riverwrites

A Date with ME.

Alison Law inspired me with her barefoot adventure through London. So I took a cold bottle of water and my trusty companion, George, and got into my daughter’s convertible barefoot. I filled up the tank at the gas station and went in to pay, barefoot, of course. Then George and I sped along the back roads (yes, I exceeded the speed limit) heading toward the reservoir. I took roads I’ve never been on before, up and down hills, sharp curves, slowing to admire interesting landscapes or to turn onto dirt, tree-lined paths that ventured into a forest left standing among cultivated fields.

I stopped on an  isolated bridge and climbed down to the river’s edge where I enjoyed the lullaby of its gentle current and the romantic lure of intimacy that hung in the new green of ancient trees. George sniffed the ground while I sniffed the air.

My favorite Sweet Williams scented the air like the lingering aroma of a lover’s perfume. With it came memories of other happy times I’ve spent alone: a fit young girl bicycling along country roads in northern Indiana and stopping of course, to pick long stems of Sweet Williams and then bury my face in the delicious delight of the big bouquets; hikes around the lake where I gathers Sweet William bouquets, and a diversion from my normal path into an old, abandoned cemetery where Sweet Williams had overtaken the tomb stones. This time however, I left the Sweet Williams grounded in the earth. It seemed appropriate.

I found Daisies and remembered Lori, my childhood friend with whom I shared a love for the wild Daisy field behind her house. I found tiny Violets too, and plucked one to put in my hair. George and I padded on down the river’s edge and I found a small patch of wild Tiger Lilies. I remembered my first year on our house in Miyazaki and the wonderful surprise I discovered that first spring with the wild Tiger Lilies popped up all along the fence in the front yard.

I indulged in the memories, noticing how they overlapped the present moment, making both then and now more sweet. George couldn’t know the profound significance that being alone meant to me, or the past that flavored the immediate, yet his joy at being with me was thorough, complete, genuine, and it please me. His joy was pure and innocent, and as such, it called forth my own purity and innocence. Healthy, nurturing self-love is cultivated in such moments.

If my feet had a voice they would have squealed with the pleasure of the cool, wet sensation given by the river when I ventured in to wade. Soft mud embraced my arches as cool waters caressed the tops of my feet. I stood there awhile enjoying the lapping at my ankles. “I love you, too” I said aloud. George looked my way and smiled.

It has been too long since I’d treated myself to a date with me. The time has come now for me to remember the joy of my own company and honor myself with more dates. Perhaps some day I too will walk barefoot with others as Alison Law did this week in London, but for now, I cherish the freedom of today to be with me.

More than I can be!

“When I am down and, oh, my soul so weary;

When troubles come and my heart burdened be;

Then I am still and wait here in the silence.

Until you come and sit awhile with me.

 

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;

You raise me up to walk on stormy seas.

I am strong when I am on your shoulders.

You raise me up to more than I can be.”

 

My aim is not revenge or to ensure equality of pain. My aim is not to take the spurred heels that have dug into my gut and redirect them into his. No, my aim is to rise above the filth that has suddenly come and butchered my heart; to rise above the mortal desires for safety and to soar in the heavenly realm where eternal love is all that I can see.

 

The efforts of my kicking, screaming and spitting fantasies are in vain; the effects of angry energy can only keep me in the filth. I have no power to convict or condemn or convince, only to surrender my grip on the pain so I can be raised to stand on mountains.

 

The power of stormy seas can be evil and sly. They can swallow me up and destroy me. But I am safe from harm and protected from the rip-roaring violence that leaps from beneath and wildly waves its gripping claws before me; I am safe.

 

I call out to God and beg for the ability to do what I know I can not do: and I wait here in the silence for the Holy One to come and sit with me.

 

In the Holy One I shed my tears and spill my blood. In the Holy One I wail until the breath has left me. In the Holy One I mimic the stormy seas, and by the Holy One, I am lifted, and lifted, and lifted… to more than I can be.

 

The destruction of dreams can not destroy me; the murderous termination of trust between 2 can not take trust away from me. The contamination of his sins can not disease my soul. The extinction of marital love can not extinguish me.

 

The Holy One lulls my soul to peaceful rest and brings the return of my heartbeat to the base of my breast. As the steady rhythm of my heart reminds me that I am alive, I am pumped by the power of God from the sewer of deceit and lifted to the mountain where I stand to be cleansed and healed.

 

The Holy One takes the quivers from my flesh and showers me with kisses. The Holy One is the rock beneath my feet and the sun upon my face.

 

I stand on the mountain where I can sing my praise and thanksgiving:

“You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;

You raise me up to walk on stormy seas.

I am strong when I am on your shoulders.

You raise me up to more than I can be.”

 

I miss....

I miss waking up just before dawn and seeing the expanse of sky over me. I miss being greeted by the tiny speckled lights of the night and noticing the steady, subtle changes in the moon.

 

Now I am in the city where I have to leave the darkness and warmth of the house and drive through electrically lighted streets to get to my coffee shop. Here I write under florescent lights and am accompanied by the constant ding of the door with the coming and going of customers, piped in popular music that thunders and screeches, and the empty chatter of early morning commuters.

 

Oh, how I miss the eerie silence of the end of night! I miss the sensation of daylight morphing its way into my awareness. I miss the sounds of birds awakening. I miss the smell of morning dew and I miss the tickle of morning dew brushing the tops of my feet as I pad my way to the TP. I miss the coming and going of my dogs.

 

Oh, how I miss waking up just before dawn and seeing the expanse of sky over me!