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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.

Yesterday I sat in my friend’s car and visited for about 3-1/2 hours, give and not take an hour or so.  That’s after we had sat across from one another in a restaurant booth, eating breakfast and visiting for about an hour and eleven minutes.  We had not seen one another for a goodly amount of time and when we do get together, we talk.  For a long time, we talk.  Our best conversations have taken place in one or the other of our vehicles throughout the years.  And our friendship spans multiple years and encompass umpteen life changes and choices of both the minor and the major variety. 

So it was not uncommon that our tete-a-tete included the revisiting of past romantic relationships.  For me, one love affair in particular still has a hold in my heart.  A flame, if you will, that has not gone dark and cold.  My little meander down memory lane seems to have knocked some emotional debris loose and onto my path or into my heart like little sparkling diamonds swirling around in a gold pan mixed all in with the fool’s gold.  I think in this scenario, I may be the fool and that all that sparkles is definitely not diamonds but instead perhaps a woman-made synthetic imposter. 

Nonetheless.  My heart is a bit blue.  A bit bruised from the memories of the long ago infidelity, deceit and not enough love.  The saying that time heals all wounds is not really true.  What is true in this narrative is that time has softened the heart pain and there is distance even in the nearness of the flame.

The unmistakable trumpet of Canadian geese pierced through the early morning airwaves and were received by my welcoming ears.  In the spring, these first honkings validate with assurance and confidence that winter is surely on the wane because there are new feathered sherrifs in town.  We know when the geese head south, so do our hopes of continued late summer and autumn joys.  Their departing audio conversations sound sad to those of us left behind.  Left behind to face a cold and icy future.   

But today, the Canadians are back and my heart jumped with joy for surely on their strong wings my prayers for winter’s end are answered.   

It is true. 

Prayers and wishes can, indeed, come true.

Yes.  I just might get out of my own way…  any minute now. 

Yes.  Out of my own way, I might just move. 

There seems to be a slight problem, a little thorn in the side of the rose.  In fact, there most definitely is a blockade preventing me from moving over, which would then allow me to get out of my own way.  The problem is my exhaustion. 

Yes.  The utterly fatigued state of my being is locking me into place like molasses on a right cold night. 

Not getting a good night’s sleep for so long that I cannot recall when the last time was that I had a good night’s sleep will get me every time.  Gets me in this bone weary and slate wiped clean state of mind. 

Even with all of that, I am still holding out a little hope that I just might be able to move out of my own way.  Sometime in the future.  Hopefully sometime in the near and soon future.  A move I might make.

Talk with me

and share with me

those things that you hold dear. 

Let us exchange the delight in our respective lives.  Tell of the beauty I behold when I look deeply into your eyes.  Let us build on the excitement of the spark that ignites when two minds meet and mine the gold of their hearts. 

Yes.

Let us talk and talk

and we will build castles in the sky and in the sand, complete with bridges

traversing our hearts our minds our souls.

Let us go deep

into the valleys the interior landscape and the shadowed unknown.

Exploring plumbing searching

We will be amazed

over and over

again, with treasures discovered.  Long lost and sort of forgotten

until now.

Talk with me.

@junemoon 2012

I do believe my region of the planet has taken its snowy place in the weather history books as the snowiest winter on record.  Fantabulous for winter enthusiasts I suppose.  But even those rosy cheeked ones must be getting just a teeny weeny tiny bit tired of the endless dumps gifts of snow. 

As for me, there’s the matter of roof leaks in my kitchen and limited vision from my windows as the snow deepens, rising up past the window casings.  There’s the growing craving for natural greenery.  There’s the daily shuffling and changing of outerwear to inside attire ~ the continual on-and-off of the boots, the hat, the scarf, the gloves and coat. 

Fatiguing of mind, body, heart and spirit for this particular Earth dweller. 

Ready for spring.  Ready for summer. 

Meanwhile, I suppose I’ll go help chisel the icy news of our snowy achievement into our frozen history books.

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.

Get ready

Get set

Not ready, yet.

Just the other day, which at this stage of my life can mean a couple of weeks or months ago, I realized that if I were to die in that moment I would not feel ready to take my leave of this life time.  This realization arrived with no small surprise.  You see, I have spent big chunks of energy, time, effort, imagination and sheer will power to keep my precarious hold to this earthly planet.  And that is not to speak of my multiple beseechings of the Universal Powers to alternately open my eyes to the wonders that this life has to offer or to take me quickly to another place, another planet, another existence or to simply extinguish my flickering flame altogether. 

I have struggled with varying gradations of melancholy and depression as far back as my memories travel.  Years of spiritual searching and guidance seeking ~frequent findings and losings of faith ~ years worth of various therapies ~ book after book of helping myself books read, re-read, dog-eared and cursed ~ multiple sundry eating plans, herbs and self-medication, followed by much self castigation with equal amounts of guilt for being so un-grateful for life’s abundance.  

Scattered amongst this turmoiled angst, moments and sometimes days of brightened mood.  Such a welcome respite in a choppy sea of deep blue and inky black depths.  

A certain thought has cropped up now and then of ‘if I were to die right now… .”  The thought  followed by a variation of ‘it wouldn’t be a moment too soon’  or ‘a perfect moment to leave.’  So one might understand a bit more the surprise, the startle if you will, that I felt with that initial response of ‘no, I am not ready.’  Not ready to leave this life, my life, in this moment.  As I have mulled over this new response, which has remained, I have come to understand that my life feels more precious to me than in the past.  Many other realizations have crystallized as the marinading of this new experience continues. 

Today though I wanted to share that I am here.  I am alive.  I am not ready to leave.  I am living.

November 2018
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