talk? Like it has a personality?
Tempestuous. Stormy. Angry. Calm. Serene. Placid. Sailors have called the sea these things for a reason. Sailors know that some days the sea asserts that it is powerful. And, that rather than repeating itself to deaf ears, the sea will let you be. But somewhere in the distance a wave may be building–lets call it your wave–and it plans to deliver an underscored message to you.

I’m sure sailing tells you something about me, maybe that I don’t like to be crowded by people; I’m a bit of a loner; I have a staunch personality. I don’t know what exactly it says. But, if those things are true–but here is a glimpse of how I celebrate nature, and what I enjoy most about this world:

The sun is spilling reds and pinks over the horizon as it sets, and the wind is pushing our boat further and further, faster and faster, from shore. The bow pierces another wave, and warm salty spray licks up onto my face. I ease the sheet, and we accelerate. A gust; I lower myself in the harness and look out to the horizon. My free hand dangles down into the water, and I feel the tactile water skimming through my finger tips. I smile, and close my eyes.

D.R.T.

A Man, His Tea, and the Rain.

This evening, it’s been raining. Not a misty kind of rain, but a rain with drops: big, plump, and cold. You wouldn’t want to get caught unprepared in this rain. Dusk is settling, and the temperature is dropping; it feels unseasonably cold. As a consequence, I’m drinking a sugary tea and I’ve wrapped myself in a blanket, and have tucked my feet up under the covers and onto the couch.

My favorite tea until the last year or so has been peppermint. I certainly enjoy a good Earl Grey, or Orange Pekoe, but right now something else has captured my tea loving heart. It’s called coffee.

A little joke there. I am drinking tea. But tonight I don’t find myself drinking my favorite tea. Instead, I’m sipping away at a Moroccan Pomegranate Rooibos. It’s good, but not as good as Bengal Cinnamon Spice, which in turn isn’t as good as Madagascar Vanilla–my favorite.

Anyways, tonight I find myself thinking about a particular place. And, at this place there is a tree, and this old Beach tree dominates the landscape it is in. For reference, it’s the kind of tree that as a child you wouldn’t have been able to wrap your arms around, but would climb. As an adult, you still can’t wrap your arms around it, and feel beckoned to climb it. Part of what is making me think of this particular tree is its location. The tree hangs out over a rocky part of the Pacific ocean. On a warm summer night, I imagine that from this tree the mountains would provide a beautiful frame for the rich reds and purples of a sunset.

But, tonight isn’t a warm summer night. And right now, I have the unshakable image of a man perched in that tree on a night like tonight. From my vantage point, I can’t see his face. His jaw-line is sharp, and his face is stubbly and grizzled. His back is wedged against a branch, and his arms are puling his knees into his chest. He is wearing a thick grey sweater; he looks cold.

Tonight everything is turbulent. The wind is sweeping across the bay, aggravating the water, and pushing black waves high onto the shore. They crash on the rocks and throw up a foamy spray that smells like kelp. The tree, the tree I know about and that is rooted in my experience, is swaying wildly. I cannot know for certain, but it seems as though the man can feel the groaning, and flexing of the thick branch beneath him. The wind and rain seem to gust and strike him with a particular forcefulness.

The man, the man who’s face I can’t see, seems locked in a trance. His head is cocked towards the horizon of the open ocean. He seems fixed on a spot where the waves seem most treacherous, and the wind most unforgiving. In his fixation he doesn’t seem to notice the turbulence, and the chaos. He isn’t above it, or sheltered from it, but is in its midst. It seems that he is peacefully enjoying its beauty.

D.R.T.

The View From Here

Right now, I’m sitting outside on a couch, under our car port. And, as I slouch comfortably with my feet up, the evening light is filtering through the surrounding trees. I can hear the sound of my neighbors talking, and can smell they’re barbecuing. I stretch out further, sinking lower into the couch, and feeling the ache of my stiff muscles. My run along the beach was enjoyable; it is a well spent and good stiffness.

I watch the shadows of leaves flutter on the wall of the car port. I’m perfectly comfortable. I take another sip of port, and close my eyes, listening to the wind, and enjoying the warmth. The port is sweet. I take another sip.

Today has had many stresses, and many disappointments.

But for the moment, I am enjoying tonight in the simplest of ways.

D.R.T.