Camping Solo

The wine trunk madrone. The pregnant rock that reminds me. The wood that knows how to bend and burn. Does it know what it will become as it surrenders to be consumed? For the sake of light and warmth? No, those are just byproducts...it knows only the moment of each newly dancing flame...

And how many before me have warmed their blood by this sacrifice, this bliss, this fearless, steady dance toward ash? And inside is hot fury, ever hunting the next vein of breath, smoldering, smoking, exploding. Will I ever be this ready? Will I ever be this willing? Will it be a decided ax that will hurry me to peace?

Here from my relaxed perch on this stone, enjoying the abundance of light and warmth, how can I not make a surrender of some kind in this company? Some kindling of a spark? And so I am filled with gratitude for the wood & the flame & the wind & the moon who casts a bluish glow on this tungsten earth. I waited patiently as the knots of anxiety unraveled & I am glad to arrive here alive. I heard my own voice here & that is all I came to seek. How lucky to be satisfied.

Stark Relief

Some days I see you whole against the sky, a shadow in stark relief the way wet clothes highlight contour; you, soaked in certainty that the setting sun behind you will shine on your face in the morning. Your surrender glows ‘round your rough edges & softens the intense boldness of your form, a boldness like a character of pen & ink who ripped his body from the page and determined to walk the earth as a man, a softness that glows on my face as if you were a messenger of the sun risen from shadow.

Ship in a Bottle

I’ve been a ship abreast a wild sea in a very still bottle. At times I felt your hands beneath the tossing, your eyes peering through the glass, helpless to stop the sea from storming.

And at times you had to put down the bottle and look away because your arms were sore from carrying the torrents. It felt endless. Plus, the air was stale and your shoes were too tight and your collar just a bit too small. And many times you stayed, even when you needed to change, you stayed & stayed & stayed. A very long time. And it was so comforting to look up from the deck and see you peering in, even though I felt guilty that the ocean was so heavy. I was so glad for your huge hands and your huge strength and your huge heart.

And other times, you were right there on the deck with me holding onto the mast with one arm and me with the other, rain pelting your face as you kept us from flying overboard.

And so many times I wished I could just pour you a glass of smooth sailing and open skies like I might a wine. And so many times I wished I could break the glass and let in the birds. And sometimes I would feel myself shatter instead. You would calmly sweep up the shards and take out the trash and tidy the cabin. You would fill a glass with flowers and remind me what I can hold when I am intact. And when you felt lost from the cradle of your solitude, I would light candles to light the way and play music to remind you of home.

So while you stood there holding me, while you busied yourself about the glass, while I lay there on a tossing sea, while I paced the deck and dreamt of grass, we each stayed with the other. And that is no small feat. That is an abiding friendship. That is a steady love on a stormy sea. And when we slept, we dreamt. And we sent each other lighthouse beacons of hope and home.