Friday, October 7, 2011
Long lost sacred rapport
How can one voice stir so in the soul, that when heard, can conjure such vivid ghosts of the past that for a moment, even reality cannot interject. Stars align with lesser fusion than the spark of recognition of long lost sacred rapport.
A youth so long ago it truly feels a dream, a voice of proof in memories fleeting reminds, like a scar, that those times were indeed a reality.
Emotion swelled, then swallowed just as quickly, to show no weakness in a situation unsure. Could it be? No. Impossible, logic persists. Yet listen, he speaks again... How can it be?
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Chaos evolves
To create something new, must something else really die? To be reborn, must there always be pain? Why must change breed so much fear?
And is it within this fear that we find ourselves needing a God? One definable point to which we may go for guidance, to lay the blame, to project our demand for reason, for purpose?
In these hardest of times, I drown in questions, fear, until change brings it's movement, it's voice. Until chaos evolves into hope, by way of faith, friendship and the simple will,
to keep going.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Does matter not the 'why'?
A fog has slowly settled upon my spirit. Dense with chill, it provokes tension within me. A fear of all I cannot see through it's opacity rumbles in my belly, a beast waking. Though the time is fine, rain comes, rain goes, floods have not yet risen to destroy, so why? I ask, why? To sleep to perish, or to cry? Wither slowly & die? Tomorrow's rain or brightening sun, none can burn this fog undone. Does matter not the 'why'? For a cure then, cry these eyes, cry.
Marcus
Marcus is everyone's best friend, when he needs something, or you do. And, so it seems, Marcus always finds whatever it is that is needed. Either by his personality of persuasion, his creative problem solving skills or his ways of business bartering, he finds what is sought every time. Most agree they feel he cannot be fully trusted, such is the way with any merchant that has come before, though. His abilities are so useful to so many that we find ourselves constantly in his debt, each in his or her own way, to the appreciation and disdain of all.
Forced to forage.
We are the survivors of the greatest movement of land that our recorded history has ever witnessed. No one is quite sure the details of this fallout, but we know our former maps are now in essence useless. There exists now water where should be land, mountains where once were plains, roads have split and nature has recaptured so much already. With each day of our travels, we have attempted to rediscover and remap this new land within which we are forced to forage. People are now scattered across foreign countrysides, unprepared for such suddenly independent survival. So many have died in the quakes and subsequent fires, flooding and anarchy. Survivors of these after effects were then faced with a yet deadlier battle, one our group has come to conquer, it seems - the search for potable, or in any way treatable, drinking water.
City of reputation
We are brought news of other new "towns" similar to ours by travelers passing between and beyond. One, we heard, has a type of military leadership, to which a transient's requests for temporary stay are all but ignored. The number of people inside, and as to each's willingness or desire to be or remain within the town is still unknown to us. How a city with such reputation even comes to be, after all that's been lost and learned, is beyond me. And yet, our group is not naive enough to be blind to this, life's little reminder to us, that our new home has not a guarantee of safe haven. Precautions must be taken, a consensus determined, by all in our community, as to where we stand should dire immediate decisions need to be made to ensure the safety of as many of our group as possible.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Fabric of our futures
Our colony is on a round, flat oval of ground, encased in light brush and trees around it, set in a small valley beside what appears to be a consistent source of safe drinking water from a stream. We started building on this seemingly solid land we have found. Thoughts of hope, mixed with anticipation, thread through our camp, weaving this new colony into the fabric of our futures. Beyond our first buildings new buildings, we have cleared three large plots for fields. It feels like something out of a movie... "Movie", a word some of the children might no longer even remember...
Building temporary shelters wasn't hard for our experienced and strengthening limbs, but engineering permanent structures has been a project greatly discussed and debated. After all the movement of earth we have witnessed, the ever changing terrain we have traveled, to assume we know what to expect in even the coming year alone would be suicidal. None can predict the moods of the seasons in this new place, the ferocity of wind, rain or snow we may be forced to endure, or what groups of people may come across us here in this valley. Survival, we have learned, is not only ensuring water, food and warmth for all, but also, defense of all.
Mary Beth
Mary Beth always has a plan. A solution. A suggestion for a better way of doing, well, just about anything, really. And any hardship we might encounter could have been prevented or avoided had we simply listened to Mary Beth, at least according to her. The problem that has developed is that her ideas generally are not realistic, revealing much naivety in life prior to our meeting.
In our current situation, she resents any who do not bow to her desires for personal placation. Ideas accepted by the group after much debate and discussion, yet not her own, are met with her righteous disapproval, though they are tolerated out of survival instinct, I imagine.
Echoing Valley
A new page, a new day, met with a new sound on the horizon. His men marched to a beating drum as they traveled. How many footsteps it prompted was masked by echoing valley's mimicking percussion.
Dirty faces & far away places
We had crossed paths with other survivors before. Some trying to stay alive but staying alone. But most, like us, have banded together however chance fated. Hodgepodges of ages, sizes, colors & shapes, dirty faces & tales of far away places - such are life's visitors now. We offer welcome, friendship, what little we have to offer. Some stay & travel alongside us, while others keep on in their own chosen direction. But each new face offers hope for a future we often question inside ourselves.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Elder Mother
We found her around dusk, slowly rocking on the porch swing of a house half fallen down, her memories dancing far away from her as her legs gently moved her out of habit. When she finally returned from thought and noticed our noise nearby, her eyes were clear and calm, a rarity to find.
“We are friends” spoke Peter softly, with the quiet voice of trusted healer that had so often calmed a fearful stray. Her lips curled in a warm smile, though she would not tell us her name. She did say that her husband, children and children’s children did not survive, only she. And that she believed she was completely alone, here only to wait her turn for death’s arrival, but then we had arrived instead.
She stood with relieved purpose at the sight of us all, dusted her hands on a comfortingly patterned apron, and walked through her front door as she turned to say “You are so very welcome here. And you all must be quite hungry.” Shortly after, we shared our first ‘family meal’.
She, to this day, has never spoken her name to us, or not in any way we can decipher. But we no longer ask, for it would matter now, and because her wishes are to be someone new.
“My life before is over. All that I built around me has come down, and if it is my God’s will, then I shall rebuild it again. But this time on new ground, with new stone and new mortar, and for new purpose. My life and my name are no more, for with my family I died, but when you came to my door that day I was reborn. I saw that my purpose was not over, even if the only life I had ever known was over, it had simply changed. Now, I wish to be everyone’s mother, to do what I can for all of you who saved me, and for the children, for the new world they will build, with whatever time we each have left.”
And so we have come to call her “Elder Mother”, mother and grandmother to us all. When a child needs comfort, to Elder Mother does he turn for the arms of safety and love he so craves. When an adult needs an ear, a shoulder or a sweet word of hope, to Elder Mother does one turn. Disputes in our group are mediated and resolved with objectivity and kind fairness, if Elder Mother is asked.
And she, like a true mother, demands that at least once per week the whole community we have gathered all sit to eat together at one time - our ‘family meals’. Elder Mother is our glue, holding us together in so many different ways.
Many evenings, Elder Mother tells stories. ” To help the children always remember who we were, and to help them see who we are capable of becoming.” In her stories, she never reveals which are her own stories and which are simply those she saw around her. But her stories weave us into a tapestry of dreams and hope and pride in our ancestry. She reminds not only the children of who we are capable of becoming, of how vital love like hers is in this new world. I aspire to one day hold within me the unconditional love and wisdom with words that she carries for us all.
“We are friends” spoke Peter softly, with the quiet voice of trusted healer that had so often calmed a fearful stray. Her lips curled in a warm smile, though she would not tell us her name. She did say that her husband, children and children’s children did not survive, only she. And that she believed she was completely alone, here only to wait her turn for death’s arrival, but then we had arrived instead.
She stood with relieved purpose at the sight of us all, dusted her hands on a comfortingly patterned apron, and walked through her front door as she turned to say “You are so very welcome here. And you all must be quite hungry.” Shortly after, we shared our first ‘family meal’.
She, to this day, has never spoken her name to us, or not in any way we can decipher. But we no longer ask, for it would matter now, and because her wishes are to be someone new.
“My life before is over. All that I built around me has come down, and if it is my God’s will, then I shall rebuild it again. But this time on new ground, with new stone and new mortar, and for new purpose. My life and my name are no more, for with my family I died, but when you came to my door that day I was reborn. I saw that my purpose was not over, even if the only life I had ever known was over, it had simply changed. Now, I wish to be everyone’s mother, to do what I can for all of you who saved me, and for the children, for the new world they will build, with whatever time we each have left.”
And so we have come to call her “Elder Mother”, mother and grandmother to us all. When a child needs comfort, to Elder Mother does he turn for the arms of safety and love he so craves. When an adult needs an ear, a shoulder or a sweet word of hope, to Elder Mother does one turn. Disputes in our group are mediated and resolved with objectivity and kind fairness, if Elder Mother is asked.
And she, like a true mother, demands that at least once per week the whole community we have gathered all sit to eat together at one time - our ‘family meals’. Elder Mother is our glue, holding us together in so many different ways.
Many evenings, Elder Mother tells stories. ” To help the children always remember who we were, and to help them see who we are capable of becoming.” In her stories, she never reveals which are her own stories and which are simply those she saw around her. But her stories weave us into a tapestry of dreams and hope and pride in our ancestry. She reminds not only the children of who we are capable of becoming, of how vital love like hers is in this new world. I aspire to one day hold within me the unconditional love and wisdom with words that she carries for us all.
Lost but no longer alone.
There is no way of knowing how many of us remain, wandering. But as JRR Tolkien once said, "not all who wander are lost".
Sometimes I wonder if our previous lives weren't in some way a preparation for all of this. Struggles making each strong enough in one way or another, to keep us alive when so many others have died. Some would call it "luck", but our little group over time has shown an exaggerated variety of unexpected but crucial abilities, experiences, skills and strategies that, without, we'd never have made it so far.
Is it our genetically coded instinct to survive that reminds each of us just how much a mind really can retain and blend into creatively cunning ways to fix whatever is thrown at us? Our desire to win a challenge, to prove life wrong in its assertion that death be imminent?
We find ourselves relearning what resilient creatures we humans can be when properly motivated. We are unafraid, though often unwilling at first, to fight; but fight we will when survival is threatened.
That's more than likely part of why we have become the adopted family to so many children. In our travels, we find them - alone, barely fed, dirty, cold and afraid. But so many come to us with their tales of parental heroics in the face of insurmountable odds. Tales of sacrifice, barters with the world for the life of their young in return for their own.
We all seem to share that human value that puts our children's lives above all else, especially in these times. I am proud (yet saddened of course), but always deeply and soulfully indebted to those who have come before us and passed into the unknown after this life, to hear their stories of a child saved in the direst of moments by the love of a mother or father or both. To hear of another human, holding onto a faith in the rest of their human race, that this sacrifice would not be in vain. Holding onto a hope that these children, so dearly loved, might be found, saved yet again by the next who is able, to live and to love, and maybe even laugh again one day.
And to carry the lesson of love and survival to the next generation to come. That we shall stand, and we shall sing, and we shall wander, lost for now, but no longer alone.
Sometimes I wonder if our previous lives weren't in some way a preparation for all of this. Struggles making each strong enough in one way or another, to keep us alive when so many others have died. Some would call it "luck", but our little group over time has shown an exaggerated variety of unexpected but crucial abilities, experiences, skills and strategies that, without, we'd never have made it so far.
Is it our genetically coded instinct to survive that reminds each of us just how much a mind really can retain and blend into creatively cunning ways to fix whatever is thrown at us? Our desire to win a challenge, to prove life wrong in its assertion that death be imminent?
We find ourselves relearning what resilient creatures we humans can be when properly motivated. We are unafraid, though often unwilling at first, to fight; but fight we will when survival is threatened.
That's more than likely part of why we have become the adopted family to so many children. In our travels, we find them - alone, barely fed, dirty, cold and afraid. But so many come to us with their tales of parental heroics in the face of insurmountable odds. Tales of sacrifice, barters with the world for the life of their young in return for their own.
We all seem to share that human value that puts our children's lives above all else, especially in these times. I am proud (yet saddened of course), but always deeply and soulfully indebted to those who have come before us and passed into the unknown after this life, to hear their stories of a child saved in the direst of moments by the love of a mother or father or both. To hear of another human, holding onto a faith in the rest of their human race, that this sacrifice would not be in vain. Holding onto a hope that these children, so dearly loved, might be found, saved yet again by the next who is able, to live and to love, and maybe even laugh again one day.
And to carry the lesson of love and survival to the next generation to come. That we shall stand, and we shall sing, and we shall wander, lost for now, but no longer alone.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
A Patience in Particulars
We are no longer restrained by the dogma of religion in this new world of ours, as all the leaders of faith have been recalled to their masters. Those who remain are confronted by current events, life defying us to believe that all this is for some worthy purpose. The idea of a Divine Design is harder to hold onto now, but many who never believed before, do now.
It is difficult to understand why "God would allow all this to happen" and yet at the same time, grasping the a hope that some end will indeed justify these means we have survived so far is a desire that has grown within each of us over time.
But within that, an new clemency of discussion, a patience in particulars, a grace in the unknown, is developing among us as well. Perhaps the mistakes of our past, the dissolutions of unity via vain attempts to answer all life's mysteries, will refrain from regrowth in this new era we are creating.
In the loss of so much, so much more may now grow. I am enticed by the wonder of it's coming bloom.
It is difficult to understand why "God would allow all this to happen" and yet at the same time, grasping the a hope that some end will indeed justify these means we have survived so far is a desire that has grown within each of us over time.
But within that, an new clemency of discussion, a patience in particulars, a grace in the unknown, is developing among us as well. Perhaps the mistakes of our past, the dissolutions of unity via vain attempts to answer all life's mysteries, will refrain from regrowth in this new era we are creating.
In the loss of so much, so much more may now grow. I am enticed by the wonder of it's coming bloom.
My ears assumed it a Dream
They came upon us from both sides, in the dusk of a setting sun, dressed in darks, intimidating and broad. Their number was about that of ours, but only if you count our children, and so equality in the encounter was impossible.
Immediately, instinct echoed ominously through each of us, and without speaking, the strongest found ourselves wrapping around the weakest, a circle of the forsaken, still desperate in the hope of survival.
But when the tall leader spoke, with eyes and face mostly hidden from sight, my ears first assumed it a dream. Hearing a voice from another life, a voice from a past I barely believed real any more, and my heart released it's fear for just a heartbeat. I risked breaking our circle of deceptive defense, as I stepped just a breath closer to hear. To believe.
Can coincidence follow us even this far? Or has purpose reared her head once again?
I breathed in the anticipation of this twist, this quake in my soul, as my own life too is redesigned like the unwilling earth I travel upon.
Immediately, instinct echoed ominously through each of us, and without speaking, the strongest found ourselves wrapping around the weakest, a circle of the forsaken, still desperate in the hope of survival.
But when the tall leader spoke, with eyes and face mostly hidden from sight, my ears first assumed it a dream. Hearing a voice from another life, a voice from a past I barely believed real any more, and my heart released it's fear for just a heartbeat. I risked breaking our circle of deceptive defense, as I stepped just a breath closer to hear. To believe.
Can coincidence follow us even this far? Or has purpose reared her head once again?
I breathed in the anticipation of this twist, this quake in my soul, as my own life too is redesigned like the unwilling earth I travel upon.
Quakes Unbound
The ground trembles beneath us almost daily now. Small tremors, and now and then, larger upheavals of land, changing the earth in ways we know we have yet to discover. As if the world itself quivers in the fear of a new future, as our own fears quiver in the eerie silence between the shaking.
Each time the ground quakes, the adults pass worrisome glances, but hold a feigned courage and confidence about our safety for the sake of the children cowering below, frantically clasping onto the legs of idyllic parental stability.
Ripples of pavement like waves along the road, concrete scarred with delicate cracks like glass, dirty water flows cutting new highways through a landscape slowly redesigning itself; signs the quakes both follow us and precede us. The ground seems to shake no matter where we travel to avoid it. The boundaries of the tremors seem never to be reached, and so we walk on.
Each time the ground quakes, the adults pass worrisome glances, but hold a feigned courage and confidence about our safety for the sake of the children cowering below, frantically clasping onto the legs of idyllic parental stability.
Ripples of pavement like waves along the road, concrete scarred with delicate cracks like glass, dirty water flows cutting new highways through a landscape slowly redesigning itself; signs the quakes both follow us and precede us. The ground seems to shake no matter where we travel to avoid it. The boundaries of the tremors seem never to be reached, and so we walk on.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Lost should mean "able to be found". But not always.
We lost Elaine today. She was expecting a child, so the loss was exceptionally difficult for most of us to conceive. Each soul still surviving in these days is a blessing, and a new birth is cherished above all else. To lose any is a devastating truth none of us wishes to accept.
A fever had swept in overnight and put three to bed in hours. Our medical focus was, for obvious reasons, on the children first. Peter suggested we make a separate camp for the weakest members of our group; it was the first "quarantine" since we left our "lives" behind, months ago.
Because two of the children are mine, I was asked to help at the quarantine camp with others. Peter stayed at the main camp to attend the sick, of course. Elaine and child were the only ones lost in the end, helped by Peter's quick thinking to isolate low immune systems from exposure immediately.
The void of Elaine's presence lingers still, almost a fortnight since her passing. Quieter evenings, less laughter, but I witness hints of healing grow in number with each rising sun. And we have grown more aware again of the risk we face with disease, in this new world of without many of the pills we once took for granted to save the day.
At least we have Peter, a former physician's assistant. He has blessed our wandering community with his decent mind for diagnosis, knowledge of many prescriptions and some surgical experience. I do not think so many of us would have survived without him.
He has truly stepped into a leader, a role he seems to only begrudgingly accept. But I believe those who wish it least tend to achieve much. Yet I wonder, do we make him our leader because he is so essential to us as our doctor, or because he is actually the wisest choice to lead. Does one guarantee the other? Are they even related?
Perhaps we put in him our hopes for a future, to survive and one day flourish in this new world we are discovering. For without him, such hopes darken in fear. With him, destiny's chance to manifest can yet again be a dream.
I suppose it is, as anything, a mix of many such reasons. His skill, his demeanor, his strength, and belief that a doctor's purpose is to "fix", that feed our confidence in him. Footsteps I have grown to have faith in following.
And often, as is Peter's way, to create my own directly beside.
A fever had swept in overnight and put three to bed in hours. Our medical focus was, for obvious reasons, on the children first. Peter suggested we make a separate camp for the weakest members of our group; it was the first "quarantine" since we left our "lives" behind, months ago.
Because two of the children are mine, I was asked to help at the quarantine camp with others. Peter stayed at the main camp to attend the sick, of course. Elaine and child were the only ones lost in the end, helped by Peter's quick thinking to isolate low immune systems from exposure immediately.
The void of Elaine's presence lingers still, almost a fortnight since her passing. Quieter evenings, less laughter, but I witness hints of healing grow in number with each rising sun. And we have grown more aware again of the risk we face with disease, in this new world of without many of the pills we once took for granted to save the day.
At least we have Peter, a former physician's assistant. He has blessed our wandering community with his decent mind for diagnosis, knowledge of many prescriptions and some surgical experience. I do not think so many of us would have survived without him.
He has truly stepped into a leader, a role he seems to only begrudgingly accept. But I believe those who wish it least tend to achieve much. Yet I wonder, do we make him our leader because he is so essential to us as our doctor, or because he is actually the wisest choice to lead. Does one guarantee the other? Are they even related?
Perhaps we put in him our hopes for a future, to survive and one day flourish in this new world we are discovering. For without him, such hopes darken in fear. With him, destiny's chance to manifest can yet again be a dream.
I suppose it is, as anything, a mix of many such reasons. His skill, his demeanor, his strength, and belief that a doctor's purpose is to "fix", that feed our confidence in him. Footsteps I have grown to have faith in following.
And often, as is Peter's way, to create my own directly beside.
Friday, January 21, 2011
scents & stews
I often wonder what the others are thinking. Distant thoughts of what "should have been" or "could have come"; flashback nostalgia as so often I have had? Set into swing by subtle smell or melodic muse?
I reminisce of the days when my daughter was very young. Mists of music from her bedtime CD flicker past my present. I hum as I walk. I am anything but alone in this habit now, but memory makes me question just how common such practice was, before.
There are smells I miss the most. Billowing clouds drenched in laundry tides, folding up into cold air from a dorm or apartment building basement. The smell of bubble bath seeped in hot steam, trapped within the borders of bathroom porcelain and tile. Most of us would give just about anything for a hot bath these days, well, except perhaps the cherished and now rare cup of coffee. I doubt THAT smell will ever disappear from most human's desires, at least in my lifetime.
But here we reside, in this new life of ours, be it what it may. Discovering new scents and stews, planting new seeds of memory, regardless of our former selves or stories. Desperately trying to believe survival to be a blessing, regardless of all that's been, and of all that we each know is still yet to be.
But, without work, hands are idle; without strife, struggle no purpose. Without memory, no comparison grown for joy, for pride to achieve.
And I still have my daughter, though as young as in my memories she'll never again feign to be. For more reasons than years on earth, bittersweet to admit. Yet I can still sing to her the lullabies of that long lost bedtime CD, and somehow, even now, it can be of comfort to us both.
I reminisce of the days when my daughter was very young. Mists of music from her bedtime CD flicker past my present. I hum as I walk. I am anything but alone in this habit now, but memory makes me question just how common such practice was, before.
There are smells I miss the most. Billowing clouds drenched in laundry tides, folding up into cold air from a dorm or apartment building basement. The smell of bubble bath seeped in hot steam, trapped within the borders of bathroom porcelain and tile. Most of us would give just about anything for a hot bath these days, well, except perhaps the cherished and now rare cup of coffee. I doubt THAT smell will ever disappear from most human's desires, at least in my lifetime.
But here we reside, in this new life of ours, be it what it may. Discovering new scents and stews, planting new seeds of memory, regardless of our former selves or stories. Desperately trying to believe survival to be a blessing, regardless of all that's been, and of all that we each know is still yet to be.
But, without work, hands are idle; without strife, struggle no purpose. Without memory, no comparison grown for joy, for pride to achieve.
And I still have my daughter, though as young as in my memories she'll never again feign to be. For more reasons than years on earth, bittersweet to admit. Yet I can still sing to her the lullabies of that long lost bedtime CD, and somehow, even now, it can be of comfort to us both.
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