In Search of Serenity

The definition of Serenity: the quality or state of being serene.

Now that was helpful.

Not.

Definition of Serene: clear and free of storms or unpleasant change.

Synonyms: calm, tranquil, placid, peaceful.

Hmmm.

I don’t think so.

Jangled, disconnected, out of synch with myself, unable to sleep and frantically in search of something approaching serenity a little creative therapy seemed in order.

But, what to do at 3 ayem?

Some inexpensive glass bottles from the Wally World Clearance aisle, a coil of copper wire, a handful of glass beads, a tube of adhere to anything cement, a few sticky fingers and several hours later this would be the result.
Colors counterpoint to a gray mood and shifting emotions.

Sigh.

This too shall pass.

Fear

The Serenity I crave escapes me today…nebulous…just fingertips out of reach.

4 years, 3 months, 6 days and 3 hours. The fear still lives with me. Beneath the surface a giant tentacled sea monster waiting for me to lose my focus so it can ensnare me in is oily embrace.

Fear.

Such a waste of psychic energy.

Still...I will not let it defeat me.

So much for which to feel grateful in this life.

Back straight, fists clenched, jaw set; I continue.

Honor his life...his love…treasure the past…fight the fear…live.

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
(The Bene Gesserit Litany against Fear. Pg 19 of Dune )

It’s not quite accurate.

I live…hope endures…love remains.

But, I need a friggen' hug.

What a bloomin' whiner.

Light and Shadow

Yanno...the rising sun feels different in the morning sky....mayhap has been for a few days now but I have failed to previously note it. I HAVE, howsumever, noticed the sunsets slightly altered in hue the last 2 nights that they could be seen. Whether the heat recedes or no the impending change of season is in the light and burgeoning restlessness creeping into my soul.
From my east facing window I can note the change in angle as the seasons rotate back and forth. Amazing how a few degrees make such a difference in the way the shadows play across the opposing wall. Not unlike the subtle changes that take place within each of us on this path that modifies the way we view not only the world at large, but ourselves as well. And, the seasonal beginnings and endings do not necessarily agree with man's calendar but follow their own course...as do we.
The rising sun hits the new arbor at the corner now rather than more towards center. Perhaps a sort of symbolism of my own slightly off center feelings in recent days.
Morning ambers skiddle across the leaves turning them a mellower shade of green and highlighting the Morning Glories in Rose’s Garden in muted golden tones rather than the usual rose-gold of mid-summer. The light shimmers altered through the dew that covers everything on my trek outdoors to photograph my perceived camera obscura view.
Dunno why I decided to remark on that this morning. Perhaps it's the subtle itching in my head and bones that something feels afoot. Restlessness, perhaps. Despite my attachment to home there are times itchy feet and the gypsy longing to wander come out. This, I think, is a genetic gift/curse from Dad and goes far to explain my father's need to move even after his stint with that traveling troupe known as the Army was done with him.

And, yet the dichotomy is that I have planted myself on this particular little plot for over 30 years. Roots. Someplace solid once the thirst for adventure has been quenched for a time.

Roots are good...my children have them. I never had them as a child…roots. By the time I’d taken hold somewhere we were gone again…even after Dad left the military. Outwardly confident, melting into the framework quickly; while inwardly feeling out of step and fearing I’d be found out as a fraud.Despite my urge to roam I need them...roots…solid…grounding...safe...faithfully awaiting the return of this seasonal and, oft times, only imaginary wanderer.

I don’t know the point of this ruminating. It was in my head. Crazy stuff up there sometimes. Which leads me to a thought for another day….

(All photos poperty of Outlaw Photography)

Blurred Vision

Taking this picture last week was supposed to chronicle the latest redesign project at La Casa de Demolition. What happened as I peered through the view finder watching the light play through the plastic dust curtain blowing softly in the breeze of the ceiling fan was not what I expected.

Suddenly, it seemed a metaphor to this journey called Grief.

I saw the sledge hammer as death itself having smashed my life to bits as represented by the shards…large and small...of sheet rock ripped from the closet framing littering the floor at my feet. To my eyes the frosted images of light that filtered through the plastic seemed to speak of the way in which my vision was fogged as I struggled to make sense of a world that was totally alien even in its familiarity.

Thinking on this, I pored through the myriad of folders full of pictures I’ve taken since beginning the rugged trek on this path 4 years ago. Surprised at the result, I found that I could attach a metaphor to widowed life to many that flicked before me on the screen.
My beloved and often fog shrouded Blue Ridge Mountains became the clouded vision I had of a world that seemed to be filled with one barely climbable mountain after another. The view was so vague I could not see my way out of the grey.
Always a water person, the river falls became the harsh reality of facing the daunting maelstrom in a canoe with neither paddle nor rudder to steer my way. I was at the mercy of my grief, never knowing which way it would turn or if it would drown me in its turbulence.
The waves crashing against the rocks near the shore morphed into the pain of being beaten and bloodied by the Grief Monster only to be left in a mangled heap upon the jagged reef begging for peace and mercy each time I fought to find my way out of the anguish that threatened to drown me.
A small cave in the beautiful New Mexico mountains of the Jemez came to represent that dark black hole into which I fell time after time struggling to live with the memories of a beloved life past and learning to survive in the hated present alone.

The ever present distance path seemed filled with roots and stones alive with the intent purpose of bringing to me to my knees as I stumbled ever forward in a world I came to despise.
Over time the world righted itself and became filled with light and color again…slowly at first…then gaining momentum…until I could appreciate the sight and smell of the wildness of the roses in my untended garden. Yet, another metaphor relating to my untended life.
I may often still stumble bruising my heart along the way, but no longer am I filled with dread and fear of the unknown waters that spread before me. Survival is instinct…one I have in more abundance than I ever imagined possible. Still, I know I did not get here alone. Along with my own dogged, though often halting, plodding forward, Jim’s love for me and life itself, kind friends and even strangers have given hand in helping me find my own strength to carry forward what he shared with me and even take the scary step to share it again with another wounded heart like mine.

What a surreal journey this continues to be.

Oh…Brave new world, indeed. As my dear New Mexico by way of Scotland friend would say.

Pictures have long been a means to add expression to my writing, but never quite in the way it did beginning with that photograph I took last week.

(All photos property of Outlaw Photography)