John Wiercioch
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Reflections on the Art of Living

Looking into Shadows

9/29/2019

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Yesterday I visited a friend who’s battling skin cancer and learned it has metastasized into some spots on his lungs. This doesn’t necessarily mean his demise is immanent, but it certainly adds to the fight his body now faces, and his challenges ahead. It’s awful news. He and I have had a long term relationship that was frank from the first encounter. It’s who he is, and I think when he sensed I was able to handle his candor without flinching he liked me. When I absorbed his irascible nature with a smile and responded with gentle humor, he liked me more. Over the years, when his off-color social comments would emerge and I topped them off with black humor, we bonded ever tighter. 

Now, over twenty five years on, as I’ve grown older, I recognize how much his directness and “no bullshit accepted” attitude has impacted my life. It’s surely encouraged me to seek the company those who are genuine. It nudged me not to wish for, but to expect sincerity and honesty and integrity from my friends. I’ve also begun to develop a strong distaste for those who live in denial or refuse to face up to consequences for how they act. To my naive surprise, honesty and accepting responsibility are not a given. In some cases maybe I expect too much from relationships. 

I know that I’m not perfect at all, and often misstep myself. For sure sometimes I press things too forcibly in the wrong moment. I get impatient, my timing is not always impeccable. I can be insensitive to the unseen, unknown struggles of friends. Especially when I’m focused on what could even be a simple petty issue of my own. So I try to be forgiving too, at the least since I often need to ask forgiveness. We all have shadow sides within us which we likely will never completely erase. But unless we articulate our true feelings with each other, at least half of us are left guessing in the dark. 

We all process life differently, and we each define where we can or want to expend our energy. At times I feel driven by the awareness that life in the sunlight is very short, so in such moments when friends are not willing to try or able to be forthright it’s very frustrating for my own shadowy selfishness. Sad too, because I think even our clumsily shared efforts in this direction engender trust, and for me trust is the essential foundation of any friendship or relationship. Our shared time is so very brief, at first it’s often hard to comprehend another’s desire to avoid being open and truthful. Given some reflection though, I come to realize often there are internal struggles and challenges someone is facing that limit their own openness. In any event my friendship with my ill friend has helped me better appreciate folks who strive to be whole and honest.  

And especially in this last few weeks, it’s made clear how much I appreciate and love him. So naturally, thinking about losing him (or anyone we love), him dying, is tough. Is this selfish? Maybe. I think intellectually I really do get the “circle of life” stuff. But the slow process of becoming aware of our shared mortality, and experiencing being with another who is living into the shadows of death is altogether another thing. There’s the separation aspect, the severing of being in each other’s presence that I hate. Plus much of our culture just sucks at support in this process. Some agencies are wonderful, but often we avoid even looking at death, there’s limited societal support for helping us die with dignity. It’s like we’re so afraid of death we scramble in a dozen directions when it approaches: some are desperate medical attempts to stave it off, other activities seem to be pure distractions from the reality at hand, and still other responses (including many “religious ones” feel like borderline denials.

I’m not so spiritually enlightened to claim death is appealing; I don’t look forward to my life ending. But I’m also not into the standardized Christian “only good folks go to heaven” schtick. I’m more just kinda curious as hell about what happens after we depart from these particular physical forms of the moment. I tend to feel we merge into the Whole, but will/can we be aware when this goes down? And what the heck IS that vague, all-encompassing Whole, anyway?

I don’t want to cling when it’s my friend’s time to let go—he’d hate such sentimentality. But for sure I’ll be sad. And I’m keenly aware I could still die first. I’d also like to tell myself that I don’t I want to cling when it’s my time to let go either. But that’s far easier said than done! — I mean, for one thing, when do you “give in” or  “really know” it’s “your time” versus fighting fiercely to keep alive? Speculating is so friggin’ easy, surviving through harrowing experiences is not.

So right now, all I know is I want to try and find the beauty within this grand passage that we all at some point must endure with those we love, and will one day face our selves. In the meantime, I want to continue to seek out what my heart feels is sincere, and share the honest beauty in everything I encounter. 

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Learning From Others

9/27/2019

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​It was a beautiful day and I savored some very sweet memories. Two days ago a little toddler (whom I’d never met) burst away from his father and raced directly toward me, and just as I knelt, leapt into my arms and hugged me, fiercely, as if he never wanted to let go. It was a profoundly moving gift. Since then, some physical and heart memories kicked in big time, reminding me of a very similar race of someone to greet me from around a counter and “never let me go” hugs in my recent past. Those hugs were also most meaningful, heart-lifting gifts.  


I have come to learn that when a big part of what you consider your “identity” is wrapped within helping or being of service to others, and this is further enhanced by an upbringing that emphasized (in a positive and good way) that communal support for anyone is what one simply does, it becomes a fairly potent aspect of your being. In this year of following my heart, I’ve gone through some powerful emotional challenges and feel potential future changes in my life. Among other explorations, I decided to get my astrological charts read as well. I had two different folks read them. Each knew different things about my life, however both came to very similar conclusions, and without getting into the many details, prominent among these was I define my sense of purpose by being in service to others. 

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Couple all this with being involved with someone who joyfully shared many values and interests, and was at a place in need of support, and the unexpected ending of that relationship really rattled my sense of self. Hence, the great appeal of my literal and symbolic relinquishing of control via the floats in the local Roanoke River. The river time had an immediately heartfelt attraction, and I loved being utterly immersed within the water’s ecosystem. It reconnects me to the strong bonds I’ve always felt I feel in the non-human made world. Time outdoors renews my being. From the time I was a self-conscious teen, being in nature was the most comfortable and comforting experience. It remains a balm; a way of centering without thinking. 


In tandem with this awareness, I’ve been consciously trying to pay extra attention, and, however one wishes to define it “listen” to this non-human world: the critters, trees, river, flowers, warming sunshine, the slippery mossy rocks, the birdsongs, leaf smells, cool breezes, the whole scene — whatever parts may “speak” to me in a given moment. I liken it to what I have come to believe many non-writing cultures “tune in” to for wisdom and guidance, which I label “other ways of knowing.” It makes complete sense to me since we ARE entirely integrated parts of this vast whole. I think of it as an intelligence that comes via other forms of energy our culture barely acknowledges, and really struggles to articulate or identify. I feel our science has simply not quite caught up to validating it, but suspect one day it will. 


My river floats have become my own form of meditation. So during the last 36 hours, as I felt some heart strings being tugged a little, I again “put it out there” to accept what is now, and that i was open to embrace whatever might come. This was somewhat in my mind this evening entering the cool water on yet another warm end of September day. Straight away I saw a few monarchs, and immediately felt both awed and led. They seemed to hover near the banks every few hundred feet, occasionally swinging out toward me and gliding in smooth arcs above me for a bit, then returning to the bank foliage, no doubt in search of food supplies. 


The first furry critter I noticed was a fat ground hog, laying atop some rocks along the bank. I actually thought maybe it was sick because it barely moved when I paddled closer. However, when it finally heard my light splashing, it slightly lifted it’s slumbering head toward me, and comically looked with one eye half closed, reminding me of my old Uncle Joe when Aunt Stella used to nudge him and interrupt his nap when he was snoring away in the Lazyboy. The evening shade had begun to cool the banks and he was enjoying a nap on the rocks which were undoubtedly still warm from the sunny day. Just a few moments down, I came across a brighter, more colorful groundhog, (perhaps “Aunt Stella”) nimbly ambling across several boulders in search of fresh green stalks near the water. 


I cascaded carefully over some falls, as the water level is very low right now and rock hazards are everywhere. I have two patches on the tube I was using (four on another one), plus bruised human bottoms are no fun to acquire. Crossing the falls and drifting just beyond the walking bridge, I saw a doe. I had heard deer several times on other floats, and they always disappeared before coming into sight with a flurry of unmistakable twig-snapping noises as they dashed up the woody banks. She saw me (likely heard and smelled me long before) and warily continued sipping from the river. As I very carefully came near, she watched, cautious and on alert. I took a deep breath and let her decide. Internally I said hello, and thought how we all have fears inside that make us want to run. Externally I acknowledged her as I held my place against the currents by clutching some rocks. She sipped more, stayed and watched. I slowly and steadily maneuvered my tube cross-current toward her, very conscious of her fear. She watched. I spoke in a soft voice, she stopped, looked me square in the eye, and then sipped again. I came within about 12 feet, held still a bit, admired her lean flanks as she took me in, then after a few moments I let go and allowed the flow to carry me onward. She never fled.


Almost immediately I saw the magnificent  Great Blue heron standing atop a rock near the river’s center. It too saw me (it always spots me right away from afar) but this time it stood, apparently more comfortable, possibly because of the trust of the deer. I slowly drifted in its direction. Coming within about 30 feet, far closer than normal. My hand splashed to avoid spinning on a rock, and off it flew, with a burst of its amazing broad wings. Rather than alight in a distant tree or around the bend of the river as usual, it went only a short way to the near bank. The currents carried me toward it, and as I approached this time it graciously held still as it pointed its penetrating gaze at me. I took in the shear beauty of this stunning creature: The slate blue colors, those all-seeing yellow iris eyes, the glamorous tufts on the feather tips, that elegantly powerful neck. We came within 15 feet (!) of each other, very rare for this species. I felt in the instant after, as I floated on, that it was offering me its presence as a gift. 


More monarchs. Then the female black crowned night heron, who patiently stood on the bank as I slipped by. Then soon after, that small flock of robins I’ve encountered for the last week were busy on their usual pebbled bank, poking for food and squabbling as they chased each other on foot and wing. A few swallows treated me to some zipping aerobatics. And once again at the end of my float, there were several monarchs, all carefully spaced apart! I had the sudden impression they were guide lights and the river was a runway, and I was taking flight. 


As I walked from the river, I wondered about the heron — that “cautious, wise, noticing all, makes its own way” creature.  I also considered the delicate mindset with which I had approached the normally skittish deer. I thought about how I might learn to better sense my own insecurities, and also apply a more sensitive, less selfish, less impatient approach in supporting the people for whom I care. I followed a solo monarch toward my home.


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Friends, Old and New

9/24/2019

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There’s an irony in it being almost 90º near the end of September and being aware of the troubling climate change reasons it is so, and then walking to float in the comfortably tepid river on the extra warm evening to clear my mind of troubles. Working on a job site following the loss of a co-worker is uncharted emotional territory. Death has a peculiar way of enhancing the bonds of those friends who remain. It somehow prompts us to see each other with clearer eyes, and at least for the moment, listen a bit more deeply, perhaps feel each other’s personal issues a bit more fully, re-affirm and renew our friendships.


On the walk to the river my brother Ed Wiercioch called and I surprised him by answering during the early evening (we usually talk at night). We had a great heartfelt chat about our lives, our concern for friends who are ill, the importance of living a vital life, taking time for fun excursions, and making time among people who are happy to be with you. We talked about how grateful we are to have such a wonderful, mentally sharp, relatively healthy mom and how rare this seemed to be. I liked visiting with him so much I stayed on the phone right into getting on the river. He sort of primed the pump for the evening. After our call I recognized how lucky I am to have such wonderful siblings as well. There’s a saying you can choose your friends but not your family, which is true, but if I could choose, I’d be most happy to select the very same loving family.


As I shifted my focus onto the river and float, I saw a new friend, a hawk, hanging out on the same dead limb overhead for the second evening in a row. It was perched high enough to not be bothered by my presence. It appeared to be a familiar old friend, a Swainson’s hawk, for which I have a certain fondness. I used to go to a large empty field in an industrial park when I was a shy high school kid, where I knew one would frequently hang out. On a given weekend morning I’d sit still for hours under the lone Osage orange tree in that field and wait for it to show. Soon after, as a budding wannabe wildlife artist, it was one of the first birds I painted back in the day. Back to this present day, while the warm evening air was nice it also has contributed to the water level being very low, so it requires some extra attention to maneuver on the float  without rising off the tube, which I’ve never yet had to do. Kinda like adjusting to your body’s age along with your peers, something I spoke about with a friend on the job earlier in the day.


I also saw my regular new friends: the green heron, then the Great Blue, and lastly, a female black crowned night heron, who seems evermore comfortable with my presence. She posed for some photos as I passed, showing off her lovely color harmonies: her plumage of streaked soft gray umbers, accented nicely by slate blue on the end of her bill, and highlighted by her stunning brick red eyes while she perched on a pink rock as the sun set. 


It was a cloudy evening but the much-needed rain didn’t fall. It made for a cool end to the float, so I took my time drying off on the roughly poured concrete just beyond the bridge where I get out. All at once I heard my name; to my pleasant surprise two dear friends (Katy K. &  Bruce Houghton) happened to be walking the Greenway behind me at that very instant. We hadn’t had a chance to catch up since my travels, so I happily walked with them. When asked about Ireland, I said words fall short, but if pressed to summarize, both the lands and the people were more “heart-centered” than anything I’d experienced. Being good friends, they were aware that this was perfectly in sync with my steadily shifting approach to life, a more intuitive direction I’d been taking this last year. Both of these sweet folks work in the music business and are sensitive to life in all the best ways. So of course I excitedly shared a few stories about my magical heart-guided adventures. I recall saying something to the effect that I wasn’t sure where this heartful path was leading me but I was committed to staying on it. “It’s wonderful yet hard to do” my friend offered. I said “Yes...But not really, it’s really very easy to be open-hearted.” “Well for sure it suits what you’re about and who YOU really are” he said supportively.


We stepped onto the long Vic Thomas Park walking bridge that crosses the river. All the while I’ve been carrying a 52” inner tube and trying to keep out of the way of other walkers, joggers, and bikers using the Greenway. A short way onto the bridge we saw a man approaching us with two toddlers, holding the hand of one, the other ambling just in front of him. Without warning, the free one suddenly raced away toward us! My friends were in front of me and for the briefest instant we all were taken aback, wondering what to do. The father called out his name, but the determined three foot-tall runner ignored him and came at us full trot. He made a beeline for about 30 feet, scooted past my kind friends and directly toward me. I dropped the tube, knelt down, and as I did he leapt into my arms and gave me a tight, profoundly affirming hug of affection. Even as his father caught up to us, little Khalid did not want to let go — nor did I, to be completely truthful. It was a most perfect gift from a perfect stranger on a perfect evening. 


None of us knew each other. We greeted, shared names, and eventually Bryant (Khalid and his younger brother, Kendrix’s father) was able to pry Khalid loose of me and they headed on their way. We walked to my friends’ car, still in the glow of what had just happened, hugged and parted ways. On my return across the bridge en route back toward my home, my path crossed the trio again, this time both boys firmly in dad’s grasp. He was in his early twenties, and the boys were two and three. I learned he had moved here five years ago from DC to be nearer his mom. His father had passed a few years before he moved here. His mother had died last February, aged 46. I asked a few more gentle questions and as we went our ways, encouraged him that his time with these boys was an invaluable investment that would pay huge dividends, and their trusting nature proved he was doing a lot very well as a dad. 


On my walk in the dark toward home, I thought about the many friends in my life: all four siblings who I can claim as forever-close friends, new ones this magical year of the heart has offered (including nonhuman ones), some renewed ones, and dear ones of old I feel so fortunate to have in my life. And while perhaps not a rational response which I can explain, as I neared my house and the sensation of three year old Khalid’s utterly innocent and heartfelt hug pulsed back into my consciousness and I again felt him clinging tightly to my chest, my heart swelled and tears welled up in my eyes.


September 24, 2019


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Everything I Need

9/22/2019

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Yesterday evening I needed time on the river time to absorb some tragic news about a friend who had passed. As if symbolically on cue, when I approached my usual put in, there was a young man seated on the sandy bank, peacefully writing. We acknowledged each other’s presence without words, gestures, or looks. I quietly set into the water, and discovered that due to the previous night being in the 50’s, it was bracingly cold.

Similarly, the loss of someone unexpectedly always rattles me. So many mixed emotions churn in my heart and questions swirl in my mind. I bounced lightly over the first set of small falls and spun several rotations. Shirtless and feeling chilled in a few ways, I began stroking with my arms just to get my blood flowing. It felt good to release the pent up confused energy that had built up within me since hearing the news that morning. I continued until my arms were worn out. Finally I let the current carry me. 

Unexpectedly, and for the first time in all these weeks of floating, someone appeared on the far horizon behind me, approaching. Despite the cold, and her thin frame, she was wearing a two piece suit, and standing upright on a paddle board. Within a few minutes she was beside me. I welcomed her, and enjoyed taking in her sunny smile. She also seemed happy to encounter another who took joy in this simple passion of being on the river. She asked how often I floated and where. She took to the water in the spring and was on it “as much as possible” — like me, very much in love with it. We exchanged names, then talked about tubes, patching holes, how she hauled her board on her bike, where to put in and take out. We then friended each other on FB, and had to end our pleasant chat as we approached the next set of falls. As the river is at a very low level, the larger issue being the many protruding rocks. By aiming for an opening and relinquishing control I spun through unscathed and watched her. She crouched low, deftly shifted to the left, and then adroitly stood and paddled to the nearby pull out. 

I expressed my admiration for her skill and wished her well until we next meet as she veered to the bank.  I drifted beneath the Vic Thomas Park Bridge, and a few smaller rocky areas. When I reached a calm section, I noticed I’d just passed the green heron I routinely see, fishing on the bank to my right. For the past few weeks I’ve taken to “talking” to the different species of herons, announcing myself as I float past with a certain clicking birdlike sound. To my delight, on this evening, he did not fly away. I was intrigued. He/she seemed to be as well. I paddled hard in reverse, against the river’s flow, and it took a few steps, and watched me. I worked my tube upriver beyond it, came nearer, and still it did not flee. We were engaged eye to eye the whole time, and I was closer than ever on all these weeks of floating. Somehow this simple encounter, as with Sheneika Leemkuil, the paddler, lightened my heart. 

Refreshed, I let the current carry me forward again and bid the heron adieu. A short while later, at another small rapids, I was facing forward and needed to paddle to avoid the rocks, splashing loudly. To my surprise, on my left, tucked in a lull just after the falls and in front of a submerged log was a great blue heron. These wise birds are extra cautious around humans. I generally see one on my float, (I truly don’t know if I’m seeing alternate halves of a pair) and it usually takes flight several hundred yards before I reach it. Tonight, this one also held it’s place, watching me. Like a guest at a dinner, it felt rude to pull out my phone to snap photos. I came within 30 feet, again “announcing myself” as I allowed the current to pull me past. To my amazement, it still stood, turned its head, eyes following me as I drifted, and then as I chattered while passing, it nodded its head and mysteriously, silently opened its mouth and closed it twice (something I’ve never seen one do)! I floated on, feeling “accepted,” recognized, even strangely embraced. 

Further along I encountered a third familiar feathered friend, a black-crowned night heron. Continuing the ritual, I chatted. It watched. I stopped my tube drifting by clutching underwater rocks. It waited. I kept talking and softly maneuvered toward it. It extended its neck for a better view, and, turned its head this way and that, as if each eye needed to take me in, but it too did not fly off nor move away! Once again, I was able to get far closer than ever. I managed to pull out my phone and it allowed a few shots as I let go and floated forward. 

I could not help wonder if these birds had sensed my disrupted and sensitized heart...? My friend had not been forgotten, but my troubled mind had been eased. Due to the warm encounters with each of these beings I had entirely ceased noticing the cold water and the chilly September evening air. I reached the take out, and as I clambered onto the rocks, directly in my path was a two-foot long, perfectly intact snake skin. A symbol recognized in most every culture across the globe as representing renewal and rebirth. 

As I began the walk home a young lady excitedly approached and asked if I had “just come from tubing in the river?!” She said it was something she’d always wanted to do. “For me there’s nothing like it,” I said, “it’s become my therapy and more. It’s everything I need right now.”

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Ever Flowing

9/22/2019

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​Leaves
Light caught
Transformed, let go, 
Pulled Earthward

Hearts 
Opened. Joy shared.
Souls let go; yet transform 
Floating onward

Life
Ever flowing
Transforms all
In love’s soft Light
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Navigating Life’s Turbulent Currents

9/22/2019

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​A friend recently shared a meme that began: “Stupid cancer...”  


Two weeks ago I stopped to visit an old friend I’ve had the pleasure to know for over 25 years. He lives out of town and since his hearing is lousy, phone conversing is limited, so I try to check in and visit him about every 6 months or so. This time, I looked forward to sharing about my recent adventures on the Emerald Isle. However, when he greeted me his familiar friendly face was clouded by a terrible, large sore atop his head. When I asked what the hell had happened, he replied: “The long and short of it John, is: skin cancer, advanced.” My momentary shock pales next to what he’s had to absorb. 


Stupid f*cking cancer! He was diagnosed about two months ago and had just completed rounds of radiation. He was worn thin and visibly exhausted. We paused several times during our conversation as he held his head in his hands in obvious pain. Despite his conspicuous discomfort, he insisted on visiting with me for a few hours. I tried to get a few house chores done in his place and keep him comfortable. Typical of him, he graciously asked about my life and attentively listened. I swallowed my concerns and did my best to offer him something else to think about. Since it was a gorgeous sunny day he was eager to step outside. We managed a walk in his beautifully manicured gardens, which were now in need of attention. Sensing the urgency of his circumstance I’ve been back twice since. I’m able to write that he looks just a bit less worn, had a little more energy, was just a bit brighter, and the awful sores seemed less raw. Everything about this continues to haunt me. 


This dear friend has inspired me for decades, mostly through his example of HOW to live. Knowing him has greatly enriched and deeply affected my life. It’s terrible to see him suffering in this way. Being with him has forced me to consider the agony people experience when family or loved ones are forced to deal with various forms of this heinous disease. The impact must pervade all aspects of their lives. Even the crucial life-saving treatments can be arduous and painful. My friend has no children, no spouse, and lives alone. He’s a stubborn maverick so it’s no surprise he’s determined to try and make his way without much help. I suspect this obstinate attitude has always been partly why I relate to him. And why I now worry about him: the trade off being that at this moment his choice of limited assistance means a simple fall on the stairs from his second floor bedroom could become a torturous calamity. Maybe given that I’m also alone right now, his circumstances unconsciously resonate in a more disconcerting way within me. 


No matter, he’s still in pain from this stupid f*cking cancer! Regrettably most of us can think of more than one friend or family facing this awful disease. I know three others right now—the four warriors I’m aware of vary in age from 88 to 12. None of them “deserve” it. There is nothing “fair” or “just” about any aspect of it. They’re all generally “decent”, comparatively “innocent” people, who randomly have been assigned this incredibly challenging burden. Each is valiantly fighting, literally for their life. A small silver lining is that like most reading this, I also know friends who have faced down this ugly monster. Still I ache to even consider —frankly can’t imagine— what they endured. 


It’s prominent in my mind after attending to my friend, but often I’ve been utterly oblivious to the vast amounts of energy the survivor folks must have put out, or the folks battling illnesses currently are drawing upon from within to keep going. Cruising along in my own relatively easy life, it’s beyond my comprehension to grasp how they each have managed to come to terms emotionally with the ever-present threat of the hideous beast returning, and the frightening ever-looming impact on their loved ones and families as well. When such hurricanes hit I assume everything about one’s life and perspective on living becomes entirely reframed. We are literally rubbing shoulders all the time with unknown and unsung heroes and heroines, to me far more significant and worthy than most pop culture stars or sports heroes. 


Sadly, I/we continue to not create enough space in our busy lives to allow each other to really share. Recently I learned a work colleague/friend had reached his limit, and ended his life. I sensed he was stressed but had no clue the depth or severity of the burden he must have felt. It’s a terrible tragedy, and regrettably stigmatized issue, with a myriad of causes, and spin-off effects on the survivors that are both broad and painful. Even if the feelings felt by those suffering mental health illness may be beyond their ability to articulate, it seems just knowing someone is willing to listen can alleviate some suffering.  


Too often we make it difficult to fully share what’s happening in each other’s lives. Amazingly (and regrettably) folks suffering deal with their “regular” life duties and responsibilities while quietly hauling intense, enormous loads. It’s as if we’ve become at once so judgmental, intolerant, quick to shout our views, and contrarily so isolated, so “safely private” and distanced, people now fear expressing genuine personal feelings or revealing challenging emotions face to face. As if these are too “messy,” or not fully formed, not polished enough like rehearsed sound bites or slick memes. We can post insecurity-driven rants on social media, but not make the time to hear the quiet suffering of our neighbor. I’m certain I’ve been guilty of this. 


Unique as our circumstances and backgrounds may be, we are indeed all connected, as surely as all the varied trees in a forest. It pains me to consider I have encouraged isolation of anyone. Perhaps this is why I find it so difficult to let go of friendships, or “erase” relationships. Life is so very complex; yet simple kindness toward each other is so very possible and life-affirming.


In my essays I try to share the beauty I discover. I seek to uplift others best I can while I’m here. To be fully aware of life, I feel I must accept that death is part of the whole. Yet while I can wax poetic about the cycles of life in nature, the seasons we all inhabit, the fact is I’ve personally not had to confront many of the challenges others have surmounted. Other more incredible people (and their families) have found the resolve and courage and emotional strength and will power and sheer grit to hold at bay or beat back all manner of struggles. You inspire me to live as vitally as possible. I feel sadness for those who have transitioned, yet even within the acceptance of one’s mortality feel there’s a profound strength. 


My friends who are currently cancer warriors, all those bravely fighting ills and other human struggles, as well as you amazing, empowering survivors, are beyond any words of admiration. You all ARE the most vital testament, you embody beauty; though we don’t acknowledge it often enough, we’re all honored to know you, and our lives are graced by your presence.


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Perspective

9/20/2019

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​When you’re in a magical land, the grass radiates the greenest greens, there are ripe blackberries to sample all over the periphery, and El Greco skies appear for your visit to prehistoric sacred sites. This is Dromberg Stone Circle, east of Glandore, County Cork. Note the distant water in view—that leads into the Atlantic Ocean! 

The cremated remains of a young adolescent were found in a ceramic vessel when this site was excavated in 1958. The site was in use 1100-800 B.C.E. The “Druid Altar” and entry pillars roughly align with the solstice sun. Nearby two stone-walled circular huts were in use right up to 500 C.E.  The smaller one contained a hearth, a well, and a trough for boiling water. This was presumably done by adding stones heated in a fire. When tested on site, 70 gallons of cold water could be brought to a boil in 18 minutes! It also stayed sufficiently hot to cook meat for three more hours! 

When you live near remnants of people’s homes from 3,000 years before you, I think it tends to lessen one’s sense of self-importance and put your life in a different perspective.
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Uncanny?

9/16/2019

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I enjoyed a wonderful dawn float Sunday with one of my favorite millennial pals, Hunter Bryan. 

We walked out into the cool morning air and put into the cooler waters near 7 AM. Early in we were treated to a green heron stalking breakfast; the conspicuous drama of life begetting life. Each time we began to get close enough to see it really clearly, it moved up the riverbank keeping a careful distance. The beautiful markings on the gorgeous maroon-headed, golden-toed fellow revealed their purpose when it alighted in a tree to avoid us. The secretive creature merged perfectly into the foliage and would’ve disappeared completely if I hadn’t happened to carefully note where it had perched. This ability to hide served a purpose, allowing it to safely become a part of the bank itself. It essentially merged into the growth, protected from us, the unknown.

It was invisible yet still a presence in that tree; albeit an indefinable one until or unless we had specifically followed its journey. 

Only after our float did Hunter remind me of his childhood friend of 20 years who died just a few years ago in these same waters where we were floating. I’d already been conscious of another friend’s son who also died along the route (all the more tragically both were not yet in their mid-20s, the same age as my son). I do try to remember to honor him in my mind each time as I set in to float. 

Like the elusive heron, unless we followed the complete circumstances leading up to their deaths, they remained a barely felt, mostly hidden presence, merged within the ever-changing banks, (keeping their essence safe)? Perhaps they hovered somewhere, but unless I made a conscious effort, they were mostly beyond my awareness. Their presence and unseen energies were now merged with the land, flowing within this ancient river. Yet also to some degree still carried in our hearts. 

It’s a heavy topic that I know colored this first ever Roanoke River float of Hunter’s. Still, as we went the full route he allowed himself room to quietly come to terms with these challenging feelings. His comments focused on the fun of the light rapids, the sunrise, and the unique multi-sensory beauty. Only when we walked home did he share the powerful emotions with which he’d been grappling. He hadn’t denied them, and the healing is ongoing, as this friend had been part of Hunter’s entire young life, but he honored his friend and himself in giving them room to be felt. 

It’s precisely this ability to be sensitive to his challenging feelings, not fear them nor deny them, yet allow himself room to absorb them, coupled with his wise way of transforming such tough realities into a desire to live MORE fully, that makes me so appreciate being around this impressive young friend. In addition, until he shared his fears, it hadn’t occurred to me how much courage it took for him to even enter into this float, on this for him, hallowed spot. Gracias to you Hunter, and the family that molded you into the very fine, admirable person you are, gracias. 

We had a few moments to share in a coffee after the float. As we were in the local shop, the mother of one of these two children, a friend to us both, entered. Uncanny? I no longer think so. In fact, thinking seems inadequate. We hugged. We parted ways, merging into the world, each of us touched by the other, allowing this river of life to carry us forward into the unknown.

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The Toll

9/15/2019

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​The Toll

I was away, happily
Now, returned again
To the home grounds
Called by an inaudible voice
Toward her centering flow.
I look about and wonder
Has she changed?

I have
To travel to new lands 
Does that, gets into your bones, infuses your blood. 
New sources refresh the spirit
Old sources touch your soul.

I float through familiar landmarks,
At one with unforced flows 
A backdrop of birdsongs, the heron eyes me and nods.
Elusive markers denote unseen stones below the surface
Sources of hidden pains

Rippling murmurs announce
Momentary disruptions and potential tumbles
I bravely free-spin along the paths she’s worn
Around those hardened rough rocks. I spy
Dead limbs flood-lodged in grand trees still holding them captive.
Even so the rosy dusk sky still softly presents itself.
I feel the pull of old comforting rhythms. 

Yet there’s some new movements, new notes here and there...
She’s the same to the unaware eye, yet not quite.
Changed in subtle ways that you feel
More than see. Without moving, she’s also traveled
And no longer the same. But she never was.

Every day life has a way of changing us 
So slowly we rarely notice, 
Slow stress can strengthen or weaken resolve.
From big changes, dramatic storms, deaths, tender new life sprouts, 
Where stubborn old stumps have finally let go, allowed room for growth.

Does she sense I’ve changed? Does she care?
Is it barely noticeable? Or plainly obvious? 
I can’t see it, nor define it
But I feel it.
Same river, same me, but I’m not the same.
It’s the rich toll for engaging fully, for being open.
For Being
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River Magic

9/14/2019

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​River Magic

This last year has prompted (or enhanced) many shifts within me. For whatever reasons I’m more sensitive and aware of the transient nature of life; of friends and family, if my lack of control, and very specifically of loved ones becoming ill or dying. It’s a destiny we all face at some point, and the actuarial tables keep narrowing the odds on our glory days. Somewhat with this in mind, among other subtle changes in my approach to life, I decided in December I would try to better connect to people who live in my sphere but somehow had just never really gotten to know. 

We all are “busy” to use that almost meaningless American word. Actually I think of it as a polite mask of a word. We like burying ourselves within the workplace, or taking on endless “responsibilities” or even endlessly participating in “entertaining” activities —each of which I myself have done at times— all these can be used to avoid facing our own lack of a defining sense of purpose. I realize that in certain periods of life we actually may have to honor others or do things that are not simply joyful and may in fact be very challenging but necessary. But I also know from personal experience that we can hide within activities or “busy-ness” or obligations and so (consciously or not) deny any genuine true introspection, juicy life-savoring connecting with others (and self), or time just being, and so too, avoid any consequential changes listening to our soul rather than our fears may provoke.

I am trying to move out of the grips of such convenient denial. It seems to me since we are all sharing some of the same turf in our little patches of the world for only a few brief moments of life, it’s worth investing some energy into our relationships with those whose paths we cross. None of us has endless time to do so, but we CAN connect at least a little, or we can choose to avoid it. I’ve learned I can find small bits of time if I just make a small effort. For me it seems important to at least be open to engaging with those near. In some cases there are people I’ve waved at for 15 years and yet barely or (embarrassingly) never have spoken to. So engaging even a little has resulted in expanding both my sense of community, as well as compassion (because when you engage with others you quickly learn we all got troubles), and also some common joys and interests, and really nice friendships. Friendships that otherwise might never have blossomed. A small initiative out of one’s comfort zone can offer rich rewards. 

I believe this nurturing of relationships may also be done with non-human life—whether it’s cultivating a dialogue with our gardens, pets, or less domesticated earthly life, like the woods, the mountains, the waterways, or even “listening” more fully to the rain and clouds. Among the relationships I’m happy to have nurtured is one with my friend Erika, a new neighbor living two blocks down. I happened to paint her home as a contractor when she and her daughter moved in two years ago. Like most, our lives are complicated both by our design and by circumstance. Yet the small bits of time she and I’ve been able to carve out to share together have revealed we both very much enjoy the rapport. Among other things she loves being out in the non-human-built world, to paraphrase author Bill Plotkin, whose book “Wild Mind” we’re both currently reading. 

It’s long been my feeling that most of the experiences that bring me joy are even more wonderful when I share them with others. Clearly for me this is so even when done via the abstracted vehicle of FB. Recently I’ve been very happy to share the serene experience of some inner tube floats on the river with a few friends. Erika and I talked about it a few weeks ago but we weren’t able to mesh available times before I was out of country, and then she was to be headed out of country when I returned. So it was looking like a warm weather float might not happen. Prior to my return Sunday, seeing the forecast I sent her a note that we ought to schedule doing one together soon anyway. Turns out her intuition had her cancel her planned retreat this week, so she suddenly had some room and was available to go. We settled on a pre-workday float. This requires just a bit more motivation: waking in the dark and walking to the river before coffee has really kicked in, and when the air temps are not yet hot and the water temperature is bit cool, but we did just that. A nice bonus was her partner Spencer, whom I’d never met, was available and willing and so came along as well. 

Despite my excited chattiness, they graciously listened deeply and we had a some nice heart to heart exchanges about relationships; life changes; time spent filling the voids of American life with all manner of distractions rather than “being”; of synchronicity; of our lack of appreciation for how connected all life is; of our cultural dismissal of non-intellectual knowing; and trying to navigate all the above with open-hearted integrity. In addition to the warm conversation, we also, in the coolish morn and tepid River water directly enjoyed feeling the warming sunshine on our skin. We saw it sparkling like so many tiny jewels as it first touched the water, and watched the raw beams passing through the trees as the tiniest hint of dewy mist rose. We heard an occasional fish splash (Spencer may have had a nibble on a finger!), and watched as the birds began their river’s edge dawn rituals.

At one point, while the three of us (each floating atop an inner tube) were gently conversing, we drifted under a limb about 6 feet overhead. I glanced and was pleasantly surprised to see a small heron, likely one of a pair I’ve seen passed on almost every float, perched atop the branch. It held fast even as we began to pass under, as if to say “just wanted to get a real good look at who’s with you today!” Only when we were directly under did it take flight. A bit further down river, as we silently drifted along, we watched a wonderfully sleek, crow-sized green heron with beautiful markings stalking breakfast at the river’s edge. It crept among the rocks along the bank, very slowly and deliberately raising each toe and attached leg, delicately replanting them while moving forward, slinking lower and lower (I assume to minimize its shadow or reflection). In short order its stealth paid off, and that intensely pointed beak had pegged and gobbled up what I can only guess were a few hapless yet tasty minnow morsels. 

We had a serene, hour + on the water. After my new floating companions expertly rolled free-style over a small section of rapids near a pull out, we gathered to assess continuing further. Just then Spencer noticed something near the closest bank—what appeared to be a long-stemmed white rose! I was sure it had to be plastic, yet when he reached it, he assured me it was not! The flower was fully intact and, being the chivalrous gent he is, he immediately offered it to his beaux. Lady Erika paddled his way and graciously accepted it. I happened to glance about and suddenly found two more—and only two—of these utterly out of place, yet absolutely SO in place, amazing little treasures. It was as if, beyond the already beautiful shared float, we were being gifted by the river for engaging with each other and with it, the herons,  (and everything else so obviously interconnected).  In a quietly dramatic and gently emphatic, lovely symbolic way, we too were welcomed. We all agreed it was a perfect ending to the magical beginning of a new day.

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    ​John's Blog

    Writing offers an opportunity to clarify my thoughts and feelings. Often these relate to my art and may offer insights about my work. I learn from engaging with others and welcome comments. 

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