Boycott Stagnancy

“Pilgrimage is often regarded as the universal quest for the self. Though the form of the path changes from culture to culture, through different epochs of history, one element remains the same: renewal of the soul.” ~Phil Cousineau

On first glance, I interpreted this quote at face value; seeing myself on a pilgrimage of various layers and scopes of time. Life is a sacred journey all on it’s own, what with all of the lessons, trials and triumphs that compose it. Then there are the adventures we take; sabbaticals from the daily grind in a search for a new truth. Last, and certainly not least, there are the journeys of turning inwards. Sometimes these are the most difficult, and the most profound. In a world where everyone and everything is trying to indoctrinate you, it can be nearly impossible to determine which thoughts of ours are owned by us, and which one’s have been “given” to us. A retreat from all the noise is the the only way to listen to your own intuition and thus finally allow your mind, heart, and gut to speak in tandem rather than quarreling amongst themselves. With all these components flowing together cohesively, one achieves “renewal of the soul.” The caveat to this is that renewal is not a static state of being, it is a state of fluidity and progression.

It was during this thought process that I suddenly saw this quote in a new light. A shift in my focus from the inwards out. I am not special. Not special in the sense that I am not the only one on a pilgrimage. We are all on a “quest for the self.” Those of various religious backgrounds may write this off as being egocentric, before reading any further: “the form of the path changes from culture to culture.” In the last epoch, say… the last 2,000 years of our human history, a certain culture has been created. Out of this culture many pilgrims have arisen on a “quest for the self.” One may argue, “Nay! I am on a quest for God!” I challenge you… to what end? Is a search for God not also a search for your own identity? An acquisition of love, joy, peace, hope? Are these not things that design and determine your existence? What is existence? Is it not your soul possessing a body, traveling through a human’s lifespan? How would you describe your soul inside your body? YourSELF. That’s right, if God is where you find yourself, then what do you call the journey that got you there? A “quest for the self.”

It was this realization that took my understanding of the various worldviews of my family and friends to a new level of appreciation. I can appreciate, and therefore be grateful for, the path that each of my loved one’s is on. We are all journeying together, even if the view out the window is different.

impruving:

this will never be not beautiful

Poetry is the result of incoherent thoughts becoming homeless, destitute, lost; an outpouring of residual musings; a plea to bring chaos to order.

G. Lindemann

Analog Clock

This turning inward…
Is stealing my mind,
Paving an anfractuous path,
Bringing my sanity into question;
Putting it on trial:
“Where does your love lie?”
No answer.
“From where do you draw your strength?”
The silence deafens.
Then there’s the tick.
And the tock.
Growing to a maddening volume -
Tick.
A torturous monotony -
Tock.

Tick, tock, the clock stops not.

Ears ache, eyes burn, heart speaks:
“The answer to your questions?..”
Tick.
“Within.”
Tock.

The Duel

There’s a superbly rotund, little, finch-like birdie perched at the ready on the fence near my picnic table. He’s giving me the stare-down, waiting for me to drop a crumb. Or two. Or three.

“In your dreams,” I tell him silently. “This banana, peanut butter sandwich has only one home, and it’s on it’s way there now.”

He rubs his head vigorously on a nearby vine that’s twisted around the fence post. He resumes the stare. I picture a finch-version of an Aerosmith ballad running through his little bird brain: “I don’t wanna close my eyes, don’t wanna fall asleep, ‘cause I’ll miss a crumb, and I don’t wanna miss a thing…” He begins to scratch again. This time violently. And with his claw. It looks painful.

I challenge him with my eyes. “You know what that feeling is, princess?” In my mind I sound like Vizzini from The Princess Bride. Instead of “those are the screeching eels”, I continue with, “that’s called a histamine reaction caused by eating things you shouldn’t, you greedy little fucker.”

He hops onto the table, entering the field of honour. “Oh, it’s on now.” He cocks his head to the side. I stare back, cocking my head to mirror him, as if to say, “Yeah, I can do that too, fatty.”

For a moment we’re both statuesque. I break the stillness by throwing down the gauntlet with a slow, satisfying bite of peanut buttery goodness. He blinks rapidly. I smirk. It’s his move. One step forward, eyes locked. I take another bite…

Finally, he forfeits. With no small amount of indignation, he hoists his plump little body miraculously into the air and flutters off, likely to another duel. Well, while I may have the sandwich, Fatty has the ability to fly.

I call after him, “Until next time, coward!”

Oz from Oz

My Milford Sound bus driver was also our tour guide, and he was nothing short of amusing. He is a tall, senior chap of a straight-forward nature, decorated with a patchy crown of hair, a Charlie Chaplin mustache, and a belly that’s seen a fair number of beers. Goes by the name of Oz, and is clearly Aussie. He is a man who loves colloquialisms and idioms in spite of the fact that many of his daily passengers have English as a second language, if even that. Therefore they were likely to miss little phrases such as, “five kilometers as the crow flies” and “if I haven’t kicked the bucket by then.” He also had absolutely no issue blending the subjective with the factual, making for a colorful, 10 hour round-trip ride to the Sound. His stories include, but are not limited to:

- An extensive and detailed account of the South Island’s venison industry. I dearly hope there were no queasy vegetarians or vegans aboard - even I was wincing a bit as he described the gutting process.

- He spoke of a man who, last year, ran 25 of the 26 annual races in New Zealand. “Not half bad for a man who’s 78,” he said. “You can be damn sure I won’t be doin’ that when I get there - if I get there!” He chuckles. “I’ll be bloody propped up on the end of a bar. I hope!”

- At one point we rounded one of many bends in the road and a row of forest-covered hills loomed in front of us. “This is where another bit of The Rings was filmed. Oh… oh damn, what’s the name of that bloody forest? Starts with an "F”. Faren or Farn or Fagern or - oh hell. Fagoo Forest or whatever it is. You know, the one where the trees walk about. Anyhow, that’s just up here.“ Apparently our group is a shy one, because many of us, including myself, mumbled the correct name of the forest under our breath, but none of us loud enough for him to hear us properly. Poor bloke is stuck thinking that Tolkien came up with a name like "fagoo” to refer to trees that were taught to move and speak by the elves of long ago. Brilliant.

- He did provide quite a bit of information about the surrounding flora and it’s attributes. Sort of. “This is all beech forest. Seven varieties of beech. There’s the red beech & the mountain beech. One grows near the water, the other near the snow line and has a much smaller leaf. The reason I mention these two is they’re the only ones I can tell apart. The others just look like trees to me.”

- As he described the shallow, rocky earth that the trees put their roots into near Te Anau, he gave us a little local saying to better describe the quality of the soil: “It took the Ol’ Maker six days to make heaven and earth, and on the seventh day He threw rocks at Te Anau.” Another chuckle.

- Can’t say he was the most encouraging fellow. Excepting when he’s encouraging you to kill stoats. The man went on for ages about stoat trapping. These things must be the bane of his existence. Also, he gave his two cents regarding camping: “Unlike Australia, where everything out in the bush wants to kill you, out here there’s only one thing that’ll kill you, and it’s your own stupidity. That’ll get you killed very, very quickly.”

Thanks for the tip? I think?

Needless to say, I loved the guy. He made one of the most beautiful drives I’ve ever been on also the most lively.

P.S.
Milford Sound was gorgeous.

Why should we not calmly and patiently review our own thoughts, and thoroughly examine and see what these appearances in us really are?

Plato