A Journal of Movement
A postcard is a small picture with a letter on the back. Short, about a place, personal, but not hidden. My postcards are a little longer, I tend to ramble, I use my own pictures, and they’re usually a little sad cause I’m feeling lonely or lost.
These are my Postcards from Punakaiki
Things are missing. We lose them or leave them behind. People, places, objects. We become absent, from others, from ourselves.
Here I am again. Finding this space like encountering an old empty house and opening the door to find… emptiness. The windows are all broken, a light breeze floats through, paint is peeling and no one’s been here for a while. What was I expecting? I’ve been gone.
I will have to rebuild things, again. Clean house, fix the windows, build a desk, a place to work.
Not only have I been absent, but somehow it seems like the absence started from within me. I haven’t been writing, which, in some ways, feels like I haven’t been thinking.
I’ve felt it occasionally, trying to edge back into my life, the spark of an idea like a hot ball of electricity right at the top of my spine. But I’m not here, not ready to receive it, and it cools, subsides, dissolves, and I’m left to hope that it somehow collects inside of me so I can find it later.
Where have I been? Nowhere special. Present mostly. Just soaking it in, chasing the easy highs, a little wind in the face, an open summit, music.
Here I am again. Ready? Willing. Because I know it is my responsibility to be here, to do work, to not wait for the inspiration, to not rely upon it. So I rebuild, like tearing apart my childhood room, moving the bed and the dresser and finding a new poster and feeling reborn. A fresh space, or at the least a fresh perspective.
Because it’s kind of like waking up, returning from the absence. I get to rediscover, reinvent. I forgot some things, which is good, learning is good but forgetting is important too.
I think that’s it. For whatever reason it needs to be said, established, that I’m “back”. Reclaiming this space and trying, like my childhood self, to make it reflect me a little better. This time my bed will face this way, my books can go here, and I’ve got a big, thick, wooden table for my new projects.
It already feels better here, feels good to be back. The guilt from my absence abating. Perhaps that’s it, why I need to declare, to make peace with my absence, to cut down all the expectations and apprehensions that took hold while I was gone, to make a start, and prove to myself that it doesn’t need to be perfect, or beautiful, or have a meaning, or an end.
I’m home. Or as close to it as I can really get. What is home for anyone really – where you live? Where you are alive? Too many cliches about your heart or your hat… For the past week I’ve been with family and more than anywhere else, this feels like home. It’s not the place, the place is familiar in that visceral and sometimes oppressive way that where you grow up can be. No, home is family, it’s that bedrock of strength and support that is unwavering, that without, you become truly homeless. It’s the place you call or scamper to when you’re in trouble, it’s the people you call on when you need help, or return to when they need you.
Home is where you go to reconnect with the person you were, the one who helped make you who you are today. It’s been a little over a year since I’ve been here, that’s about my rotation, and with all the movement and change my life has seen in the past year, coming home is in so many ways just what I needed. A chance to check in with myself, my history, my present and future, to offer support and presence, to gather ideas and encouragement for the way forward. A lot has changed in the practical and emotional ways I live and experience life this last year, and taking a moment to better understand and appreciate what is happening has helped me take advantage of this momentum to keep my life moving in what I hope to be a positive direction. Is it? Well, only time will tell, but you may as well judge too. The approach is changing. Continue reading “The Evolution of an Approach.”
How many times have I thought about this place, considered its purpose, its import to me, and to you. How many sentences I’ve started, how many topics touched on. How many more have I thought of, rolled around in my mind only to let them dissipate like a clearing fog. There are so many things I want to share, but my temperament and aptitude prohibit me from offering anything less than what I deem perfect, despite the fact that when I finally do, it is. This is a journal, yet one that has been cultivated, curated, and curtailed to fit an ideal, or at least to be pushed in a direction. Yet it is still just a journal, and my beliefs, my ideals and values bleed into every word published. It is my journal.
Looking back.
Sometimes perspective is so hard to find. We can try and pry ourselves away, to get a better view and see something new, but the world has a way of hiding clarity. This makes it precious really, and when it’s found we can so easily feel the understanding pulsing through our bodies.
I want to understand it all, nothing in particular really. I want to change my perspective of the world around me so it all clicks, so I can see it more clearly. Sometimes so much seems so unknown, so hectic, chaotic, and lost. What is the purpose? Other times you think you know exactly where you are, only to become aware you’ve been decieved, or decieving youself…
So instead I just go. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time and see where it takes me. I follow what feels good or right and try to do my best, to be my best…
And I look back often, to see where I have come. To see where I have been. Because sometime’s I’ve gone nowhere, or I’ve been stuck, and looking back can so easily break you free, give you that precious perspective for your place, your purpose, your person. Continue reading “More Perspectives…”
It’s kind of like a sickness, I think. An addiction maybe. I get to the top of a ridge so I can see over the other side. But as soon as I make it, I’m pulled to the next ridge, the next horizon.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just kept going, how far I would make it. It’s kind of like the feeling you get standing at the edge of a cliff, like maybe I can fly. It’s a little scary, but exhilarating. Something is pulling you, telling you to take the next step.
I wonder if I just keep going, to the next ridge, the next mountain, maybe I’d never stop? Like time would cease and my body would merge with the infinite. It’s like that, kind of scary, kind of exhilarating, the unknown, the possibilities, pulling you into their embrace. But like jumping off the cliff, somehow self preservation is always whispering in your ear, a reminder, and I know I’d just end up dead. Spent and exhausted, exposed and cold somewhere in the wilderness completely unprepared for how deep I’d gotten myself. I wouldn’t make it back for work, darkness would descend and the feeling of magic and boundless possibility would be replaced with one of foolish dread. Stupid and scared.
I know this, but somehow I still don’t completely believe it. So I look away, or back at where I’ve come, or where I’m going. Anywhere but into the unknown, because it’s pulling me to0 hard.
Someday I’ll just keep walking, over every ridge and every horizon I can see. I’ll never stop and walk into a whole new world. Someday, but not today.
Love is great. I don’t mean to be overly cheesy here but love is just such an awesome part of out lives. We have love for people, for places, even for activities and objects, things that we hold dear. Love grows, and fades, we find it and lose it, but love has a very special way of imprinting itself on our lives so that even when it’s gone we can recall its power and importance. In this way love has a way of reminding us who we are, who we were, and who we want to be.