Summer Solstice

Truman keeping watch on the river, Summer Solstice 2017

It’s been a while – over 3 years – since I last officially rambled on at “rambleon.org” and after some machination that deserve its own post, the summer solstice finds me posting here again, with old posts – and even posts at what was my “home” site at littleriverview.org mixed in.

I can’t guarantee that time won’t find me again posting again six months from now, at the next winter solstice. But it seems time again to return a bit to all the things that made rambleon, well, rambly, nerdy, funny, and maybe even sometimes poignant

In the meantime, there’s lot of history here, and a whole lot of broken links, and weird formatting that has creeped in my wordpress-to-octopress-to-jekyll-to-wordpress transition, so consider it to be web wabi-sabi and take with that the joy therein.

Winter Solstice

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The last rays of light of the Solstice Sun just a few hundred yards down the road from the LittleRiverView.

And we spin, another day, another dawn,
another year, another song.
Into winter we surrender,
Deep into it’s splendor.
In mirth we warm our bones, we dream these seeds we’ll sow.

– Elephant Revival, “Season Song

The last time I wrote words in this space, I wrote of a young lady that I encountered on a flight to Indianapolis, and the wish I ended the set of words with then was as much for me as it was for her, that our sense of wonder would not abate whatever the reality was to come.

That reality for me was release and pain, deeply intertwined: the official separation of a nine-year marriage, and the subsequent divorce. The separation and loss for both of pets that stayed with the other. Hard thoughts, hard feelings, hard grace, hard love.

It is an emptiness that hasn’t gone away.  I’m not sure it will ever quite go away.

And I’m not sure it should.

But in release, a reminder that life, that like the Universe, presents infinite opportunities to  dream, and to learn, to grow, and hopefully to be. A life that continually expands and reminds that there are thoughts/feelings/grace/love that have/do/will expand my capacity to fill in new spaces around that emptiness.

And this past year has been filled those expanded spaces.

With music.

With observation.

With exploration.

With energy.

With love.

With, to borrow from Kipling, both Triumph and Disaster, and I am learning, slowly, daily, to treat those two imposters just the same.

Life, reality, dreams, all that it has to hold, has shown itself to be an incredibly beautiful and amazing thing, and I wouldn’t trade one moment of the last year, or the nine years prior, or the last forty-three years of my time on this earth for anything.  Not one moment of the pain. For that provides the contrast to better see the joy that the last year held and all the years before.

Today is the Winter Solstice. A pause in the Sun’s declination as it appears to return again to focus on the Earth’s Northern Hemisphere, a key moment in the seasons on this Earth. And maybe that pause in the Sun’s declination provides the opportunity to both reflect and the opportunity to return to this space after this time of quiet.

I’ve seen a lot of musical groups this year. More, I think, then in all the years prior.  The words at the beginning of the this post are from a band that I had the chance to share this year with a dear friend that has been and is a deeply integral connection with this year’s music, observation, exploration, energy, and especially love.

No more appropriate words could mark the dual ending/beginning that this Solstice represents.

Here’s to warmth and mirth, but especially new seeds, new words, new wonder found each day and each dawn as the Earth turns and tilts the LittleRiverView back towards the Sun.

 

Head in the clouds

  

The first time I ever was in a plane, I was 11 years old. RDU to LGA in a day to watch a baseball game.And now, 30 years later, I’ve maybe averaged a flight a year, enough that the process is a little rote.

But not the view.

I never get tired of the view.

I always sit by the window when I can, and always end up with a neck cramp by the end of the flight, watching the clouds, the rivers, the mountains, the earth from 35,000 feet slip by slowly enough from that perspective, that time seems to slow down, punctuated only by crossing planes at different altitudes, letting me know how fast things really are.

Actually according the laws of space-time, time does slow, however infinitesimally.

It’s meditative. Work is next to impossible with no network and a tilted seat in the way. The social networks are gone, the feed readers are gone, the news I really have no interest in but click on anyway, it all fades away. 

I have my thoughts, the hum of the engines, and the quiet murmurings of 130+ souls on board with me.

But there’s only a few that I see staring at the sky and the earth below. They each have their own thoughts, their own lives, their own meditations, but my soul aches a little that they don’t look to see what they only can see from here.

But today, there was her.  A young  girl, unaccompanied for this trip, maybe 8 years old, maybe her first time on a plane, maybe not. She looked back once, eyes narrowed at the strange 41 year old white guy behind her with his bitchy resting face. I smiled shyly. And she did too.

The rest of the flight I stared out the window, phone camera in hand, occassionally looking forward to see her lifting her ipad camera, capturing the rolling ridges of West Virginia or just starting, marvelling at miles of Western Ohio farmland.

That young lady has so many years ahead of her, so many new experiences to come. So much life.

Joy, and laughter, and I’m sure heartbreak and sadness, and everything in between.

But whatever life brings, whatever she chooses to be and to do – whatever dreams and reality may come. I hope that she spends all future flights staring out the windows, at the earth below, and her head in the clouds.

  

On trees and life.

While I love walking down to the river here, and watching the water endlessly flow, and love watching the wildflowers crane their necks around as the day passes to present themselves full on to the passing sun, I remain most enamored by the trees.

Each and every tree here has its own personality, its own story that you can see etched into the bark, the limbs, the leaves, from the Tulip Poplars and American Sycamores, and oaks that tower almost 100 feet, to their progeny just making their way up into the understory.

Some days I want to catalog and name each one. Thankfully most days I’m just content to look.

There’s one though that catches my eye every single time I walk through through its area of the woods, maybe even more these days.

It is an American Beech, a tree twisted, turned, wrapped in age-old poison ivy vine, covered in algae and lichen, rotting at the bottom:

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That tree is beautiful.

That tree is a direct contrast to a message we’ve allowed to infect our thoughts, and our actions, and the way we go about living this short life we have – that somehow life is fragile.

Life, real life, is too short, and it is tough, it is triumph and tragedy both, but it is decidedly not fragile.

I am not downplaying tragedy, and the heartbreak of loved ones and idols and heroes whose life has ended before we wanted it to.

Whether the incredible forces in an earthquake, hurricanes, tornados, or the ravage of cellular processes gone completely awry in the case of cancer, to the debilitating self-punishing illness of depression, to the incredible forces involved in accidents, war, and weapons.  To even our own prisons we build out of pain and fear. Those things that bring an end or a pause  to each of our lives are the most powerful things nature – and we ourselves – can throw at us.  

Because the lesson of that tree is that life, real life, adapts, twists, turns, fights, it demands to be lived.

Because out of that twisted, broken, American Beech comes one of the most beautiful canopies in all of the woods:

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American Beech trees can live over 300 years.  I’m not sure how long this one will be here, its life, like ours, has no guarantee.

But that tree is a reminder that life is beautiful, and powerful, and is an amazingly adaptive journey.

That tree reminds me that Life is not tenuous. It is tenacious.  And our lives, lived, should be the same.

Happy Holidays!

While this is the iconic image of Christmas morning here beside the Little River:

This succession of (blurry, sorry, wrong shutter speed) images is perhaps iconic of 2014:

Sometimes in life, your goose just gets loose.

Though, this is equally as iconic of the craziness and the joy of 2014:

Here’s to holding on to our goose in 2015!

Other Residents

It’s been awhile, and the blog is owed a whole lot of new posts, but in the meantime, I did set up a trail cam to capture snapshots of some other Little River View residents.  Here were the first two (look close to see the “two”)

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