In Motion: Bellingham, Poetry, San Juan Islands, Ted Talks

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Saturday, July 7, 2012

Fresh Air

Yesterday afternoon, desperate for some fresh air, I slipped on my shoes and traveled half a mile to Whatcom Creek.  Earlier that morning I put some olive oil in my hair for a home moisturizing treatment so I thought I'd find a good place to sit by the creek and sun my hair for a bit, let that oil heat up naturally.  Just needed fresh air and sun- that was what I thought I needed, but I needed more.

It's been six months since I was laid off from KVOS Television here in Bellingham.  I am a driven person but lately it feels like my wheels are spinning.  I continue to apply for jobs, keeping an ear to the ground for new opportunity.  I am networking and moving going... going... going.

Walking and thinking, thinking and walking.  As I think on new strategies for success I come around to the trail head.  WOW!  The bushes along side the path here have poofed out with summer leaves and new branches.  The new bark that was laid down in April is now hidden beneath all the growth. 

Nature stops me and says, take a second and just look.  Just breath.  I do just that, for a while anyways.

Farther down the trail a jogger zipps by that sparks more internal conversation this time about my summer fitness goals.  "Just need to loose 5lbs a week doing... bla...bla..."  about that time I cross the bridge.  The creeks water is surprisingly clear I can see the stones lined up on the bottom.  Sunshine hits the creek at the perfect angle casting shadows on the moving reeds that grow beneath the water line, giving away the creeks depth.
*deep breath*
How beautiful

Middle Falls, Whatcom Creek, Bellingham
I stop to poke my head through the rails to watch the creek move.  Just in the corner of my eye I see a small spider as it swings from my glasses like Tarzan.  Picking up it's leader line, I lay it across a metal beam for safe keeping.  Watching the diligent spider sets my mind on a tangent about how behind I am on my goal for purchasing a home.  "How the hell am I going to do that?"

thinking... thinking... thinking... 


Back to my walk.  I notice a small trail to the right, a branch into the woods off the main trail where two fallen trees have created a makeshift bridge to the other side.  I study their positions and find a person could sit nicely on one and dingle their toes in the cold water.  Before I know what I am down there doing just that.  Reliving good childhood memories I start to throw items within reach into the creek.  Sticks tossed in float on top and float away with a bumpy "whoosh" downstream.
 "There is a family on the sand bank around the bend a bit; 
I wonder if they will notice my little boats." I say to myself  

Then slowly... quietly... like a whisper it comes to me.  The Voice.  The voice I have traveled to hear.  The still small voice that my soul yearns to be enveloped in, mailed away and read by my Beloved.  It calls and holds.  It hugs and kisses my mind and thoughts.  Inspired to write I dip the last stick from my boat pile into the water like pen to ink and try to write my name on the bark-barren dry gray log.   With each stroke the sun grabs the letter, throws it into the air; birds rise up on the currents that circulate above my head.

My epiphany:  there is no black or white in nature.  Those are man made colors.  In paint black is the combination of all colors, white is the absence.  In television black is the absence of a signal and white too much signal, over saturation. 

There is no black or white in nature.  There is light, darkness and shade.  
There is color, dimension, and movement I can hang my toes in.

My interpretation:  we put ourselves on the treadmill.  I put myself on the treadmill forgetting to breath.  Exhausting myself, trying to justify my existence, when all I need to do is be.


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