Psalms 23:5

"In the end, prayer is more profoundly creative than art can ever be." - Joanna Jamieson (Benedictine Nun)

It's hard to flip on mindlessly to the article about the National Theatre's facelift after reading the anvil drop of that line. What could possibly be more creative than art? Is it not the very human expression of creativity, in carnate? If art is not the most creative act on the planet, childbirth aside, what is it? And more importantly, does it matter? And what of the near-idolatrous praise of artists? Is art just one of many ways to manifest creativity?

What if we took the box out of the box and dared to speak about the other theme of her sentence, that of creative prayer. And its profound creativity. All this time I thought I should just be writing as if that was the ultimate fruit of creativity, as if it was the best I could ever hope to do in life. How shortly, how swiftly, and how invisibly I would have fallen.

Creative prayer. Active devotion to God. To Love. To Life. With diligence and faith. These thoughts bless my Being. Not because I'm special or unique, but because I'm listening. I'm listening to the laughter of a child, to the sound of hello, to the spoon on the plate, not with my ears but with my heart. A heart that is not even mine, separate and distinct, but instead of piece of Heart, which resides in this body I call Me, to keep me alive and beating. Beating to God. Beating to Love. to creation. What else in the whole world could possibly be worth beating to? And so I ask you, dear Reader, to not confuse these lines with a poem or prose or spoken verse. These words are a prayer, a humble and unrefined one at that, but still a prayer.

Have you stopped today to say Thank You? Thank you for this Life? And then, stopped to ask who you are talking to? That's all. That is all. I just wish that everybody could plug in every so often, get a shot of it, get an injection of Love. Because we all want to be loved. And in these moments when I'm in the flow of Life, I realize that is all there is: If I have life, I am a walking, talking, breathing, dancing expression of love. And so the only direction to that force is outward and upward. My cup runneth over. I have so much more to give. As Eckhart Tolle put it," you are here to enable the diving purpose of the universe to unfold."

We must remember to bathe ourselves daily in a deep knowing of oneness and love. It is our birthright, our sacred grant, our Heart beat, our single chant.

On the One-Fifty-Three

Oh Industry. Oh industrious, huddled masses.
of thinly bricked warehouses at dawn, their chipped teeth biting down on persistent, dark night.

Oh Night. Oh loft-for-rent-we-subdivide sign creaking in the wind, unseen behind overtaking brambles, unread, in vain.

Tidy suburbs turn their aluminum backs on barbed wire and metallicized sweat of time time clocks and empty bus depots and parking meters.

America, what of your industry, what of your industrious nature?

loyalty, integrity, sacrifice
exchanged for
convenience, money back and guaranteed?

we've lost our tools, lost our might, lost our fear of God,
time like a tennis ball marks only firm ground between movements,
of sunlit air and wind, in the blink of a century, the first
THUMP
of the assembly lines
bounced
to
wartime manufacturing and
LANDED
hollow, echoed, on the factory room floor.

If a widgit falls in the warehouse and noone is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If a country falls from grace, and noone has the courage to speak it, does it but marr the ground? Show me not your shopping malls or monuments or front rooms. I would like to see the wrong side of the tracks, the billiard parlors and war vet halls, the after-hours, the gang of dogs at the powerlines, what is consciously not remembered and yet refuses to die. what hides in the dusty flint corners of a neatly packaged soul, what still freaks, what forever crumbles, in this denied delapidation, of calloused hands, overalls in the attic,
in dust, in dust, in dust,
of stuttering, staggering, industrial trepidation.

A Shy Patriot

The language has changed. The signs have changed. The mood has changed. The clothes have changed. Penn Station, frozen in 1994. Has time not marched on whilst I have dilletanted around Europe, picking olives and making oil, speaking the Old World, sometimes fluently, often broken ...? America, what have you been up to, besides eight years of Dubya and pharmaceutical dog biscuits that tranquilize poor Fido, sexual enhancer strips you put under your tongue, advertised on the radio? Have I landed on the Moon, or in 1994, or am I just in Nassau County, suburban Long Island, which happily oversleeps in its Prozac-induced time warp. The great hope of Obama lingers on the horizon on this Thanksgiving day, eight weeks to inauguration and counting. When I return, let it not involved any doubling up or turning back or dare I say decline of sophistication, lest I find myself absentmindedly correcting the grammar of highway billboards. 'Only Place in Philly to Get One' - get what? 'Dunkin Donuts, Eagles Fan Fuel'. 'Gasolean'.

I'm sure I know you.
I'm sure I love you.
I'm sure I am you.

But who are you people?

It's an overcast, London-esque day in Philadelphia. And the world is my home. I am nostalgically American, classically American, just like in the movies American. When abroad. The conflict of belonging on native soil strikes a chord of betrayal to seven years of international living. This chord is, however, tinny and faint and false and fearful. The truth is I belong everywhere. The world is a funny place, that's all. What would great nations be without great neuroses. The ddefensive 'you're in America now', leave all imported knowledge at the door propaganda is to be smiled at, warmly, and promptly forgotten. I am who I am because of everything I've seen, everyone I've ever met and had a laugh with, every wine I've supped, every question asked, even the roads untravelled, decisions taken and laid aside, in absence and in plenty. It's a small world, indeed, and this shy patriot is packing her bags.

Dusk on my Birthday

at this hour
in this light

i stop asking myself if i like it here
if the architecture pleases me
and settle into the freedom of early even ing
a world between two spaces
that i drink in slowly and deliberately
back sat tight in a black london cab
i have nowhere to be but here
for i am the shore that greets times gentle, rolling waves
i am the field, the child playing in the field,
the setting sun in a clear sky and her mother calling to sup.
in this endless samsara of cities, borders crossed,
oceans traversed and still cities,
i carry the countryside in my heart.

Kayaking Into Autumn

I wrote this for my uncle's newspaper Hampton Life. It's a tourist paper for my hometown area, which happens to be one of Earth's most beautiful places ...






As the days get shorter and the beaches cool down, what better way to enjoy the golden Hamptons light and fall foliage than exploring Accabonac Creek in a kayak. It’s hurricane season, and apart from die-hard surfers who live for stormy days, the calm and peaceful waters of this insider’s hideaway deserve a good paddle or two. The perfect solution for nature-loving types who seek to re-visit water sports without the rough and tumble of the ocean, kayaking is a great way to see marshlands and bays as well as marine life and birds while getting a bit of exercise. Families will appreciate the safety element without losing the charm and beauty, plus there are no nasty resident parking regulations at the Creek’s entrance.


Forget the Hamptons of golf and expensive fashions, this sport is down home, so much so that the locals will actually talk to you whilst paddling about! Do say hello to the fishermen, clam-diggers and the like; they will get that you are practically a Hamptons native yourself. Your humble writer enjoyed a chat with a man who commented that the mud was a bit thick and he was looking for clams, digging his hands deep into the waters with the patience of a beekeeper. The area is protected by not only its inhabitants but by the esteemed East End organizations Accabonic Protection Committee, East Hampton Preservation Society and the Peconic Land Trust, who have ensured that your journey will be pristine and unpolluted.


Kayaking is rooted in the earliest traditions of the East End, tracing its history to the Native American dugout canoe. The kayak’s wood-carved antecedent was used on these very same waters as a mode of transportation and livelihood for tribes that fished, clammed and navigated the Creek. Think of the Montauk tribe folk silently gliding along only to pounce on their marine prey while you navigate these waters in all of your modern paraphernalia.


Old-school kayakers will claim it is a west coast thing, but don’t be fooled. The sport was reinvented in the mid-90’s as it migrated from river to ocean to more placid marshland waters. Companies like Cobra and X started making boats out of plastic in their garages, tinkering with high-tech and lightweight materials that didn’t cost much and could eventually be mass-produced. One such invention was the self-bailing boat, from Cobra, which was made for ocean waves, with holes in the middle to release water from the boat. This improvement ran alongside the slimming of longer, thinner designs intended for speed, the skinny frame perfect for rivers. The kayaks on offer and ideal for Accabonac Creek are medium-sized, in both one-man and two-man varieties, with enough girth to be comfortable on flat waters yet streamlined for the more adventurous jaunts possible into Gardiner’s Bay and other open waters.

You can rent a kayak or two and explore the area with or without a tour guide, but there is one essential piece of the Creek to visit: Louse Point. This thin stretch of land that acts as a natural buffer to the opening into Gardiner’s Bay is such a graceful and beautiful piece of earth that it was celebrated by one of the area’s most famous artists, Willem de Kooning, in his painting “Rosy Fingered Dawn at Louse Point”.

The safety do’s and don’t’s are pretty straightforward: paddle in pairs so there’s always someone to pull you out of the mud or call for help if you should tip over or fall out; and always stay with your boat, no matter what – after all, it’s a floatation device, even if it should capsize. You will want to bring a camera to get action shots of your group and to capture the gorgeous landscape and water views to tease your friends at home, but be sure to either get a waterproof or keep it locked tight when you’re not using it in the kayak’s airtight container. Lastly, if you are kayaking early morning, do bring along some bug spray.


Many come kayaking to lose their type-A-ness, to chill out, relax and de-stress from the pressures of work and urban living, or to further delve into the gorgeous nature that is Accabonac Creek. One of the tour leaders perched down at the Creek waxed poetic when he said, gazing at the water and the kayaks lined up along its edge,” this sport will transform us if we let it”. He recalled a specific tour that he was leading of high-powered lawyers who once a bit of mist had settled onto the Creek, blocking their visibility and way home, became very human and real when they realized the power of nature and the importance of keeping calm, cool and collected. Movie mogul types and TV stars are attracted by the anonymous, un-Hamptons style in which kayakers go about their sport, with nothing flashy about it, and no paparazzi in sight.


The wildlife on display in and along the Creek is rather outstanding, with a graceful collection of bird types topping the list. The ubiquitously sexy, nasty swans (don’t get close to their babies, the grayish-brown ones) are bobbing about, and they generally like to hug the shore, where they can dip in and out of the water. Next come the osprey, also known as sea hawks for the way they swoop down into the water to catch their pray. You may notice they dim out in numbers in the fall, but look to their nests, built by the town on tall, thin wood platforms. The real beast of burden for fishermen are the cormorants, who have a lovely deep blue color and look at first glance like blue herons, but are certainly much more friendly and approachable. They tend to travel in packs, and are hated by those who fish as they eat traps. Catch them doing a characteristic move of extending their wing span, a beautiful sight, as they dry their feathers. They are a species in mid-evolution, as they swim to catch fish but still have their feathered ‘clothes’ on, which as humans know is not the easiest task.


Whether you come for the sport, the fresh air or the impressive natural beauty, one thing is for certain – kayaking is the way forward this autumn. I’ll see you on the Creek.



Written by Sarah Coursey

When not kayaking on Accabonac Creek, Sarah can be found whizzing past double-decker buses in London on her trusty Vespa.

Power, Intent and Evolution

In a wooden, A-framed hall bathed in light next to a misty, rolling field, we started each morning of PIE (Power, Intent and Evolution) waking up body and spirit. This coming back to nature is a perfect metaphor to a return to self and, deeper still, the infinite possibility for life that rests underneath and beyond personal identity. By shedding the layers and shackles of what we are still “working on”, engineers still tinkering away at old stories of who we think we are or have to be, we become free. And that freedom is hard-earned and sometimes fleeting, but it is there and available and through PIE, I sampled a delicious taste.

The components of Tensegrity and dialogue are the foundation for the energetic opening of PIE. The ancient Mexican shamanic movements of Tensegrity, revealed to the world by Carlos Castaneda, serve to release and nourish the energy-body, allowing it room to breathe, to grow and to be acknowledged as the true life force. Memories, outdated patterns and beliefs come bubbling to the surface and get dispersed. Through recapitulation, scars from the past are healed energetically. And real change pokes its head out from under the sand just long enough to remind us that evolution has something else in mind for us. That it is not done with us yet. This is not all there is.

The dialogue sessions drove home this concept through the distinction of the First and Second Attentions. The First Attention is bound in finite, limited time and space, defined and stuck in the Personal Story that we have made up for ourselves about who we are and have used to get us through life. The Second Attention in contrast is infinite, unlimited and unbound by time and space, and therefore free. Relationships, for example, that take place in the Second Attention have a holistic approach to loving and being loved, whereas the First Attention relationship is still keeping count of affections and compromise, altogether conditional. Most of life as we know it is lived from the First Attention and its principal movement is involution, a circle of energy directing ever smaller and tighter. Fears are stored and harvested here.

Through a conscious conversation in the PIE dialogue sessions, the invisible wall between these two ways of being is quietly shattered. Taboo subjects, secrets and embarrassment and topics to avoid are explored in one-on-one talks between participants as well as with the group as a whole. This simple and yet incredibly difficult act of defying the dusty and cramped social conventions unblocks precious life force that laid dormant under our own weight. And ownership must be stressed, for the power in Power, Intent and Evolution does not come from an exterior source. Evolution is the real mysticism of this work, as a part of that in our humanity we have access to the power that created the universe, as we contain in every cell of our bodies that potential for infinite evolution.

Another crucial base for the work is the gourmet, macrobiotic food offered up to participants, biologically supporting both dialogue and Tensegrity sessions. Clean, calming and revitalizing, this food is a foundation for transformation and supports PIE reaching its final destination as a course and an energetic opening.

Divorce Party

okay, so this is a first that i thought i would never live to see. not that i live entirely in the fairy tale zone of happily ever after, but it just seems a bit early for that. i mean, i hope that this is my first and last. not that i'm surprised about the event, the guy was not up to snuff and she was miserable and said she's happier than she was on her wedding day. which stopped me dead in my tracks. the thought of someone leaving a bad situation as happier than entering with hope and love into a union of marriage. the release as compared to the dive. these are not happy endings. or are they?

i struggle with the question of things not working out. of why some people are alone and others aren't. of where i fit into the spectrum. the success of a relationship and the ultimate union, marriage. one that works. and lasts. and doesn't have an end in sight, but a being, a sense of the every day. i don't have any other friends who will God willing be getting divorced anytime soon, and so this will have to remain an anomaly. so not necessarily a first, but a one-off. she doesn't seem to mind, really.

maybe i'm the one with the hang-up. the belief that someone couldn't possibly be happy after such a rupture, such a sign of failure. and only because of my 'personal story' is it so important to me that things work out that i don't completely give my heart away for fear they won't. well, that's all changing. i am open, open, open. doing things i am scared to do, breaking patterns, speaking my truth, understanding that nothing is easy and having a good life takes hard work. especially when one has been programmed for much less. of no fault of my own, or my mothers, or her mother, or her mother, it's just an inherited pattern, but the good news is that it's not forever fixed. anything can be changed.

Not Black, Not White

There will be casualties. Some of the casualties will become fertile ground for new growth, new life; and that too will be revealed. Others are just that, things that die that would’ve died anyway, they just get clipped sooner. They might’ve been tangling and energy-draining, something to do, someone to see, not much meaning but lots of company. The relationship that could’ve been, whose time was never really right, which might’ve been about more than the months in the calendar, but never knowing is its fate. The blindness of it all, of deciding to jump off a cliff and not knowing if it’s a ravine or a lake, causes its symptom, the headache of not being able to see, the mind buzzing with unanswered questions that eat each other whole and become bigger and stronger as that is their nature, the high-pitched asking only serving to accentuate the silent spaces in-between. This is called confusion.

And yet I sit here in my fishbowl looking out at clouds every day and think ‘is this it’? Is this it? Is everyone miserable at work? Is this what life is all about, is this what we’ve been evolving for millions of years to do, or is there something else out there? What if that something else was handed over? An alternative route. It might not be the right route. What is the right route? Is there only one right route? Could two routes be right? They can both lead to the same things, actually. That totally didn’t occur to me. There is no wrong decision.

Wow, that takes pressure off, doesn’t it. It’s okay if I go, and it’s okay if I stay, so no pressure! Even if it’s a big decision, it is not an exam. Not at test. There will be no punishment, no reward. It’s only what I make it. Because I make it. I take the opportunity and then turn that into something real. I think I’m ready. I needed that, a sit-down with myself. Because my gut wasn’t making any noise. Rather, it was hard to hear it over all the other noise. In a transformational sense, I was getting lost in either/or. I put up the dualistic dilemma and blew it up and had a field day with it. Classic confusion, boiled down to its most essential elements. An excuse for the pain body to go into its favourite sport – mental masturbation. Well, I’ve broken free !!!! I’ve broken free and there’s no going back. The world is full of abundance. And joy. And there are many paths. They are all right when they are worn with an open heart. Courage is key. Because it’s not afraid of the darkness or the uncertainty.

If we could really go to a palm reader and have our whole lives spelled out, would life really be that interesting to live? If we knew exactly what was going to happen next, it’s just like going through the motions really. I don’t even like having a two week social schedule, days packed with events and meetings, because there’s the feeling of having to ‘get through the diary’. It’s a big world, and the things that need to get through will get through, will change their shape to fit different spaces, that’s just how it goes. The Phoenix forever rises.

Size is Everything

there once was a boy
with a heart so big
he had to hide it behind a really big sweater
and I am talking a REALLY big sweater,
and this sweater would sweat and his brow would get wet,
and all would get muddy, clouds into rain and fear into pain
and his heart
was still hidden away.

He walked through this life
Thumping away, left sided and slanted and true,
and the people beside him, could not comprehend, upright and even as two,
they couldn’t see past his halfway ways
And called him at last

the boy with the barrel chest.

But don’t you all see
The boy once did cry
It’s not my chest at all
but a really big heart.
And they laughed and they snickered
And he cowed and he dithered
Until finally
He did agree. He would be barrel-chested and loud and brave
And hide behind not sweater, no no, but a cool demeanor and aftershave
The girls they did flock and the boys were a-wonder
At how our big-hearted boy did not fall under
The spell of the masses, the primary school classes,
But just stood, cool demeanor, not a second too late.

Until.

One day came along a girl
With a heart so big
She had to hide it behind a really big mouth
And I am talking a REALLY big mouth,
She huffed and she puffed and wouldn’t shut up
And so they all laughed
and then cried
“would you please give our ears a break
and your conscience a gentle shake?”
But she grinned knowing
the silence was growing
in the heart spaces kept out of reach
and with no way of finding
a heart like hers
hence the to-ing and fro-ing,
it was a lesson she learned to teach.

So the boy with the sweater and the girl with the mouth
Met with pistols in the churchyard at dawn
She shouted “get going”, and he shirked, not knowing
That she was all talk and no fire.
For the pistol was empty, it clicked and it clacked
And he called her so coolly a liar.
But she turned with a shrug, pulled a moth from a jug
And proceeded to tap his big chest.
I know what you’re keeping, I hear the creeping
Of something too big to protest.
And before he knew a hole formed and the beat-beating one could not deny,
so with nothing to say, and nothing to do, in silence their two hearts now lie.

Monster

and every once and again, a monster
who locks his children in the basement
arrives to make us feel free, to remind us of
original sin, to tap at the core of our
vulnerability, to remember in the midst of
back-patting laughter at the dinner table
how very far we have to go.

some take these
newspaper clippings and smile on their
neighbors with love, while others squint small
eyes with scorn.

we are too many islands
huddled on dry land. the immaculate lawn that
separates our white picket fences, an ocean of
misunderstanding, a blanket of misshapen manners,
a break in trust, the involution of loneliness like a
cosmic gutter sucking out the water of life.
if we let it.

and yet.
we all just want to be seen.
to not be forgotten.
to be tapped on the shoulder and chosen for the team.
for a monster sleeps in the cool, dark corridors of our hearts.
and our cloaked claims of separation are the oxygen he breathes
as we the outraged masses turn our gaze and fill our glasses,
misery waits merrily in the color tube that brings the morning news
as hazy heads make sense of shapes, words and pictures.
monster. ah yes. we'll be needing one of those.

She and Her Here and There

She and Her Here and There is a journey through words, emotion and abstraction; tracking the forgotten histories and secret alleyways of London's Isle of Dogs. In a Subterranean Homesick Blues fashion, "She" flipped over pages of words a large pad, indicating bits of history in a very personal, colloquial voice; whilst the audience followed "She" through new residential developments, along the water facing Canary Wharf and through the vestiges of an old ghetto to arrive at the converted-church theatre/bar The Space.

"Her" punctuated the piece with symbolism and sound, popping up in the most unexpected of places - in an outside cupboard holding up a small wooden windmill, or dragging a rolled ball of vinyl with an old travelling man's suitcase. A small scratch of modern brick buildings revealed a courtyard with wooden sheds and allotments where a wide-faced Asian woman tended to her lettuce patch. This while "She" offered us an annotated tea break with real biscuits and a marble game to play while "Her" played the screams and cheers of children playing in her stereo-fitted suitcase. Home for anyone who's ever known a real community, leaves the afternoon streaked with children's voices until dinner time, and this poignant, emotional tome to the dock's history was beautifully captured in this symphonic tea break.

The inevitable interaction with the piece from passersby, many of which presumably local, added a rich layer of present-day community to what was for the most part being performed as an homage to community in the historical sense. Neighborhood girls dressed in the latest streetwear contrasted with a photo held up by "Her" of two young girls in fluffy bonnets from the McDougall's factory at the turn of the twenty-first century. In a dance between language and abstraction, "Her" told the physical story of the flour-shop's daily rhythms through the tossing of a white ball inside a clear plastic sphere, mirroring the famous mixing bowls in the experimental kitchens that gave the world self-rising flour.

For every blue plaque in London there is a wealth of socio-cultural information, and the objects, sounds and symbols that we conveniently dub 'history' are very much alive if one scratches just beneath the surface. She and Her Here and There delicately and powerfully conveys that to the audience in an abstract, participatory style. Go. This Saturday, if you're not working, go. And follow She and Her Here and There.

http://www.myvillage.com/docklands/arts-gallery-Dianna_Brinsden_and_Martina_Von_Holn%7C_She_and_Her_Here_and_There.htm

What will become of me?

This prose piece was written in response to a request on a course I am, to which I refer in the piece. I read this in front of my class this past weekend, and opened my heart and voice. It is about transforming, becoming, and wondering where the seams are to this life.


What will become of me?
How will I know?
Who will I see?

What will become of me?
Where is the forest in these matchstick trees?
On a march to this sea of oblivion
I have no life jacket
where is the soul in ego's empty packet?
is the thing called 'me' just a clever racket?

What will become of m?
How will I know?
Who will I see?
I don't believe myself
I don't believe my self
cries a voice so soft it wilts when I cross my arms,
so small it can squeeze between two quick thoughts,
so weak from knocking at my closed heart's door,
so tired it can hardly speak at all.

Disbelief lifts its curtain on a figure pulling cords
on my throat,
up and down, up and down, like six o'clock church bells
snuffing out the days' last candle, like so many men in
so many towers, as I count the lies, they count the hours,
up and down and up and down and up and --
STOP! who is counting, who is pulling, is anyone winning this game?

What will become of me?
How will I know?
Who will I see?

Sarah's Dating Manifesto (because it's Valentine's Day!!)

Alright, ladies (and gents if you can just stop for one second and stop pretending you don't want to meet someone ...) welcome to my Dating Manifesto. To navigate this tricky terrain, there is one Cardinal Rule, to which all rules will adhere: Pretend you're on the Dating Game! And if you're not old enough to remember the show, you shouldn't be reading this ... That's right, one contestant, three members of the opposite sex, a screen (this last bit is optional).

Bachelor Number One, Two and Three. They all come out from some kind of conveyor belt system, one after the other, and do some kind of dance about who they are, what they like and don't like, et cetera. The beauty of the conveyor belt is of course that the casting department is there and ready with a replacement to come in after the commercial break. No hard feelings, it's show business, and if something doesn't work out, there are many waiting in the wings. Each bachelor must prove his worth to his potential date, but it's supposed to be funny and fun and light and not at all 'will you marry me' but instead 'do you fart in bed' or 'would your ex say you are a good lover'.

Ladies, I know what you do when you meet a guy - you're not playing the Dating Game - you're playing the Marriage Game - wrong, wrong, wrong! I know, because I used to do this. Run for the hills, fair gents, if a woman starts giving you that 'so, how many babies do you want to have' talk on the first date - that is not how you play!! It's all about flirting and testing out the waters, and for this you need 3 contestants. The last one standing wins, it's only fair. There are billions of people on this planet (okay, not SOOO many billions, but still), and why should you meet someone in a bar, or yoga center, or beach, and decide 'this is it, i'm gonna be Mrs. So-and-So (insert his last name here), and he must do all the right things, or else ... this is not light or joyful or happy! Show some self-respect, and get 3 boys on 3 high chairs and play the game yourself. And remember, they aren't winning a permanent place on the left side of your bed, they are winning a date - just one - not sex or a weekend in the countryside. So ... Happy Valentines Day & let the games begin!

on being a bud

I walked past some daffodil buds on the way to work yesterday. Which wouldn't have been a big deal if it weren't for the month of February. Winter's last full capsule. And they looked quite impatient, ticking their sunny pulses as if to say, "time is running out, we absolutely cannot wait for spring." And my mind, no less a child than the flowers, dutifully planted a garden, denying the buds their very being. In a flash, I sent up purple and white crocuses, pink hibiscus with their waxy yellow stamens poking through, and so on. I called in extra hands to drum up early tulips and late roses alike. How quickly we rush to the illusion of future, the dream of perfection when the day of perfect bloom will arrive and we will for one millisecond have the breathless moment of 'Ah', this is what we've been waiting for. There is one problem: the buds may never become flowers. They may make it all the way and get killed by frost. Or get swept away by the wind. And yet as a culture, as a human race, we are obsessed by this moment of magic where we have scaled development to something so small, we can't even measure it. Let alone touch it, or live in a circle around it with our arms open wide. The buds are perfect, as was the bulb and as will the drooping, season's-end flowers turning from yellow to brown. And back again. To the old woman and the young girl, to the first bliss-blast of honeymoon love to the mature, 'where-did-you-put-my-slippers silver couple, it is the same thread, the same bud, the same love that we put into boxes of time and meaning to give ourselves some semblance of control. Which is its own illusion.

arctic dreams

The sun set on Lulea today at half past two. Ingemar took me down to the frozen river, thickly coated with a meter of ice and topped with fresh, frothy snow, the kind of snow that feels like winter clouds hovering low, ankle-hugging and cozied up for a long, dark sleep. The days are both wide and low in northern Sweden this time of year. A rich brew of night arrives at four, its upright air steeped in cold caution. The elements rule supreme - better to check the ubiquitous thermometers stuck on the windows, better yet not to break a sweat - clothes layering having risen to an art form in these parts.

We set out for the mountains, made our way through mile aftermile of blanked boughs, a symphony of light from land to sky. Every now and again we passed clearings of diamond-white, sparkling like fallen rainbows, shattered into uncountable pastel pieces. A local herd of reindeer had evidently been alerted to welcome all passers-by, and slowly crossed our path of asphalt and ice. One seemed to say, his deep, marbly eyes locked with mine, "It's alright here. This is our natural habitat. We don't mind the cold." And in an instant, I didn't either.

Non-Swedes hold the notion of the north as a place caved in darkness, bleak months of hard liquor and even harder waiting for the light to return. In reality, there's plenty of crisp sunshine to go around. November is the only month to fear - dark ground can't reflect a single ray, and it is difficult to tell a tree from a person. And yet, on a snowboard carving powder down to a sunset-pierced valley, the measured world - and its time-stained cares - is quickly put to right. Be still my melting Arctic heart, cradling the sweet ache of such magnificence and simplicity, whilst the last rays of so called 'day' drip onto the blue mountains ahead.

what it is

Courage, also known as bravery, will and fortitude, is the ability to confront fear, pain, risk/danger, uncertainty, or intimidation. 'Physical courage' is courage in the face of physical pain, hardship or threat of death, while 'moral courage' is the courage to act rightly in the face of popular opposition, shame, scandal or discouragement. - Wikipedia

I had a choice and I knew it. To live in fear or to live in courage. There is something incredibly comfortable about the dull, constant pain of fear, it covered my life like an itchy blanket, better than nothing but ultimately unsatisfying. It never actually occurred to me that fear itself is always worse than the object of its disaffection. And so, I begin. This picture was taken on a river in northern Sweden. Yes, I am walking on water. Frozen water. A change in temperature, season and climate makes this possible. And that shift, spiraling from spirit to matter, is what I will attempt to explore in this blog.