For ever and for ever when I move

Winter settles in, a quieting of the scene. Days stretch on without disturbance, only the weather to contend with, people miserable and occupied as they bustle from place to place: “It might as well be evening when you wake, dark as it is! Couldn’t let up for a day, could it now? Miserable out there, truly shite!” Shaking the rain from our jackets, burying our heads against the wind, we move along our way.

Storms blow in and last for days, the wind whipping at the trees, blustering over and around our little house. Some days when we wake the streets are flooded, water rushing quickly to the sea. In some towns the rains feed the rivers to rise dark and swollen, flooding the banks, every year the same. Yet we are safe here, sheltered from the storm. Warmly we sleep near the fire, content to rest. The nights are long and with the darkness comes peace. Nature’s roar provides reason for respite, should one pause long enough to listen. In the warmth of each other’s company, by the light of the fire, we steadily seek what so hungrily is sought.

Each to his own. By the scratch of a pen in the slow passing of night, on the pressing of keys whose pitch in searching grows fevered and stops, pauses, shimmers in the light; in the solemn meditation that hums from the great mountains of Asia, every morning the same, the monks in their temples as they open the day. We also seek, in our own way. Constant be the footsteps that tread the path to the light. Quiet dost the heart so rage. Carefully we step on the mossy ground in our climb up the mountain, through the tall thin forest of pines that dance and rage in the wind, creaking in the moonlight, threatening to break.

Yet the forest is old, it withstands the weather. And the crashing of waves upon the shore takes its toll before rolling back to the deep. In the laying of hands and in the solace of nature, so often is it found, so surely do we keep.

I rarely use this blog to address specific topics or issues. In fact, this is hereto unheard of. However, as so many crucial events are currently unfolding within in our society, I’d like to join the conversation and contribute my voice.

A few days ago, the Supreme Court made a ruling that all states in the union must now recognize same-sex marriages. Effectively, the ruling is forcing states to eliminate discrimination against same-sex marriages. This is a social issue. It is a lifting of the restrictions placed against individuals that exist within and contribute to our society. While they are a specific demographic subset in the population, they still have needs. It is critically important to understand the case from the eyes of the individuals whom it directly impacts. As a society, we should be always pushed towards improving the conditions of humanity around us. Moving from the individual perspective to one which upholds the concerns of a collective society requires empathy. Continue reading

Candle wax is spluttered across the darkly polished wooden tabletops. Ceramic vases with bright red poppies sit beside the small dancing flames, and warm fingers of light flicker against the dark rouge walls, cream-colored frames and yellowed, aged stills.

I stand alone behind the bar and reflect upon the dying of the light, situated beneath a chalkboard and with an espresso machine to my back, polishing wine glasses. While one or two tables in the small back room of the public house remain wholeheartedly occupied, the rest of the tables sit empty, quiet and satisfied, an evening at it’s end. The last beams of the warm day stretch enthusiastically through the small single-pane window, set low and deep into the concrete wall. The sunlight radiantly reflects across the tabletops, even as the hungry grey shadows of darkness begin to swallow up the sky.

The Summer Solstice is far more apparent an event the higher latitude one finds oneself positioned on the globe. Here, bright early mornings are followed by confident daylight that lasts long into the night. Though we are late to the bonfire and will have to leave early, the idea is to watch the sun set in the west and wait for it to rise again in the east. As the Earth rotates into a deeper evening, the tide draws out and changes the acoustics of the shore. The light off the glassy surface of the water mirrors the light of the moon and the sun as they withdraw and encroach the waters, according to our own planet’s shadow.  Thusly we observe our presence in its motion: the Milky Way splashed luminously before us, passing through an isosceles triangle that stands crooked on one tip, the innumerable spread of stars unknown yet ever around us. As the three shimmering lights of Pegasus dance over the reverence of the sea, we the dancing shadows of the sand stand before our own circle of fire.

In celebration we brought all of our drumming regalia, which noisemakers were distributed immediately through the excited hands of the children. “Somebody sing us a song!” they recite, both together and separate, running and dancing and sitting around the fire, “Somebody sing!” So with my shoes off and settled in the sand, to the warm glow of the flames, with the occasional rattle of the shaker, a song becomes its own. The aged mandolin makes its debut in new hands, life reincarnate; the abstract is pulled back into focus, a twang releases from the strings and the sound becomes sweet.

A small child sits with the bodhrán on his lap in the sand, his tiny feet sticking perfectly out the other side, toes wiggling to the rhythm. His sister perches on the cajón, toes clenched in concentration, feet situated several inches above the ground, legs clutching to the sides of the box. She rests her weight on one hand and drums with the other. A few children bravely sing, while the others clack and rattle along obediently.

Eventually the children leave the excitement of the fire in favor of the gentler call of dreams. Their tent is settled into the coastline and has a string of fairy lights draped across the entrance, mystic and playful in the night. Ours is just one fire upon the shore, and the dancing light of other fires call out to us, challenging us to last the night, solemn to the approaching dawn.

We leave our friends their fire for the warmth of our hearth, the steady sound of the waves echoing in our ears.

Pink, yellow, green, blue: The soft pink of apple blossoms that settle beneath rusty red clusters of leaves in the scraggly branches of our tree; the vibrant yellow gorse flowers in full bloom on the stiff, rugged bushes beneath; the clear blue of the daylight sky beneath the cold, bright sun; the green lawn overgrown, scattered with swamp-like miniature cattails and patches of daisies.

These are the colors of spring: cold, clear spring, with periodic showers, occasional days of heavy gray skies and chilly rains, the last grasping clutches of the misty gloom of winter. It is the fire that keeps us warm, in this house built on stilts beside the sea. We chop the wood into quarters outside the front door, to keep the fire hungry; coal, to keep the fire hot. Shovelful by shovelful, to make this rustic cave a home.

Beneath all human ambition there exists a cold, concentrating core, tight with tension, motivated by desire. Desire to maintain, desire to create. Desire to change the present situation from the circumstances under which it is subject to those which the creator envisions. Tight pressure from within, rippling out, creating change. Seeking more. The waves lap at the sandy, pebbled shore, crashing and shaping the clay-slate landscape of the rugged coast; the hungry surface of a greater depth.

We walk the coastline, through grasses and across trickling brooks which feed into the sea, gathering pocketfuls of smooth rounded stones, perfect dusky shells with their opalescent centers, smooth bits of driftwood worn white from the salt of the waves. The birds chirp their continuous song, passed from one tree to another until it is lost in the murmur of the waves, crashing against the shore, pulling back into the sea.

Ready we are, with a sure and steady foot, stepping quickly into the changing tides: mind and body to accompany the soul, hand in hand, forward we go.

Things happen quickly. The combinations spin in accordance with our own personal desires. Send out an impulse, an option will rise. Echolocation of the brain to the physical manifestation of opportunity, to set in motion the happening. The specificity of the happening correlates to the clarity of the desire, of the impulse set in motion.

The strangest part of riding a train is the idea that your body is attached to that distant whistle, as it echoes ahead of the train and signals passage through the sparsely scattered towns that lay along the tracks. The whistle screeches and the carriages follow after it, rattling along, attached but separate, a fixed and continuous distance from the sound. Instead of sitting safely in one of those houses, sipping a cup of tea, observing for a moment as the train flashes past; you are flying past the houses, attached to the whistle, making your way. There are other faces on the train with you. They mind their own business, they talk amongst themselves. The pace of the train is slow, it takes time to get there. They fall asleep, hugging their  briefcases, sprawled out in their seats. You sit at the window and your body is lulled by the motion of the train, the minuscule sideways rocking smoothly contained within the controlled forward velocity. Your mind wanders at the scenery flashing by, it eases its cognitive grip, it looses into something like a dream.

The whistle screams somewhere ahead, your body follows smoothly behind.

Opportunities arise in accordance with the depth and clarity of our desires.

The rhythm of the train is hypnotic, the blur of surroundings mesmeric. The desire is to stay on to the end of the line, the desire is to get off and spend some time. Back and forth, the train is always moving, the town is always staying. The whistle echoes through both. On and off, back and forth, time and time again.

Tables of two are set in rows down the narrow restaurant, the white tablecloths elegant against the black and white checkered floor. Candlelight catches in the swell of the wine glasses and dances in shadows against the red and orange bricks. On the door, three hearts cut out of red construction paper are taped to the glass; the Valentine’s Weekend Menu is set on display in the entry.

A week’s worth of preparation leaves the budding evening somber, still, prepared: the night is full with reservations, carefully marked and booked in slots throughout the night.

In the kitchen the chef is busy, bustling with last-minute preparations. The fridge overflows with specials for the evening: walleye in papillote fill two shelves, piles of shrimp nests wait to be fried, wedges of blue cheese are stacked behind cakes of goat cheese. Steaks have been cut into portions, the chicken fricassee simmers beside the beef bourguignon, the rice is cooked and potatoes mashed.

Wine bottles have been stocked, a box of sparkling Spanish Cava newly ordered and packed into the fridge. Twelve baguettes are stacked beside the metal bread baskets, linens folded in wait. The servers are formally and respectfully dressed, tending to last minute tasks, waiting for the night to unfold.

The first few couples come in, with the tangible pretense of a Valentine’s date: well-dressed, happy, but with the subdued formality that familiar couples don as they tread the less familiar grounds of  romantic outings. Bottles of wine are uncorked at the tables, the first few appetizers are served.

The door opens and shuts, couples shed their coats and take their seats, laughter and the warm chatter of conversation rises and swells through the restaurant as the evening rushes into fruition.

Serving in a restaurant is about rhythm, memory, mindfulness, charm. Needs must be anticipated and met with grace, the clockwork in the brain ticks according to the needs that arise. Humor, respect, precision. Manage the influx and follow the flow, guide the evening through three rounds of meals to the lazy acquiescence of the final few desserts, hand-tamped espressos, the remaining tables that sit contented in the sultry blur of those last waking moments of a dream.

Satisfactedly lazy, soporifically full, in the sweet cozy daze of romance, and no excuse left to stay: they court themselves to the end of their dance, wrapped back up in their coats, and with final goodbyes and graces and they are out the door and back in the brisk cool air of the street, an evening at its end.

In an instant: the door is locked, lights flipped, curtains dropped. The dining room becomes a flurry of rags and brooms, polishing, cleaning, doing what we can in loud exclamations until we collect at the bar to the pop of the champagne and George Michael’s cries of freedom.

Cold redefines itself as January in Minnesota. Five degrees in the sun feels warm; negative five in the dark is bitter. The surface of metal bites back. Lifting a bike with bare hands in the deep cold of January is the equivalent opposite of touching the hood of a car in the sunny, soporific heat of August. Metal burns at both extremes. Our skin has yet to evolve to withstand the intensity of either. Put on your mittens, this is not a joke.

Cutting corners doesn’t cut it. Two weeks ago I thought I would rough it, running late for work, couldn’t find my dork hat, wrapped my scarf around my face and took off. Bitter cold on the bike. The cold first stings and then numbs. Ten minutes later I was indoors. Twenty minutes later, the redness didn’t fade. Just like that. Frostbite on the forehead. Never, ever again. Lesson learned, elements. I will forever respect you. Hat hair is a million times more respectable than frostbite on the face. Be five minutes late. Take it slow. Find the appropriate gear. Nerd it out.

But Minnesotans, ultimately, are nice. They know it’s miserable out there. They know their heated cars are humanity’s greatest gift to humanity. They’ve even got automatic start buttons, to start the car from the comfort of the office, and they’re more than willing to show it off. To share that joy. They’ll lend you a ride, and you won’t even have to sit on a cold seat. The thought of you on a bike makes them miserable. It’s snowy out there, for gosh’ sake! They’ve got butt warmers. There’s heat blasting from the dashboard, blasting over your toes. From the inside of a heated car, the bitter cold is temporarily staved off. A carefully engineered body-enveloping shield. Climb on in!

So I’ve survived nearly half of January. And this weekend, a heat wave, two degrees above freezing! But with the bitter cold there is at least the sun, and the sun is a glorious reminder that somewhere beyond this cold, life still exists. We’re still rotating around the sun, we’re still spinning in orbit, we’re still part of some cycle that will bring us through to tolerable temperatures, Hawaiian shirts, barbecues out on the lawn. Fresh fruit, orange juice. Spittin’ watermelon seeds.