In a great circle around, rain fell
Furiously it continued down
A wall of water erected high
Besieging this tree Pine anchored to

We sat within the sound of the wall
Held safe within a peace far more vast
Our shelter was natural magic
A tower of life to live within

Maple sang against the noise outside
Her words a soft language of her own
Her green and blue voice against the white
Transforming to unfold her visions

She painted for us the world renewed
A pheonix made of her melody
Coated in ashes yet rising true
Dripping traces of its new rivers

Burning away fools’ old artifice
Separation, distance and blindness
Fading into past lives like lost sparks
Anger blinking out, lacking its fuel

She granted her water-flamed phoenix
Veins of connecting, deep earthy rails
Sending pilgrims through holy landscapes
Creating webs of mountain unions

Forests took graves back to be new homes
Souls danced with the streams toward balance
Filling need and losing tired want
Cities formed reinvention houses

Her recreation evolved in song
She changed oceans to holy waters
Sweet drops of her voice cleaned out my heart
Her burning hope a sweet transfusion

I’m in one of the most beautiful spots in Dean right now. Before me is a series of small waterfalls that move horizontally along a mossy stone wall. The cascades fill the air with a soothing sound and my vision with a complex and moving archetecture. I’m reminded why this ismy favourite dirt road sanctuary.
Over a year ago I showed this place to my dear friend Ashley. I remember walking down the tree-covered cliff to get here and then walking hand-in-hand along the rocks lining this brook. It is one of my fondest memories of her last visit. It was a stirring feeling to be showing someone I love a place that brings me great joy. I wish I was able to show more of my dearest friends these places I find inspiration and divinity.
In front of me is a tree that is precariously balanced on the rocky cliff. It is life-filled, yet most of its roots spread out over the rock, not finding nourishment. I find myself comparing the human condition to this, most of us stuck on the cliff of society, searching for the nourishment of love and compassion. We may struggle, but holding on will in time bring us to the full lives we wish.

Not long ago I had what felt like a rebirth. I was energized and looking-changing toward the future. Just when I was embracing change, hope and growth, I was struck by another volley of hurt and setbacks that interrupted my stride for several days. I’m regaining it now, unwilling to end my march toward the holy light of the hope-pregnant future. How does one best shield oneself from such pains? Is shielding even the proper approach to matters of spirit and heart? Should we let the daggers sink in rather than allow the blissful healer’s touch to pass us by?

Losing hope feeds loss. Without hope one can lose their grip on the very things that grant it, and on the things we hold most dear. Loss, of course, feeds feelings of hopelessness. It’s a tricky cycle to end.

How does one best shield oneself from pains in relationships? As I see it now, awareness ahead of time is key. It is best not to give oneself false hope, but to rather be aware of as many factors as we can in order to recognize real hope.
In friendships we need to anticipate the needs and actions of those we care so much for in order to best help them when help is needed and to aviod being hurt by their choices. We can not realize a full love for someone and not recognize the complexities of their personality, all their flaws and glories. Through this recognition we have the ability to know when those we love are making choices that have potential to hurt us. We can also see when they are being hurt themselves and find ways to ease that hurting. In all this we need to recognize the need of all people to have personal choices and to enact their free will. We can not force people to make wise choices, merely be good council.
How is hope retained in this awareness of others if we are anticipating hurt? That’s the flaw in an approach that only attempts to shield. A full awareness of another person also looks the the glories of a person. When we enter into a friendship with anyone we see some aspect of them that appeals to us, and hopefully learn of many other positive aspects of that person as we come to know them. In relationships with people who live positively, we gain a tremendous amount. While there is always potential for hurt in any relationship, the ones which benefit us minimalize that risk and offer us hope. Hope is embued in the potential for good of the people we interact with, and those who live well and share love with us justify hope.
Cyclicly, noble acts (by ourselves and by others) feed hope and hope enables us to commit to noble acts. As a counter to the senseless wandering of loss-hopelessness we have the holy-hope dance-march to guide us forward.
It’s no simple task, surely, but one of the greatest and most noble skills one can learn is to know another as compeletely as possible, and to brave hurt in order to help and be helped by that one. When the same is returned in kind the greatest of relationships are formed. In this we are, to continue the metaphor, dancing together, providing hope to each other and continuing the journey on a cycle that benefits rather than harms and not allowing the other cycle to be reborn.

Mist turned into rain and fell upon us
In the clearing we were unprotected
Their dying fire was soon extinguished
Our voices were soaked as we took our feet

Maple lead us in a sprint through the trees
Pine strode beside me as we dodged rain drops
Dashing from slight shade to slight shade like deer
Still, water seeped through our clothes undeterred

In a stand of trees I’d not before seen
We moved toward a looming, cone-filled pine
Beneath its full, low branches no drops fell
Our speeding hearts slowed as the rain increased

Beneath the tree was sacred and a home
The air smelled of balsam, sweet-rich with earth
Around the tree trunk were three feather strings
Collections of owl, jay and wren raiments

Maple knelt by a ring of grey-white stones
Placing logs within, she lit a small fire
Drops from her hair fell sizzling downward
Laughter and a smile lit her dripping face

Pine and I sank to the ground beside her
Warming and drying ourselves, we fire-gazed
Each flicker and dance of orange and red
Stole away the wet-cold and warm-calmed us

Pine stepped around the tree and was hidden
Chorus-called, she answered with a promise
Maple and I stirred coals and orange logs
Setting sparks to careening heaven-ward paths

With stick-pierced apples Pine returned to us
Gentle hands balanced the stick above coals
When the apples had blistered she withdrew
We drank the sweet juice and savoured the flesh

I’m sitting by the remnants of an old bridge, with water steadily streaming before me. I’m seated upon a large boulder, feeling occasional drizzle drops on my skin and noticing them on the screen of my palm-held computer. I can clearly smell the plants and the scent of the river. A squirrel is squeaking at me from a tree branch overhanging the river.
I retraced my journey from Monday, this time travelling on my bicycle. It took much less time to get here. Though the trip was still full of the same pleasant sights, I do find the calm of walking to be better. Now I’m contented with sitting here observing.
The squirrel has moved into a hole beneath a boulder that was once part of the bridge’s support. It is no doubt storing food for the coming winter. In our modern world we don’t often store food in the same manner, but not that many years ago farmers would be harvesting crops and preparing them for the winter at this time. We’re not as unlike animals as we might like to think, though we may have some different advantages, and we should be mindful that we are still subject to the great influence of the seasons. We may not all be harvesting crops this autumn, but there are other ways to recognize our place within the seasons.
Thanksgiving is coming in October (for us Canadians), as is Halloween. Both are traditional markers of harvest and celebrations of the season. It would serve us well too learn of their symbolism and to honor the traditions of giving thanks for our many blessings and honoring our ancestors, not just on those two days, but throughout this season of change and through the whole year. Traditions and myths don’t serve us well if we do not adopt their positive assertions in our daily lives.
I’ve been noticing the first red leaves of autumn when coming here. Nova Scotia has many forests, and thus has some spectacular fall scenery. At this spot most things are still green. In fact, I can see only one tree with changed leaves. I wish to observe during this season the slow changes, not just suddly become aware of a change once it has completed. Too often I overlook the process and see only the outcome.

Today was a day of harvest. I spent the afternoon picking peas and beans and digging up potatoes. I find working with the earth to be very rewarding spiritually, and having garden-grown foods physically enriching. You shouldn’t be surprised that my ideal abode would be a cabin in the woods near the coast with a nice large garden to provide nourishment.
This week has been infused with talk of travel from a couple fronts. In March my friend Andrew will be having his wedding and has invited me. I may be going on a road trip from here in Nova Scotia all the way down to Houston with Nathan, Chris and Robert. That’d be a incredible journey. I’m also being offered the chance to travel to Georgia next month, which would also be an adventure, surely. Who knows what will transpire? I’m hoping the fates will be kind.

In parting, I’d like to leave you with mention of three journals I enjoy reading.

Ed Kowalcyzk, of the band Live has a new journal at Integral Naked Journals. There he writes of spritual and mundane matters. Of special amusement to me was “Remembering What You Came For…”

Cabin Dreams is a journal that has some content not to my taste, but the author’s recollections of her life are quite interesting. ” Something old is new again…” was an interesting telling of an adventure in New Orleans.

Ross Laird is one of my favourite authors, and easily my favourite writer of non-fiction. His journal is a consistantly well written and insightful site, and should definitely be read. His insight on addiction is especially important. He recently shared an essay by Lindsay Waters on “The Future of Creativity and of Books“.

Romance is an afternoon by a river eating dried apple slices and creating stories for the trees on the opposite bank.

Romance is awkward dancing before the end of the world, falling to the grass and laughing at the fullness of life.

Romance is fallen tears on a bed of leaves, sparks from a campfire and four lives interwoven beneath a starless night sky.

Romance is vanilla on our tongues, summer shade on our bodies and wind licking our limbs.

Romance is ever-walking through starlight with the ones you love, hands held and eyes soft-lit by Vulpecula and Lyra.

I walked down Woodside Road this afternoon. It’s a sparsely travelled and inhabited road that moves toward Lemmon Hill before curving off and becoming a gravel road winding toward Trafalgar. Broken by yards and houses, stretches of trees and a syrup-colored-with-earth river are a pleasant change from the main roads, though the houses are not often visually appealing. It’s a road I often biked in my childhood, but haven’t walked in many more years.
The day was wonderful. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun shone, but a strong breeze lent the feeling of fall to my walk. Large amounts of rain on the weekend left the small river fast-running, another voice to sing with the wind through the trees. It was a day for romance if ever there was one, and I found myself wishing for some.
I veered off the paved road and onto a dirt road that I know has a branch that leads back to the maple syrup camp that my family owns. My plan was to follow the road, climb Lemmon Hill, visit the camp and then descend on the other side, returning home on the main road of Dean. I did not realize how many branches the road held, and had only travelled upon it in early Spring (with snow still on the ground and in trees) in vehicles.
I walked along the smooth road, noting that no recent vehicle traffic had marred the rain-smoothed surface and the beauty of being surrounded on all sides by healthy, pre-autumn trees. Through the trees to my right I could see the side of the lake at Lemmon Hill’s base that I had only ever seen from the opposite shore. The glittering surface was inviting, but I stayed on the road. I continued straight at a three-way fork in the road, and then took a left branch after another stretch of road. I then came to a third fork after ignoring some ATV trails that left the road, and chose to take the left route at this third fork. This lead me to an eventual dead end, so I retraced my steps and took the right path. It would lead to a couple of discoveries.
I first noticed, through a recently cut lot on my right, a small lake (Or a large pond. I’m told there is no standard measurement for bodies of water of this sort, it’s all subjective.) I tried to reach it through the cut land, walking along grounded branches and discarded wood, but when I neared the edge I came upon swampy ground and turned back, not wishing to sink into it while wearing my sandals. A short way up the road I found a path that lead to a more solid shore, where I kneeled down and took in the lake, all its plantlife and the small movements the wind brought to it. The water was cool, but pleasant to the touch as I dipped my hands in and tasted it, relishing the clearness.
I moved on, walking for quite a few minutes, and saw to my right old, large wooden beams sitting amid bushes beside the road and looking rather out of place. I continued on the a bend in the road and saw that the river flowed through the road I was following, with it continuing on the far bank with a grass-covered surface. I looked downstream and noticed that there had once been a bridge on the higher ground on which the beams had sat. On the near bank there was a retaining and strengthing wall still visble and in good shape, but on the far bank all by one splintered board remained on the washed out base. I climbed up to the edge of the wall and looked across, seeing an overgrown old road leading onward from the other side. It was a beautiful spot to sit and watch the water, it moving with uneven speeds and winding so naturally beneath the overhanging trees.
I broke from the magic of the river and made my way back home. I must return there to write and take photos soon, though, as I found it absolutely wonderful. It may even replace my former favourite dirt road haven, one which holds pleasant memories from last summer that are currently a bit muddy.

I’ve spent this weekend in solitude. The quiet and freedom offered in this time alone has done me more good than I would have expected. Aside from dealing with some practical matters, such as parting with many items I no longer wish to have and keeping my space clean, I have brought renewed light into my spirit.
Recently I’ve become acutely aware of the isolation that being in this place forces upon me. In this rural area I have no direct contact with my friends, though I do interact with my parents and sometimes my other relatives. This had allowed a depression to begin to invade my thoughts. I’m not an incredibly outgoing person, but I do very much enjoy the company of true friends when I am able to be with them.
With this on my mind, as well as general frustration with the physical stagnation present in my life, I knew I needed to combat the onset of unworthy thought, though I knew not how to do that exactly. My muse brought the catalyst Friday night, granting me the inspiration to write the first poem I’ve put down in some time. I burned jasmine constantly, filling myself with scents calming and enriching. From those I felt vital again, and was moved to meditate, write and to focus on proactive spirituality in the now.
I felt revitalized and my mind brightened. I feel as though I’ve come through a baptism, my essence still moist with holy water. Everything is brilliant, moon-lit and clearer than ever. In a clean body and mind, my spirit is gliding its wings through all that’s around me, ready to fly into salvation. I’m ready, strengthened and enfused with purpose, to create grand love as I never have before, to embrace the future as the mutable and energy-rich river it is. The world is before me and I’m ready to walk her lands, swim her waters and taste her airs, all gently and full of passion.

Pine asked of the world beyond this wood
Her shrinking, seiged home not tidings-haunted
Voice sweet with concern for other life
Her eyes filled with worry and unhid fears

I gave word of what I could recall
Told of wars, false and true, throughout the sphere
I warned of heedless greed and advance
Cursed rampant violence and deep blindness

I witnessed hope where it still grows strong
Praised the true souls who will become healers
Words of longing to create change spilled
From my world-weary self, honest and bright

The ladies of the wood shared their shock
Shed tears for the multitude of lost ones
They gave their will to healing conscience
Lifted my spirit with their encouragement

I asked Maple of her woods’ residents
Asked Pine of the land sweeping from this core
I sought to understand and know this wood
Thirsted to know beauty this life-enriched

Maple lilted of the fawns spring-bound
Birds’ deft winging past many forking tree limbs
Spiders-caught delicate nourishment
And each small life sparking and fading out

Tales of far-delving roots Pine conveyed
Stream paths were histories of unknown time
Shrinking domains altered wood culture
Her pride withstood, surpassing survival

The joy of the life-network filled us
Troubles were not diminished, still known true
Living was brighter, a light-fuel within
Communion gave us great strength and purpose