So I’m sitting with Dad in his new attic bedroom yesterday, preparing to install some lovely bamboo window treatments, and partaking, and listening to David Crosby’s If Only I Could Remember My Name album, on vinyl nonetheless, (a fine piece of music, you must check it out) and suddenly I was transported back to the early and mid 1980s, to my dad’s former attic bedroom in the house I grew up in, with its record albums and sloped and slanted ceiling, and such a flood of memories came pouring through.
I had the rare advantage of being raised in an environment steeped in music and individuality, where my quirks and oddness were encouraged and appreciated. I did not always appreciate my luck, though, and in hindsight, I could travel back to my early teen years and firmly plant a large foot into my own arse. But we seldom realize how good we have it at the time we have it, eh? Anyway, I had access to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, in every conceivable form from Buffalo Springfield to solo works. I had Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here, Native American songs, Middle East albums full of instruments I couldn’t even recognize, and a healthy dose of groups most people have never heard of. I spent much time toking and spacing out to records, and I didn’t even mind flipping them over to hear the other side. I even had some 8 tracks, so there! I also had access to a 12-string Martin guitar and enough sense to pick it up and learn how to wield such a mighty tool. (I still have it, my dad determined years ago it was meant for me as only I can make her sing that way, so he gave it to me.) All of this in my dad’s attic bedroom, a sanctuary, a space to truly isolate myself from the harshness and cruelty of nasty school mates and miserable teachers and hateful neighbors.
Honestly, I wish I had an attic now, but I’m happy with having my own room. I am one of those people who just need a space all mine, a place to come to for escape and unwindy time. Not everyone needs this, and most couples are content to share a room with their spouses. But I am wired differently, I suppose, not that I need to tell any of you that.
So, where was I going with this? Ah, yes, the follies of youth. Nostalgia is your mind’s way of hanging on to the beauty of events and happenings you were too young and full of yourself to appreciate at the time. I had a close-knit family, albeit small, and I gladly incorporated my few but dear friends into those high ranks of kin. It never occurred to me then that we would go our separate ways and never again after leaving home would I ever get to sit in that attic and listen to albums with the people I felt were worthy enough to know that side of me. Even now, I sort of yearn for that-a chance to get together with special folk and laugh and play music and enjoy the company of others who embrace my differences. It’s lonely being an adult, I think, and sometimes, daily life interferes too much with my need to socialize. Maybe that’s foolish of me, to cling to the idea of wasting time and living carefree for a few hours, but I’m ok with being foolish.
Many of you I miss, or think of throughout the day. I always hope your lives are happy, peaceful, and interesting. I love keeping tabs on you via this handy Facebook-thingy; it allows me to fulfill that curious side of me, the neb-nose busy-body side. But some days, I really wish we could be sitting in my room listening to record albums and 8 tracks and talking of the trivial matters of our youths.
Meanwhile, let the sun shine in the darkest places of your lives, let the music fill your hearts, let love warm you to the bones, and may peace be upon ye always.
As you were, my friends.
Love,
Tanya
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Monday, February 28, 2011
Doggie In The Mist
Autumn is just starting to show hints of her fireworks display capabilities. Green dominates yet, but you wouldn't know that from the sleek carpet of wet yellow, brown, red and orange leaves covering the ground-all thanks to a couple of days of stiff, cold winds. There is a persistent, misty rain and a certain bite to the air that stirs awake something primal in your guts, an urge to get out and gather, a burst of nervous energy as your body and deeper parts of your brain remember the need to store and harvest and prepare for the long winter.
I have no need of my primitive drive to complete such tasks, but the energy is there, a restless itching to be out in the chilly fog. I do, however, have a dog. He is my walking companion, and we strut about this town and its outlaying hamlets daily. I am grateful to have so enthusiastic a friend. Town, however, does not permit any dogs the freedom to roam the streets untethered. I think today both of us earned the right to break free of civilization's shackles.
In a rare stroke of luck, I have the car today. It needed a bit of work done, which was taken care of quickly. Any time I have the car, Brou and I head to a local park which is a bit too far out of my walking range. Brou was beside himself with unrestrained puppy glee as I grabbed the leash and asked him, "Wanna go for a ride today, Brou?"
He bolted out the door and headed to the car, ready to rock and roll. A short drive later, we were strolling down the road that meanders through a most lovely wooded park. The rain was our ally today, as it deterred nearly every less hardy soul than us from swarming the place. Only one other person, an older man, and his dog (something in the Setter family, most likely) braved the elements. We paused while our dogs familiarized themselves with one another. Neither was leashed, and both were obviously very pleased about it. We parted company, and Brou just took off in a burst of pure joy down the road. I must say, there is nothing quite as entertaining as a young dog bounding free through the wet leaves of a country lane, nose to the ground, tail high and wildly swishing to and fro. I could not help but share his happiness.
After some time on the beaten path, I decided it was time to hit more secluded trails. I remembered one nearby, and though it took me a couple of times by to find it, I did get us into the woods. A meandering nature trail with many switchbacks twisting gradually uphill awaited us. Our months of daily city hikes prepared the two of us for such a grueling march in the rain. With a deep breath, I plunged into the murky depths of unspoiled woodlands.
It was an eerie, awe-inspiring scene, a journey almost profound. The darkness caused by this grey day was somehow countered by the glow from the ground, a glow coming from the multitudes of leaves recently felled and soaked. Far above, the trees closest to the light also glowed against the purple-grey sky. In between was a layer of darkened gloom just brimming with sprites and nymphs and wee folk of good and bad alliances, of this I was certain, judging from the weird noises and stranger periods of utter silence. Brou wandered back and forth across the trail and through the woods and round and round me in large, loping circles, nose to the earth as he walked, nose to the air when he stopped. There was a smell permeating the area-a smell of wood rot, damp, moss, and black, loamy soil. It was the smell of primeval forests, the smell of ancestral memories. Brou and I felt it very strongly, and together we picked our way through the strangely decorated swath of woods.
It was an arduous task, one which caused me to shed my jacket, roll my sleeves, and wipe the fog off my glasses and sweat from my brow many times. But it was so worth the effort. Sometimes, I would stop to rest and lose myself in my surroundings, mesmerized by the low hanging mist in the trees and the oddly illuminated floor and canopy of the woods. Sometimes I would get a nostril full of the rampant orange fungi which covered the fallen trees around me. Brou often disappeared further up the trail, and then showed up behind me somehow. We made it out just as my legs were about to rebel against me, and came back to asphalt. I paused to look back, and I swear I heard whispers and faint chimes of delicate laughter. I thanked the woods for their kindness, for their willingness to show me their secrets.
Brou and I made it to the car, and I spent the next several minutes picking stickleburs from his legs, chest, and belly. We were both soaked through, both muddy, both tired, but both of us were mighty pleased. The drive home was uneventful, which was perfect for me as I digested the wonders I witnessed today.
It is now out of my system- the urge to go back to my ancestral way of life. I am happy to be home, out of the rain and cold. And Brou? He is beyond content, knocked out solid on his special blanket on the couch, no traces of the wild, wolfish being he was out in the woods today. We are primitive, Brou and I, but we also know the joys of civilized living. It's just that once in a while, we both have to connect with that side of ourselves.
I hope you have an absolutely spectacular day, full of whatever you need to feel peace, contentment, and happiness.
I have no need of my primitive drive to complete such tasks, but the energy is there, a restless itching to be out in the chilly fog. I do, however, have a dog. He is my walking companion, and we strut about this town and its outlaying hamlets daily. I am grateful to have so enthusiastic a friend. Town, however, does not permit any dogs the freedom to roam the streets untethered. I think today both of us earned the right to break free of civilization's shackles.
In a rare stroke of luck, I have the car today. It needed a bit of work done, which was taken care of quickly. Any time I have the car, Brou and I head to a local park which is a bit too far out of my walking range. Brou was beside himself with unrestrained puppy glee as I grabbed the leash and asked him, "Wanna go for a ride today, Brou?"
He bolted out the door and headed to the car, ready to rock and roll. A short drive later, we were strolling down the road that meanders through a most lovely wooded park. The rain was our ally today, as it deterred nearly every less hardy soul than us from swarming the place. Only one other person, an older man, and his dog (something in the Setter family, most likely) braved the elements. We paused while our dogs familiarized themselves with one another. Neither was leashed, and both were obviously very pleased about it. We parted company, and Brou just took off in a burst of pure joy down the road. I must say, there is nothing quite as entertaining as a young dog bounding free through the wet leaves of a country lane, nose to the ground, tail high and wildly swishing to and fro. I could not help but share his happiness.
After some time on the beaten path, I decided it was time to hit more secluded trails. I remembered one nearby, and though it took me a couple of times by to find it, I did get us into the woods. A meandering nature trail with many switchbacks twisting gradually uphill awaited us. Our months of daily city hikes prepared the two of us for such a grueling march in the rain. With a deep breath, I plunged into the murky depths of unspoiled woodlands.
It was an eerie, awe-inspiring scene, a journey almost profound. The darkness caused by this grey day was somehow countered by the glow from the ground, a glow coming from the multitudes of leaves recently felled and soaked. Far above, the trees closest to the light also glowed against the purple-grey sky. In between was a layer of darkened gloom just brimming with sprites and nymphs and wee folk of good and bad alliances, of this I was certain, judging from the weird noises and stranger periods of utter silence. Brou wandered back and forth across the trail and through the woods and round and round me in large, loping circles, nose to the earth as he walked, nose to the air when he stopped. There was a smell permeating the area-a smell of wood rot, damp, moss, and black, loamy soil. It was the smell of primeval forests, the smell of ancestral memories. Brou and I felt it very strongly, and together we picked our way through the strangely decorated swath of woods.
It was an arduous task, one which caused me to shed my jacket, roll my sleeves, and wipe the fog off my glasses and sweat from my brow many times. But it was so worth the effort. Sometimes, I would stop to rest and lose myself in my surroundings, mesmerized by the low hanging mist in the trees and the oddly illuminated floor and canopy of the woods. Sometimes I would get a nostril full of the rampant orange fungi which covered the fallen trees around me. Brou often disappeared further up the trail, and then showed up behind me somehow. We made it out just as my legs were about to rebel against me, and came back to asphalt. I paused to look back, and I swear I heard whispers and faint chimes of delicate laughter. I thanked the woods for their kindness, for their willingness to show me their secrets.
Brou and I made it to the car, and I spent the next several minutes picking stickleburs from his legs, chest, and belly. We were both soaked through, both muddy, both tired, but both of us were mighty pleased. The drive home was uneventful, which was perfect for me as I digested the wonders I witnessed today.
It is now out of my system- the urge to go back to my ancestral way of life. I am happy to be home, out of the rain and cold. And Brou? He is beyond content, knocked out solid on his special blanket on the couch, no traces of the wild, wolfish being he was out in the woods today. We are primitive, Brou and I, but we also know the joys of civilized living. It's just that once in a while, we both have to connect with that side of ourselves.
I hope you have an absolutely spectacular day, full of whatever you need to feel peace, contentment, and happiness.
Breathing Life Into October
I have to admit, there are times when the keen yearning inside me wins over common sense and wisdom, and I must go adventuring into the dark, chilled, misty days of fall, whether or not my aching bones and stiff joints agree. This October has begun with a taste of mid-November, and I do not deny I love it. There is so much depth to being out it the elements, a peaceful touching of the soul. I have the parks to myself; I can allow Brou the luxury of freedom, to run about in erratic, happy circles, chasing nasty chittering squirrels and galloping through the mud. The experience is always priceless, for the both of us. I have the roads to myself as well. Few cars are out in the meat of the day, late morning to early afternoon, and with the biting, stinging rains, nary another person dares trod my same path. With all that open space, I can commence with the grooving and the spacing out and the total submersion into my surroundings. The weather does not quite match the season, so there are only a handful of trees dressed in their fancies, but they are stunning-gleaming red and orange, wet, slick, glowing in the odd light of day fog. They whiz by me when the wind kicks up and flings them around, as if annoyed that such a garish thing could be out on such a dismal day. Of course, the wind feels much the same about me, I’m sure-how dare this outlandish biped bounce along listening to music whilst the winds howl.
What draws me to the outside in these harsh conditions is more than sense stimulation, though. I love the clarity that overtakes my brain when I’m striding brazenly in the damp, raw air. Something about it spins my thoughts into beautiful patterns and magical journeys. I don’t feel the need to restrain any part of it, so the wanderings are much like Brou’s unleashed whirling dervishes, caroming off each other like electrons, igniting sleepy brain waves. There is no drug like it, no substance of any kind that can duplicate it. I compose as I go, fill pages in my mind, repeat them over and over, try not to forget the important bits. I embrace a rhythm, breathe in, step-step, breathe out, step-step, a chant, a mantra, in, step-step, out, step-step, a sing-song to hang onto the words I want to share, a long way from home, miles to go, in, step-step, out, step-step. Often, I get too caught up in the way the world is in harmony with my own rhythm, and forget the words anyway. That really doesn’t matter most times, for there are always more words coming. With nothing but mist and the smell of wood smoke and foggy breath, all flows as it should, just like energy flows through the body when I do Yoga. I can figure out complicated parenting issues, analyze my learnings over the years, put into perspective why I feel the way I do about belief and politics and humanity, understand who I am and what I need to do to make my way in this world. I dissolve worry and stress instantly, and replace it with peace and wonder at how amazing life really is.
The world can keep their hot summer days. I don’t come alive until October. I’m working again, functioning at peak performance. I have time to process, to delve, to express thoughts and ideas. I can focus on creating gruesome Halloween displays or crocheting some more on my afghan; I can bake classics like apple pies, or create something totally new, like the spice cake I invented-pieced together from a multitude of recipes, none of which were exactly right, complete with home-made cream cheese frosting. I can imagine fairy folk all around me, hiding in the misty shadows of old-growth trees, or gnomes scurrying about readying themselves for the winter months, or nasty trolls lying in wait under the footbridge over the creek, hoping to catch an unsuspecting dog off guard. What is not to love about this time of year?
There is profound significance to Autumn, a connection to the primitive parts of the brain as well. This is preparation time, gathering time, storing time. It lights the lamp of fantasy, of stories by a fire, of wrapping hands around cups of hot buttered cider and watching snow clouds gather, knowing all is buckled down and awaiting the transition. It brings to mind the coming together of beloved friends and family to wile away the hours in pleasant conversation over a lovely dinner of rich and decadent foods, the smell of turkeys roasting or pumpkin pies cooling, all done with sharing as the core reason for the effort. This is the time to be grateful for good harvests, to be thankful for the good company around us, to share with all the benefits of what we’ve reaped and gathered and learned along the way. This is the time to let the inner child inside come out to play, to dress in outrageous fashion and parade down the streets of town, demanding candy from strangers, to suspend doubts and fears and worries over the troubles of the world, to not be concerned with queer, sideways looks by others not privy to the secrets of those who can tap into this bountiful supply of the elixir of life. It’s magic, whether or not anyone chooses to believe it or not-it’s magic to me, anyway.
I leave this endeavor behind now, with a sense of completion to fill in the holes left behind when I give this part of myself over to others. I managed to hang onto the vital points of the message, so I feel blessed, content, open to the next task ahead of me, whatever that may be. I thank you, for giving me the precious, valuable gift of your time, and know that I recognize just how extraordinary that is. Do have a happy, won’t you? I’d consider it an honor if my words bring any of you just that.
Love and light,
Tanya
What draws me to the outside in these harsh conditions is more than sense stimulation, though. I love the clarity that overtakes my brain when I’m striding brazenly in the damp, raw air. Something about it spins my thoughts into beautiful patterns and magical journeys. I don’t feel the need to restrain any part of it, so the wanderings are much like Brou’s unleashed whirling dervishes, caroming off each other like electrons, igniting sleepy brain waves. There is no drug like it, no substance of any kind that can duplicate it. I compose as I go, fill pages in my mind, repeat them over and over, try not to forget the important bits. I embrace a rhythm, breathe in, step-step, breathe out, step-step, a chant, a mantra, in, step-step, out, step-step, a sing-song to hang onto the words I want to share, a long way from home, miles to go, in, step-step, out, step-step. Often, I get too caught up in the way the world is in harmony with my own rhythm, and forget the words anyway. That really doesn’t matter most times, for there are always more words coming. With nothing but mist and the smell of wood smoke and foggy breath, all flows as it should, just like energy flows through the body when I do Yoga. I can figure out complicated parenting issues, analyze my learnings over the years, put into perspective why I feel the way I do about belief and politics and humanity, understand who I am and what I need to do to make my way in this world. I dissolve worry and stress instantly, and replace it with peace and wonder at how amazing life really is.
The world can keep their hot summer days. I don’t come alive until October. I’m working again, functioning at peak performance. I have time to process, to delve, to express thoughts and ideas. I can focus on creating gruesome Halloween displays or crocheting some more on my afghan; I can bake classics like apple pies, or create something totally new, like the spice cake I invented-pieced together from a multitude of recipes, none of which were exactly right, complete with home-made cream cheese frosting. I can imagine fairy folk all around me, hiding in the misty shadows of old-growth trees, or gnomes scurrying about readying themselves for the winter months, or nasty trolls lying in wait under the footbridge over the creek, hoping to catch an unsuspecting dog off guard. What is not to love about this time of year?
There is profound significance to Autumn, a connection to the primitive parts of the brain as well. This is preparation time, gathering time, storing time. It lights the lamp of fantasy, of stories by a fire, of wrapping hands around cups of hot buttered cider and watching snow clouds gather, knowing all is buckled down and awaiting the transition. It brings to mind the coming together of beloved friends and family to wile away the hours in pleasant conversation over a lovely dinner of rich and decadent foods, the smell of turkeys roasting or pumpkin pies cooling, all done with sharing as the core reason for the effort. This is the time to be grateful for good harvests, to be thankful for the good company around us, to share with all the benefits of what we’ve reaped and gathered and learned along the way. This is the time to let the inner child inside come out to play, to dress in outrageous fashion and parade down the streets of town, demanding candy from strangers, to suspend doubts and fears and worries over the troubles of the world, to not be concerned with queer, sideways looks by others not privy to the secrets of those who can tap into this bountiful supply of the elixir of life. It’s magic, whether or not anyone chooses to believe it or not-it’s magic to me, anyway.
I leave this endeavor behind now, with a sense of completion to fill in the holes left behind when I give this part of myself over to others. I managed to hang onto the vital points of the message, so I feel blessed, content, open to the next task ahead of me, whatever that may be. I thank you, for giving me the precious, valuable gift of your time, and know that I recognize just how extraordinary that is. Do have a happy, won’t you? I’d consider it an honor if my words bring any of you just that.
Love and light,
Tanya
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