Jumping Snowflakes

Something happened last night.

These gigantic, feathery snowflakes fell coating my small universe in a deep sugary paste. They weren’t your regular snowflakes. They didn't fall with the same razor like precision. They floated adrift, almost flying on their own, like big fluffy clumps of pollen. . . or cat hair.

I used to regularly make up metaphors as child about the natural phenomenon around me. The willow tree magician, the sewer ditch river that went on to a land of endless playground equipment and no bedtimes; if I could just sneak between the grates. I remember no other time feeling more grounded, more sure of myself, then with my bear feet in purple rubber boots dug deep into the murky, mushy creek bottom . My immortality against the current, the water washing in over my rubber toes. Within the imperfection of nature there is a symmetry, a feeling of creativity. My Papa taught me that every time he lifted me up to drink raindrops from the pine needles, or pulled to the side of the road to listen to the sunset whippoorwills in silence.

What do we see, when really look at the life around us? Only in childhood do we ever have the presence of mind to really allow ourselves the time to sit in a stream of thoughtless contemplation. I have had almost a month now to do nothing but allow my thoughts to drift and wander. To tap into the thoughtless. Giving myself permission to not worry, to not concern myself with that which is beyond my control and especially that which is not within the realm of what contributes to my happiness. Now, winding down to the end of my self-prescribed exodus I have a renewed anxiety. I have learnt that there are two kind of happiness. That which is extreme, a fleeting joy, a hyper feeling, a busyness in your gut. And that which is a contentment from being ok with what you are. I wouldn’t say I have been overly happy this last month. I wouldn’t shout my joy from the rooftops or go running through the street hugging, loving and exuding. But something of a quiet whispering pride has appeared. It sits and warms in the pit of my soul. It spills slowly towards laugher and spurs me out of bed early, when I have nothing to wake up for. It dulls my material needs, when I have nothing to satisfy them with. It is a bedrock of self knowledge that has nothing to do with ‘knowing who I am’ and everything to do with being happy with the fact that I am.

I don’t want to lose that again.

But how does one simply get off the proverbial band wagon? Without ending up homeless, poor and half starved? Is there some compartment, some private berth on this train that I can find a sense of contentment in? Because all I see right now is a giant ceaseless steam engine; and the world passing by my window.

I want to jump off and roll in the dirt. I want to jump off and climb up mountains and run down hills. I want to stay out late and wake up early. I want to hear the sound of my own heart beating, not because I’m running on a treadmill to obtain some kind of pre-prescribed physical perfection, but because I’m exerted from wandering. I want to be challenged, not in a way that forces me to work through what I hate, but in a way that forces me to listen. I want to be humbled, I want to be awed. I want sand in my shoes and wind in my hair. I want to see the stars again.

I want to jump, but I'm not sure where I’ll land.

So with one toe over the edge, I peer at the ground swimming past me.

And wonder how much this is going to hurt.

Still Not Sure

Love, absolution, abstraction, contemplative bargaining. Oh! Life! You strange, misinforming torturous beast!

There are somethings that are easy to write and something that are easier to say. Then there are those things that make no sense whatsoever. The abstract intangibilities that elude us, even on a good day. Why do we feel sad? Angry? Misanthropic? Why do we judge? Why do we fail? Why do we fail to fail? Why do we settle. . .

There are many things to feel heartbreak over in this life. First off it doesn't make any sense. The few have much, many have less and even more have nothing. We rely on institutions to raise our children and then to occupy us as adults. Prideful, bashless little miscreants run around building, bombing, expanding, exploiting and condemning without any clear purpose, directive or end. There isn't much to believe in and even less to trust.

Sure we can make some kind of generic claim about love, fantasy, creativity or commonality. Use it to determine some kind of defined boundaries for our fledgling consciousness, but this surveyor is in supreme doubt that something so simple, so incredibly humanistic, could really hold any real value in the broader context of the universe. Not that we need to live with that 'ultimate' truth hanging over us constantly, but the point I'm trying to make here is that if you think about it, it does all really seem to be completely irrelevant.

Now with the pile drive into nihilism out of the way let me share with you some of the things that have given my life meaning over this fairly difficult couple weeks.

- Writing. My longest friend and most faithful companion, once again you allowed me to focus in and express the depths of agony, trist and joy. Without you I would be truly lost.

- Unexpected Love. The sharing of a dormant feeling from an unexpected source. While painfully transient when determined under truthful circumstance, love is surprisingly infallible. What a thing to be reminded of.

- Humility and Honesty. Not always my greatest attributes and not very easy for me to allow to shine through. I trusted someone with it and they didn't fail me.

- Beethoven, Woody Allen and Anthony Storr. Specifically the string quartet in C# minor, Cassandra's Dream and the book Solitude.

- Chocolate Milk. You may have been my friend longer then anything else. Thank you for remaining so delicious. I love you.

- Exercise. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly everything fades away two miles into a great run, or half way through my yoga class. Thank you endorphins.

So while I delight in reliving these simple pleasures, I am remiss to try and use them to bludgeon out some kind of an answer. If we are to believe Jung, there may not ever be any such thing anyways. As he once said, ( paraphrasing) self actualization is the journey your always on, to the destination you never get to.

In this chaos, this absolutely random seeming gyroscope known as earth, that may be the only real truth that we can take any absolution - no matter how far you get, no matter how much you may believe you know some part of yourself, or life or another person, the only certainly is the uncertainty and the doubt. There is no right answer. There is no 'right' path just as much as there is no perfect career, wife, husband, child, friend or pursuit. It is a messy combination of all of these and none of these. Of trying and failing, of failing to try. Of the lowest lows and the highest highs. Of getting up the next day and trying all over again, even in the face of absolute futility, because you need to live. And you need to know.

What else can really be said? Don't need too much, don't think too much, don't set yourself up for failure by listening to the TV. Go outside, take deep breaths. Chew slowly. Be kind. Listen. Use your body. Use your mind. Don't be afraid. There is nothing really that remarkable about being human anyways . . . or is there?