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To the edge of the ocean, that is.  Yes.  I am fleeing to the ocean’s edge seeking solace, seashells, wind and waves.  Rainy forecast be damned, I am still heading out so I can arrive there, where the ocean meets the rocky shore. 

Fingers crossed that my V (as in my Bastard Buddy Vertigo) will allow me a grace period for the 4+ hour drive.  I typically relish driving the many miles as it is a beautiful drive, rain or shine, and this road and I are very well acquainted.  We know each other’s twists and turns, pot holes and all.  So please Universe above and within, please keep the green light lit and a Pink Bubble of safety around yours truly and Buster Blue (aka my trusty car companion) as we escape this city life. 

Because it is true.  The edge is where the good stuff often hangs out.  An ever tempting adventure of discovery.  So to the edge it is.

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Somewhere and sometime along the way on this journey of mine on this particular circuitous path that I tread called my life, I let go of the hope of finding my first mother, my omma.  In the beginning as a child, I barely dared even think of her even when I was sleeping ~ dreaming about this most precious woman in the whole wide world.  And then in adulthood, I defied all that I had been taught and brainwashed to believe by my adoptive mother, and took the lid off the hole in my heart where this yearning for my birth mother lived.  This hope was faint but thrumming with the rhythm of my heartbeat and sprang fully alive with urgings from my thoughts, dreams and fantasies of this mystery woman’s face, touch and fragrance. 

So today the realization that the hope is reduced, once again, to barely a flutter now and again, is startling. 

Hope and hunger, however, are two separate states of being.  For I still long for this woman, my creator.  Longing that aches to my very soul.  Even with my dim hope that I will ever find her on this planet, in the form of my first omma, the yearning is still present.  She is somewhere.  Perhaps over the proverbial rainbow.  Maybe existing on another plane in a different form.  But, somewhere there exists is at least a remnant of this one whom I have gone without for ever so long. 

Happy Mother’s Day Omma from your daughter aka Korean adoptee, junemoon.

In order to be here, one must go there but the going there, requires no physical departure; at least for today. 

My thoughts and inner visioning have been hijacked.  A few days before now, my eyes drank in the images of temples ~ hanging cliff temples.  And ever since that first viewing when my soul leapt with recognition, my core began a slow drumming.  The beat of this internal drum, thrumming through me; my body responds with a re-awakening and yearning to return to mountain peak, where I surely have lived in some yesteryear.  Forgotten, until now. 

This drumming back to consciousness, caused my limiting thoughts and jailhouse rules and boundaries to spring into action; to speak out loud their automatic chastisement.  You cannot go, you would surely perish.  Only the fit of body and the most holy of spirits belong on that journey above the clouds.  Remember your fear of heights.  You would most certainly slip and fall, causing great disaster and inconvenience to others.  You cannot go, you would surely perish. 

So in preparation for this journey, which I must surely embark upon, the first steps are to soothe my protector’s fears and to loosen my jailer’s clawlike hold.  For my journey, you see, has most certainly already begun and I have not yet perished.

I think that might be what happened this morning.  I may have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed.  I have felt sort of scritchity and grumpy off and on today. 

Good thing that I get to start over again at any given moment in any given season.  My slate can be wiped clean ~ a new page turned ~ a serenity prayer uttered and sent swiftly skyward bound ~ a cleansing breath inhaled and exhaled, leaving space for peace to enter. 

Yes, choices are a darned good thing.  I hope I choose to change lanes soon.  I could make a U-turn and head the opposite direction.  I could cross over to the sunny side of the street. 

And yet I sense that I am not quite ready to make the change.  Maybe I will just let myself drift in the eddies for a while.  There is value in each state of mind, each mood that visits us.  I think I will choose to be still and let myself breathe and just be.  Be, right where I am in this moment.

Stone after stone after stone followed by another and another.  Skipping.  Bouncing.  Springing off the surface of the deep blue ocean or the merrily babbling stream.  Stone after skipped stone bouncing after the next stone leaving only rings of water and a dollop of watery sound in their wake. 

Those are the daydreams of this snow-locked woman on this sun filled day in the Upper Regions of the Northern Hemisphere.  Daydreams of beaches covered with loads of smooth small to medium sized oval shaped grey and slate black stones left high and dry by the outgoing tide.  Each aching to be chosen by the best stone skipper on the planet.  Each yearning to be held, just so, between the index finger and the thumb, curled in the brief safety of the expert hand.  Each thrilling at the very memory of flying through the sun kissed air, hurtling toward the open ocean from whence they came ashore.  Each ready to do the dance.  Each vying to be the most skipped stone this side of the Pacifc. 

Daydreaming in the sun, my friend, is never over rated.

Take two ibuprofens.  Drink them down with big gulps of water.  Do it quickly lest you be oxygen deprived due to inabilty to breathe through your nose and only your mouth.  Keep a goodly supply of Puffs with lotion tissues nearby.  Apply Neosporin to painfully irritated raw nose. 

Do all of the above throughout your day and night.  Allow the common cold to run its natural course.

Oh I almost forgot to mention, give in to food cravings and allow yourself to be comforted by a steaming hot cup of tomato soup.  Sodium milligrams be damned.  One’s spirits must be buoyed and nurtured during times of physical illness in order to quickly return to health.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. 

As you may have guessed by now, I am being visited by a headcold.  I realized that this is the first cold I have succumbed to in over a year.  My memory timeline includes such mileposts as my daugher’s birth year and her age at any given point in my adulthood.  An example being, when did I date the woman with the long flowing blond hair with those deep blue eyes?  Well let’s see, my daughter was about 7 years old so I would have been 26.  Another memory milepost is when was the last time I was able to sleep lying down?  Well let’s see that would have been toward then end of January 2011 so about 13 months ago.  And I haven’t had a head cold since then.  Oh the meandering places my mind does travel when my head is all stuffed up… 

Life is good even with the raw nose and achy muscles.  One cold in over a year just isn’t that bad.  Right?  Nothing that taking two ibuprofens won’t help.

It appears that a simple function termed threading of film onto a projector eludes me.  Baffles me even after some time and effort spent cleaning the very old equipment and online searching for helpful how-to instructions.  Not surprising I suppose ~ this road block of sorts.  After all, this is no ordinary antique projector.  This is my adoptive parent’s projector and the 8mm and super 8mm film reels housed in their bright yellow Kodak cardboard boxes hold family history  family secrets  family surprises.  This film plays silently with only the loud thrum of the machinery accompanying the grainy color images. 

At least that is how I remember the viewings as a child and young adult when after much pleading, my mother would finally acquiesce, giving my father permission to haul out the projector and the film.  As adopted daughters, my sister and I, yearned even more than the average kid to see again and again the evidence of our belonging, of our history.  A history that only went back to when we arrived in America, bought by these White American parents.  I was a Korean adoptee and so was my sister, arriving from different backgrounds and first families to form our very own little tribe of two in a land where no one looked like us ~ to a land where for all of our childhoods we were known as The Adopted Korean Girls. 

Fast forward many years and here you will find me.  Finally pushing through my myriad of fears, resistance and ambivalence to allow myself to figure out another piece of my foundation.  Sounds heavy for such a simple task of figuring out an old projector and watching a few canisters of film.  Simple or not, these actions have been many years in the making. 

It seems that the gathering of our lives lived through memories, yearnings, wishes and dreams is a life long journey.  A journey which offers experiences of joy, sadness, grief, longing, laughter, anger, tears, breath taking ah-ha’s, rage and acceptance.  I figure that I am somewhere a little past mid-way of this journey of this life time and it is looking more possible than naught that there will be future viewings of these little films.  Where those particular pieces of the puzzle will fit is not quite clear, yet.  Thankfully there is a focusing mechanism on this antiquated projector. 

 

This past weekend, I had the honor of attending a mesmerizing performance at the local art center.  The story line centered on the friendship built between two men who hailed from different cultures and social contexts.  Two men on a stage led the audience on the journey of their friendship through the years against a backdrop of gorgeous and breathtaking photography and video.  One of the men was killed in the pursuit of his passion, wildlife and outdoor photography, and the remaining friend wrote a book which was subsequently adapted for the performance art piece. 

In the play’s program the director wrote about the “shallow and deep simplicity of friendship.”  He likened friendship to a river that we “often cross shallowly.”  He wrote that “[T]oo often we fail to see it [friendship] with the significance it deserves.  Simple friendship has depths that cannot be plumbed.” 

These words and the strong thought and emotion provoking dialogue between these friends have taken up their fair share of my head space this week.  Gotten me reflecting on the unremarkable and the remarkable aspects of my everyday friendships and the sustenance that each relationship brings to my life.  There are the friendship brooks and creeks, burbling and percolating along; the ones that mirror huge crashing waves of both ecstasy and despair; the streams that fill to overflowing in the spring and freeze up tight in the winter; the deep broad still lakes mirroring back who I am and the lay of the land; and ponds, some spilling over that may one day become a lake and other ponds that have shrunk and are in the process of drying up from seasons of drought. 

Some are ripe for plumbing the depths with the hope of revealing new treasure.  Others already plumbed, some with slightly disappointing results and others that inspired a big huge shazaaaam.  Not all friendships are meant to be plumbed but instead are transitory in their very nature ~ their gift made richer by their impermanence. 

I love the meandering creeks and eddies, the written word and the performance art pieces that live on in lively and quiet debates  ~ the internal plumbing of the soul, psyche and heart.

In life, it’s the little things that most often impact our lives the most.  Except for those times when it’s the big things that usurp the moment ~ take the day ~ knock us off our feet ~ sweep us down the river of joy or tears.  Yes.  Most definitely it’s the big things that influence our lives the most.  That is, apart from the little things that instantly wrap our hearts in comfort or bring a fist-sized knot to our gut.  Or like when we awake with our eyes open to the peace surrounding us that sprang from within us. 

Oh yeah. 

Except for those times. 

It’s the bigs and the littles that get us every doggone time.

Daydreaming, in the dark. Not to be confused with dark daydreams.

No. That would be the wrong interpretation.

This morning I was literally daydreaming in the dark. The dark both inside my dwelling and outside of my four walls as I was waking.

Here is the content of my daydreams today ~

summer time warmth ~ beachwalks ~ sleeping in the horizontal position ~

It could happen.
And it already did ~ in my mind’s eye.

November 2017
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