Mandrills

Hand in hand, for all those that think the big bang theory is the force, think about how humans walk hand in hand, ever seen our ancestors do that, they don’t but we do. The sky is the limit but only God could have thought of the comforts that cupped hands would bring in times of cold, intimacy, comfort and love, he reigns.

Walking down the Cape Lookout beach with Hal allows me to comprehend the myriad of reasons I have come to love this man. The warm of his hand in my constantly frigid ones allows more than heat to resonate between us. Discussing laureates, literature, careers, and why humans tend to hurt themselves when they are down and out, as he is reading yet another Irish novel filled with sorrow.

The wind hasn’t stopped howling on the Oregon coast it keeps the feet moving, jackets done up to the neck and toques on tight. An evening walk displayed hues of dark purple muscle shells gone jelly. We heard today that the starfish are all but gone due to a bacteria in the area. The photos of their being here are only visions for those of us that haven’t experienced them.

Last night at the Driftwood Inn in Yachats we listened to some blue grass music while being serenaded by many Canadian tunes. The musicians found out that Canadians were in the pub and played many of Hal’s favorites. Rich maple wood surrounded the bar that we were seated at with staff so overly friendly we thought they knew us. Bread pudding with rum, real rum glaze drizzled over it with whipping cream was given to us as a taster. It lathered our tongues, palates and spirits for the entire night for a storm was a brewing when we returned.

The tent breathed all night in and out pushing the gale winds hard into our heads then releasing us into the night sky just to repeat itself seconds later. It took some mind games to name all the vegetables I knew in alphabetical order to outdo the storm that was mere meters from our tent. The tide was in about midnight, our arrival back to camp, and the cacophony took some time to finally slip into a deep R.E.M. cycle and dream of new careers.

Yachats has proven to be an artist’s haven, what might have been a potters affair turned into the most magnificent artistry of oil, acrylics, unique jewelry, photography on steel, glass work, and wood sculptures. Just when you thought you’d seen it all, those creative mixture come up with new combinations.

Hal loved the brewery with a new found favorite, Tsunami Stout. With all the warning along the coast was it any wonder that drink, food, furniture and businesses were named after it.

Long walk on the beach and up through a botanical garden allowed us plenty of time to ponder gratitude which was the sermon this morning. We’d been listening to them daily with God pushing us to truly trust him without any doubts, yet humans have a need for assurance.

Hovered in our car writing our notes Hal jotting down poetry with classical music in the background, is there anywhere or anyone I’d rather be with, well you know the answer.

 

Southern Coast - Lush hints only of the sights missing the growth

Down to Eugene for the day in rain, we dodged puddles sprinting from one shop to another in cover. We ventured up to the University, my sister’s old stomping ground, and then onto some needed expensive shopping for a week of camping.

There are few words to describe when vegetation grows on every inch of building, ground, and earth. Our car headed coastal bound and immediately what should have been farm land was transformed into plush carpets of grass, wheat, and hay encased in mature trees with moss hanging on every limb. No bark was discernable as we stopped several times to photograph this phenomenon. Dr. Seuss must have visited here prior to writing about his Trufula trees.

Within an hour our feet were in sand dunes. Pine needles gave way to sand as our feet contoured this way and that to move up and down the dunes for hours to reach the ocean. Through pools of water that sat 2 ft. deep our feet were inevitably going to be wet, so we plunged in and were rewarded with a 12 mile beach to ourselves. The sun had come out long enough to doff the umbrellas and the wet sand made it easier to move beside the torrent of crashing waves.

That night nestled in our tent we read books, listened to prayer and thanked God for this magnificent island we are on.

Morning came with Chinese children singing “All about the Bass” quarter a mile away yet their lilting voices carried through the empty campground. Fried eggs and cheese for breakfast and then off to the Hecate Lighthouse, situated far up on a cliff. We climbed behind it for an hour prior to descending to see the cut glass dome that shone out as a safety beacon for sailors. The rain gods had descended but there was far too much beach to see, so off to Hobbit Park up the road about 1 mile and down to the beach on a route lined by thick green leaves the size of your palm covered every living breathing thing.

Children were making castles in the sand as the rain hailed down only to stop about a mile down the beach for us. Sun takes on a different meaning here, since the warmth it brings is so intense it truly has a magical effect whenever it reaches the recesses of your body, warming it up, flushing out our pruned hands and toes.

Heading back home we noted a pull out and could hear a distinct air horn sound. Looking over the stone hedge tens upon tens of black seals hovered on the shore their close knit family never venturing without kin to the ocean waters. Green canopies of trees varying color with vibrant yellow flowers framed the perfect photos of the distant light house and bay.

Florence is a small town and meandering the old district allows history to rekindle harder times for men working the forest and ocean. A quick stop in the library to write to you and off to our tent to begin cooking a Mexican fiesta for dinner. Olah!

Florence is a small town and meandering the old district allows history to rekindle harder times for men working the forest and ocean. A quick stop in the library to write to you and off to our tent to begin cooking a Mexican fiesta for dinner. Olah!

Portland - liquid brown runs like the Niagara

Hal’s dream was to marry me first and then take me along to savour the myriad of brown stouts in Oregon. Just like Ireland I’ve become the designated driver and Hal, well he never drinks more than a pint or two yet those rosy cheeks can glow surrounded by beer vats, talks of hops, and his favorite chips in his midst.  

We arrived in Portland in the afternoon walked the floral streets of downtown up to the University admiring the vibrant blossoms of the: Japanese ornamental, cherry, laurel, thunderclouds and Mt. Fugi trees. Then onto to the Pearl district to view modern architecture and Hal’s first of many microbrewery – The Rogue. The sun shone through the hovering clouds as we shared several “flights” of varying colors, textures and tastes of beer. I have been corrupted never would my lips have tried beer now I am indulging and more often than not finding something that will quench my thirst.

That evening we found our home and nestled in with our hosts for the night rich in conversation about the arts, politics, and how Portland went from a logging mill to a beer and granola haven.

Up Mt. Tabor for our morning joint before savoring my first coffee in the Alberta District. Rich cream hit my tongue with a hint of bitter dark African coffee and I heaven bound. Cool brisk winds kept our feet hoping as the morning walk turned into a late lunch near the Mississippi District and Hal’s next brewery – Ex Novo. The seats were nestled right beside the massive vats of beer illuminating Hal’s linguistics chance to woe me further into his indulgences.

Walking into Laurel wood Park, similar to Mount Royal, large mature trees were the playground for children and their parents setting up picnics strolling past glorious homes teaming with flower pots of gold, orange, and lilac tulips. Matching the mauve bushes and teal blue heather growing on the ground. The lush green lawns looked artificial as we crouched down inconspicuously to see if they were. That evening back at our home we met a guest from Australia studying art in Argentina with a 1 month layover in the U.S., we shared fine wine and dinner as she spoke of her adventures.

 

Reverie of a life that once was

Two of our friends recently died sending a spiralling message to love the moment, love the person, and love the purpose that we may never know. For in each of us married or single we are truly the only ones that know what our deepest thoughts are with God, ourselves and this universe. We may share yet no one has access to the recesses of our conscious.

It is at times like these we wonder what if? Why? Will he take me home prior to old age? What are his plan that seems so illusive to us mere mortals trying to grasp daily needs? Where is he going with our planet and how do I truly fit in, are my actions significant? How does he chose who to take home?

Hovering in death is the closest we come to our true beings. Exposed in our vulnerability fears that have never been revealed. Like a child those in death speak with honest cords wiping away societal facades blemished inside out not running just being. Perhaps it is the closest we come to being still, tranquil, silent in thought and omniscient.

Death is part of our lives yet it remains as an enemy pushed outside excluded shamed dreaded for someone else to handle until it faces us. Here is where naked truth distinguishes those that are willing to go without his love and those that run to grasp his cloak. None will be the wiser disclosing your soul freedom is won harboring aversions disconnects one. Run to drug our lives full of fame to fashion when what we yearn is inside.

Loss is necessary for rebirth so why is the aching so physical. Is it here we admit what our true desires are, to be loved……to be loved for who we truly are……broken and desperate for his mercy. All the worldly possessions fall ocean’s away from human adoration. “Nothing compares to the promise I have in you, nothing compares to your mighty love.” Draw unto him ask him for your truths.

If you have been blessed to have loved, truly given yourself to another, and been doubly blessed to have it returned. Nothing compares…. See the blessings gratitude for the next sunrise that coffee, friendly smile that comes when you have known love. Be still and feel the love that surrounds you, it is there.

An Ode to Quadrupeds

Entering the home it was apparent that something was awry, the rugs were bunched up exposing the underlay, how aghast, the stuffed animals filling was strewn near and far, tuffs of cat hair lingered, and wet paw prints loitered as evidence of a grand row gone wild. The K-9 and felines were sulking without jubilation at our entrance, a sure sign of guilt.

My mother’s British upbringing was instinctual. With broom in hand, cats at my leg, and a wide eyed dog whimpering for forgiveness. I dusted off the surfaces watching the lint, hair, and debris lift up into the late afternoon sunlight streaming across the room exposing all their affairs.

Hal arrived without my belated Valentines gift potentially placing me in a downward spiral yet his handsome smile, good humor and his new addiction, Mrs. Brown’s Boys, an Irish comedy saved the night. Laughter filled the room huddling around our iPad for far too long. How easily brilliant minds are amused diverting catastrophes of the developed world.

A late night walk exposed wafts of silvery clouds encircling the distant mountain as the full moon came up. Wilbur pulled us up and down the hamlet’s lanes nestled up against the mountain. Once our gate was astride on the thin ice we didn’t want to return, a calmness seeped inward.

Waking with swollen glands extenuated the horror that I might be allergic to fur. Ah…….. Wilber insisted in curling up at our feet not a delight to my spouse, by morning his whiskers bristled my face that I mistook for Hal’s stubbles. When I came through I couldn’t distinguish whose morning breathes was oh so sweet.

An abrupt knock came at the door and two lovely girls asked to walk Wilbur? Smiles caste a joy I’d forgotten about the uninhibited lives of children that immediately engulfed me. Skipping down the lane hand in hand with a great responsibility at hand, they informed me with affirmation that they were paid for their services.

We took a long walk along the valley’s cycling trails up into the Nordic Center. A lovely cup of tea was shared with Hal’s favorite pumpkin bread at Good Earth as we dawdled for some time discussing life, our children, and our blessings.

Sunday brought Catholic Church with the sermon as consistent as the tidal ebbs never veering from its course or timely ending. How sad substance has been replaced by speed. We diverted the cakes and coffee, a Lenten restraint and walked over to Beamer’s for directions up the mount to the Goat Creek Trail towards Banff.

Hand in hand with the man I love nothing could be more perfect. The sun at our backs with only God’s wonders in our vision, how truly blessed we are. The hours passed as the silence echoed naught into our ears.

A last supper together and an endearing walk with the K-9 as Hal departed back to the city. Leaving me to do up the dishes, the laundry, and yes, you guessed cleaning the litter boxes. Much to my dismay it wasn’t the pulling of the nails that I had expected. The smell wasn’t there, either that or I was so stuffed up I couldn’t tell, either way the job was done within minutes.

Without warning the howling sounds, a cacophony in its most literal sense, an unharmonious noise reverberated throughout the house. Door knobs rattled, frames shook violently while the animals whined in chorus frightened by Mother Nature’s remunerations.

Day 4-5 became the sequel to the Shining called the Shimmering.

My glands have now turned into goiters churning out phlegm like lava field. Food isn’t necessary as I haven’t been able to smell anything in 4 days. Swallowing has taken on a new appreciation as the pain in only alleviated with lozenges. Claritin I can now attest does little to alleviate my misery. Throbbing head, achy neck, plugged ears popping sleeping pills to witness nightmares of Jack Nicolson trapping me in his grip with cat in hand killing me slowly by exposure.

Oh….and the sight of the bed…..blankets strewn hither and thither….heaped between wet tissues to catch the inevitable drips during the night. Yellow catarrh has blood it in now from blowing so fervently along with raw hands and this was my dream vacation??

Alas tomorrow is my departure……the sounds of cat purring, hissing, biting, scratching and gnawing that I thought once to be endearing will be swept away with the hurricane winds. For three days and three nights the foundation has clattered relentlessly leaving the cats jittery, in a state of panic, claws extended ready to shred their next victim. I knew Exshaw to be breezy but this is off the Richter scale. I tried to walk Wilbur this morning and he hid behind a tree. With ears tucked back he mustered all his might a 15 lb. mutt can and pushed through a gale winds in all directions.

The quiet solitude has allowed me to write and to this I am very grateful. No phone calls, few texts, only emails in the morning leaving me time to enjoy and reminiscing the many pot lucks, pre-ski breakfasts, grand chats and warm nights beside the fireplace with gracious friends. This has all but made for the unforeseen feline allergies, so much so I might return. Isn’t that what pregnant women do vow to never have another during childbirth then linger in the arms of a man and without notice another is upon them. The mind the mind what a wonderful tool it plays tricks with those that aren’t watching.  

Mount St. Francis Lenten Retreat

With the love of the mountains, the quiet of the forest, and the wisdom of the Father’s and Sister’s I knew I was going to be engulfed into God’s milieu. The silent retreat was a gentle blend of equanimity and reflection. The Father’s and Sister’s brought us together 5 times during the week-end to impart their knowledge, years of listening, reading, teaching, and absolution.

The excitement of a new toy is no different for those who spring to clutch the Lord’s cloak. The last supper without silence, I can’t but look at my new acquaintances not truly wanting to speak for in a mere half an hour we will be silenced for 48 hours. Light whispers contemplate the food as much as our first Lenten workshop. My eyes leap from one shelf to another in the expansive library yearning to catch the eye of a book that will revolutionize my week-end. Spiritual Master’s by Father B. Hughes it is.

Father Kevin, a spry lean man gentle in touch, speech and gestures engages us in the

Possibility that we are a reflection of God’s beauty.
Isaiah 61 - The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me; because the Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the broken hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound.

My mind reels into the lost opportunities, the stories of what never happened, due to my rush, my embarrassment, my need to protect myself. And, yet he returns and shows me new places, spaces to dwell with those that need sustenance.

We are to be the voice for those that have none, and yet here we are silenced, for me the safest place to be, for in my youth too much excitation existed my vocals with rhetoric.

“Christ,” he says, didn’t walk with those like him, he choose to reside with the sinners, tax collectors, and women of the night. It is here he felt comfortable, why is it so hard for us to distance ourselves from those different from us. What is in our makeup that pushes our synapsis to fire viciously, repulsively for those that were made perfect in his image too?

Father’s last words are; “He is everything for everyone.” Why isn’t that enough at times for me?

Father Louis.

Perseverance – A willingness to include pain and suffering in our approaches to life – Psalm 27
When we say, I love you, what are we saying:
I accept you/ you are precious/ apart of my life that I love/ we are giving life/ God is begin us to come close/ pay attention to body in thinking about Christ.

We are saying to God that we are ready to do his Will.

He taught us a new approach to prayer;
I want to approach you through the gifts of the Holy Spirit dwelling within me. I place them in your hands. Help me to be attentive and receptive of your world. Accept the time I spend in your presence as an expression of my love for you, my desire to be with you.

Lent is a time lean on Christ, this was very new to me, not only to be available but be renewed. I hope to spend all the gifts God gave me during this time, leaving only a little footprint for others to follow.

Human Condition

Our bodies a massive series of interconnected tissues that record history of scares, injuries, accidents and time spent under a florescent light in sterile dwellings of sadness. Wheeling our stories in and out of blood lines capturing another time when life disappeared more fluidly. Modern trajectories heave souls to remain where they want not. Holes in our skin causes holes in our heart a cavity impenetrable.
What is life a sequence of events as  scalpel extract congealed plasma from his leg one year at a time. Each visit more is gone of his leg and being, he is leaving in flesh with his flesh looking at black globules splattered on the ground.
Ah!...that hurts.....oh!.....don't do that.....my leg, MY LEG!....
Ouch!.....as his hand reaching into the air for strength, for help, for a drug that will assist this hell.
My daughter bedside breathing, puffing air in and out of her lungs. I hear her does it register this stupidity she is urging me to copy. Others watch in horror hear my angst.
Puff.....inhale in slowly then hold 1, 2 fuck it, blow out. Again.
Puff .....inhale slowly and out.....Inhale in and out....Ah! why did this have to happen. I'm pissed off at my condition.
I can't figure out how to place my good foot, my left foot, ahead of my right when walking with the walker. I try....I hear their advice.....off in the distance it comes at a cost.....I am ashamed at where I am. My wife, anyone but me should be here. This is fate getting me, my sins....I laugh....I know it is my life getting me back....but I have to laugh.....there are others around judging me......I know my decisions haven't been sound. How to stop the speed of time.....there is so much to do....so much my wife wants to do .....and my body is failing me.
This bloody walker gets caught on every minute edge, crack, rug, a slight bump in concrete, in my agenda. My body heaves it up and over into another realm.....I am calm eyes closed I can feel the ocean.
In bed again, thank God.....the heat of the afternoon light streams in the bedroom window washing over my body the shame I feel having to be bathed like a babe, helpless, hapless. I am warm for once in this city.....did I really want to come so long ago.....I know we wanted to go back....it never happened. Now it is too late.
The bank has called again, the store, the meetings I am missing.....can I possibly catch up....did I ever think I would be here, others have been before me, why is this so foreign, perhaps this is my time.
Food is obsolete I eat as I am told, little flavor contrasts the metal staleness of prescriptions. Christ my pills I have to take all five of them now. Light purple is for my heart, 2 pink ones are for blood thinners, the orange for antibiotics, the yellow for pain, and the white for high blood pressure.....a new condition to my dyeing body.
Borrowed time this is my time! Christ says he has a purpose for me, at this late stage what could possibly arrive into a womb so gnarled. Ashes to ashes dust to dust, is it really here versions of it are arriving on my mind daily.
My family knew the man that I was, the man that God was transforming me to become, the man that somewhere along the route got lost. I am here now, this is me, wounded emotionally, physically, psychologically, and perhaps spiritually, but I will get it back. I need him. I need him to place a memory in my family's heart of who I am in his eyes.