Beating of the Forgotten Heart

Lo and behold...it beats again.

I lay awake at nights now and listen to my heart beat ever so fast. I think of her smile and it beats faster. I hear her laughter and it beats faster still. I remember her touch and it beats through the surface of my skin.

Is this what it is truly meant to be like? Is this what it feels like to have another recognize your worth...to recognize your soul? Are our jaws meant to hurt this much because we are always smiling in pure happiness? Only time will tell but so far it has told me oh so much. The following is a story about the beginnings of a friendship and a true romance. Here you go and may you enjoy.

I have never been one to shy away from emotion - not mine, not yours, and not anyone else's for that matter. Emotion is what makes us human; it is what makes us raw; it is what makes our senses come alive with expression. Anger helps us realize anger is unnecessary; sadness allows us to taste ever-so-sweet pain; and happiness permits us to fly with angels.

Emotions are real. They remind us all that life is real.

But love as an emotion has never really lasted as a tangible for me...love for me has always been a handful of sand slipping through the tiny cracks in my tightly clenched fist. I have stood on a beach full of crystal but yet always ended up with the same result...lost through my fingers and lost in my life. I would stay the same while the other person would change. Or maybe we were always two completely different people not fated to be in this world.

Time always told the tale. My heart always paid the price. Still I soldiered on.

It was only a month ago that I had admitted the fact I was done with it for a while: done with the casual hello and the painful goodbye, done with the changing of self for the sake of another, and done with sleepless nights worrying how another may think. I told my self it was not worth it to put a soul through that anymore. I decided the next time would be with someone who recognized my worth. That it would be someone who took me for who I am.

I told my self that it was time to give up the search. I had searched high and low, through separate countries, and through Mountains and over seas. It was just a silly dream I told my self. Yes, sure, it brought me to so many places, and so many interesting, exciting memories were made, but in the end, was all the pain and loss worth it? Would it not be worth more to let it go and leave it behind so I could progress forward instead of staying in the same spot?

So I decided it was time to walk alone and if that meant walking alone for a lifetime then so be it. I placed my trust in the Universe and kept moving forward...one foot in front of the other. Smiling at life. Always smiling at what it brings me no matter what else comes my way. I would never give up on love because deep down inside I knew it would never give up on me.

I knew that if she was really out there waiting for me then it would have to be her that came to find me this time. If she was out there then she would make her self known.

Then it happened: a chance meeting on a cold winter evening. Lingering moments spent in a mirrored reflection of two familiar souls passing in the night. I listened in awe as she told me her want for someone to recognize her for true worth...her want for someone to take her as she is. I felt my breath catch in my throat as her words rang clear to the depths of my being. As she spoke, I felt my heart speed up ever so slightly.

It has not stopped its mad frantic race ever since.

Her eyes tell a different story from any other I have ever heard. They dance with mischief; they blaze with passion; and they hold mine in a deep embrace. Her eyes tell me she recognizes my worth and her words echo my unspoken thoughts. Her fingers brush against everything I have ever held true in my beliefs about what love was...and then it holds that belief ever so gently in the palm of her hand.

She is present in her emotion - she does not shy away from it nor does she hide it away from others. She is real. I have no idea what time holds for us. I only know what I have seen in this lifetime...I only know we are one in the same.

We fit.

I think of a life with her by my side. Not in front of me or behind me but right alongside of me. Walking and talking; laughing and smiling. There are not enough toes in the world to count off the ways she makes me happy...there are not enough hours in the day to spend with her in my presence. For every hard goodbye and parting of ways comes a smiling hello and hours full of special seconds. We make it all count. We leave nothing to chance. We talk. We listen. We grow.

And my heart beats faster and faster...faster and faster still.

I am still the same person. I still lift my legs when I drive over railyway tracks. I still hold the door open for people. I still wake in the morning and give thanks for life and all it offers. But she inspires an already inspired man to reach more; to achieve more; to accomplish his dreams. She is still the same person. She smiles at everyone she sees. She believes that love is not meant to be buried but appreciated and nurtured so it can grow for all to see. Together we become something more...something special.

Believe that love exists and show your friends and family that you care for them. Hug and laugh with them. Don't change who you are for someone else and remember to breathe in life. It will show you the way to your dreams. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.

"Do you remember when we first met...I sure do. It was some time in early September. Well you were lazy about it you made me wait around...I was so crazy about you I didn't mind."

- Jack Johnson

Nurture the Child

Bang.

We all have an inner child within that holds the answers to hidden questions; that holds the key to locked doors from our past. This little child sits on a doorstep on a hot summer day, swinging their legs back and forth, wanting to play, yet not understanding why people are so mean; why their friends insist on picking on them. The child only understands simplicity; innocence; it only understands the freedom of laughter.

Yet as we grow older, the idea of innocence becomes lost amongst the trials and tribulations of life: simplicity becomes a tormented past; a tormented past becomes a childhood lost; a childhood lost becomes the result of an unhappy adult.

Picture your self as a child again: What would you look like? What was important to you? I see a young boy with unruly curly locks; a demeanour of stubbornness and a look of determination on my face with arms crossed; and a strapping of six shooters around my waist, ready to draw and shoot if the camera does not click fast and the flash goes off. A moment captured in the archives of time. Can you see me? It is from this image that I will tell a story. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

Bang.

No matter where you read this or what background you may be from, it will be the same for us one and all: once upon a time we were all children. Everything was new; everything was an adventure; and our Mothers were always seemingly telling us what to do: Come to dinner, wash your face, close the door because we are not paying to heat up the neighbourhood, and so on and so on. Yet she was the one we always ran to after falling and scraping our knees; the only one who knew how to heal all travesties with the magic of a simple kiss; the one who tucked us in at night and made our dreams sweet with a story or a whispered "I love you."

What happens to us as we grow older? What do we lose in the swirling sands of time? Why must we always be so serious now when it is so much easier to laugh and smile instead?

Why indeed.

A wise woman once told me it is important to talk to that child from within; that it is necessary for personal growth; that it enables us to release torment from our past; that it allows us to heal, nay, it allows us to be free once more. She told me to lay in bed, to close my eyes, and to drop into my inner conscious and find that young child once again.

She asked me to not only find him, but to have a conversation with him; to take his hand and walk a while with him by my side; to listen to his words of unfathomable wisdom; to realize this very same child would one day become, well; would one day become me.

I know it sounds crazy, believe me I do. But I closed off the world for an hour or so before sleep last night; I ignored the worries of adulthood; and went in search of childhood. I found a young boy all by him self, running around with no one to play, and yet still smiling and still laughing. I took him by the hand and asked him how he was; took him by the hand and asked him if he was okay. In his eyes I saw the innocence of youth. In his smile I saw the memory of summer past. In his stature I saw the determination of an unforseeable future.

Bang.

We talked. I listened. We laughed. I healed. Not too much later he asked if it was okay for him to go and find his friends so he could play.

"Will you come back again?" He asked. "I would like it very much if you would come back again so we could talk some more."

Yes, I said, yes. I would like that very much.

"Promise?" He asked once more.

Yes, I said, I promise.

Then he smiled at me and walked away. As I watched him go, the child suddenly turned around with guns drawn and said "Bang." He ran away giggling into the hot summer sun and trailing peals of childish joy behind him. He ran away leaving a man in awe of life.

Find your child within. Find the time to take them by the hand and walk along the dusty roads of forgotten paths. Find the time to talk. Find the time to listen. Find the time to laugh like a child again. But, above all, find the time to heal. Find the time to remember who we were eventually becomes what we are.

Dream. Search. Question. Live. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.

"Beauty is being in harmony with what you are." - Peter Nivio Zarlenga

Rainbows and Butterflies

It is not fun to wake up with a headache; to sleep with a headache; to breathe with a headache; or to even study with a headache. It is not fun to live with a daily reminder of a whacked out night lost in the shifting sands of time. But, although I am used to living life with these headaches, I made a vow years ago to never let them dictate my life.

Now in my present days, I feel that vow bending at times as the pain becomes constant and oh so overbearing. When the thud just thumps and the lights become bright; when the interesting conversation is unfortunately lost to the stimulation of a racing heart beat.

But we are only truly responsible for one thing in this life: to adapt; to overcome; and to evolve. We can either shoulder the responsibility of working harder when the level of responsibility increases or we can throw our cards in and call it a game. It is up to us; up to you; up to me. How we walk with our heads high is determined by the individual. This is how I do it. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

When even the slightest touch from a loved one brings with it a grasp of pain; when even the lightest kiss brings with it a wary cringe of the eyebrow. These are the days when only darkness brings with it relief. A want to shut away from the world and sleep the madness away into the depths of time. But no. That would be giving up.

So yesterday I stayed awake and fought through the heavy press of eyelids, stayed awake through the insistent nag of a digging blade behind my eyes, and I stayed awake to read and edit an old life. I did what I always do: write, write, and write some more.

It is the sweetest love in my life. To take thoughts and place them in print, to read a life that seems so alien to me yet I recognize it as my own. It is when I forget the pain, it is when I forget the loss of love, and it is when I remember that it feels so good to be alive.

It will not end me. I will not allow it. It is not in the act of refusal that I take strength but in the intention of being something more. They can poke and prod me to find empty answers to questions I have asked many many times. They can even call me a medical mystery. I already know I am a walking miracle. Nothing will ever stop me from reaching my goals.

Not even the constant thump, thump, thumping of blinding white lights ripping and surging through my memories. No. Never. I am too strong for it. For all my human frailties and limitations I refuse to let anything but my goals shine the way for me. Even as the candle burns brightly in front of me I will ignore the dripping hot wax coating my hand.

I will do my best to ignore the pain.

A quick look into self to recognize strength is all we need in the end. To recognize the shift in our direction, to adapt to that shift, to overcome and evolve. In front of us lies the road to all of our questions; the road to all of our dreams. If we let it wear us down, if we let it stop us when life is at its hardest and the storm rages on and on, if we let it beat us, well; then we have truly lost. Find your own strength, my friends, find it when the day is long, and find it when the night is black and dark.

Find it in your self. Fight. Never give in. Fight damn it. Fight. In the end, it is life that we fight to live; it is life that we fight to understand. Never stop questioning and never stop dreaming. When it is all said and done, pain is only weakness leaving your body. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.

"Well I woke up this morning, rainbows filled the sky. Yes I woke up this morning and rainbows filled the sky. And there was God telling me "everything's going to be alright." - Jack Johnson

Frozen Memories

My breath was a puff of frozen air and my feet made small crunching sounds in the new snow. The cacophony of the busy highway crackled all around me as my mind drifted back in time…to a different life and a different setting.

I walked through the soft falling flakes of powder today and remembered mornings when I dressed in layers of thermal clothing: first layer to wick the sweat, second layer to trap the heat, a third layer for insulation, and then the socks. Sliding into baggy snowboard pants, tightening the belt but keeping slack for room to spin my body, and pulling my jacket over my shoulders; vents closed and pockets zipped tight.

Next came the boots, laces drawn snug, and then a run for the door. Here is a story of why I love winter and the feeling of soft snow falling all around me. The memory of the search of fresh powder to ride; the search of hidden bowls and tree runs. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

Picture your self on a chairlift, your feet swaying lazily beneath you in the open air, the wind cold and brisk on your face, and flecks of falling snow on your tongue. You look at your friends and smile at their grins of mischief; grin at your own thoughts of pure abandonment. Imagine the whisk of the seat as you slide off of it and feel the snow as you glide over its surface.

Hike high on a mountain face as your boots sink into a deep hole of yielding velvet and listen to your heart pound blood in your ears. Stand on top of the world and survey your domain of valleys made of rock and stone. Hear laughter all around you and glimpse fragments of childhood memories of days spent with no worry; days of no care.

Click in and enjoy the ride.

Drift along currents of white, run your hand behind you and trail your fingers in the quiet wake. Spy a forest in the distance, over the hills and far away. Glide into its sanctity of hush and stillness; notice that even the wind falls silent in respect. It is in the shelter of trees that snow becomes a kaleidoscope of champagne dust sprinkled from the heavens.

Give thanks for the softness of life; give thanks for the softness of Nature. Sit. Listen. Breathe. Remember. Forgive.

Stand. Charge.

Ride through trees of green and white, snap off bows laden with snowflakes as you brush by them, and feed off the adrenaline now in control of your actions. Feel the branches crack across your forearms and rampage through life with a grunt and a yell. Lean back on your rear foot and surf across the waves of powder, drop your knee and dig deep to send a rooster of white up and over your shoulder.

Wipe snow off your goggles and slide your fingers over your mouth; taste the excitement wet and delicious on your pallet. Suck in your breath as the ground falls steep, follow the rush, and drift off a lip of snow…and fly with the birds in a frozen moment in time; a frozen stall of thought.

Land with an explosion of earth as it shatters and buries you in its grasp, and then lets you go with a whisper of luck. Ride. Ride. Ride.

I return to my present in a fracture of thought and memory. Images flutter away yet leave a blanket of fleece and warmth. The mountains will always be there, I know, but I miss them so, especially when the winds howl and the snow falls. Oh how they pushed me to be better; to be more. But I can always return once again. Not so long away and yet so far to go.

My love. My passion. My soul. These are the inspirational push from behind now; the push to be more; the push to learn; the push to progress. When once I only believed in self and questioning of self, I now believe in us all; believe that we must always question, search, question and ask, then search some more. The more you search the more you find. The more you find the more you learn. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.

"It's the experience that counts rather than the percieved happiness." - Craig Kelly

Origin of Rational Thought

Virtuous adjective Having or showing virtue, especially moral excellence.

Character noun Moral or ethical strength.

Ethics are made of non-contradictory principles, and therefore, are an essential formula for life. There are various factions of ethics, for example, Deontological ethics which are based on the practice of intrinsically right or wrong duties and rules; or Teleological ethics, which are based on the emphasis of cause and effect decisions and what they achieve.

Then there are Virtue ethics. This is the practice of ethical decision based upon individual character traits. That is, if you perceive honesty as a personal trait, then you will always be honest no matter the circumstance. You live your life by this personal code and you base all actions on a particular choice of character traits. Virtue is a sign of knowledge: knowledge of self, knowledge of decisions, and knowledge of a sound formula for just action.

Therefore, if knowledge of virtue requires practice and exercise of said principles, then it can be stated that knowledge and virtue are indeed interchangeable; it can be stated that knowledge and virtue form our character.

At the end of the day these ideas make the difference in breaking through the clutter of crumbling walls; it is what we take from our precious seconds of organized time of reflection. Here are some of my reflections on what knowledge and virtue mean to me. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

Virtuous beliefs are formed through virtuous thought. They come from personal reflection: reflection of our life and times, reflection of past mistakes, and reflection on acknowledgement of these mistakes. If you truly believe that mistakes are made in order to learn, then you will see the value in no longer making them. You will learn the lesson. In fact, you will come to see repetitious mistakes as what they truly are: an effective barrier placed over your inevitable growth of soul.

Rational thought is our own to form and apply as we may. I can explain rational thought to you as I view it, but what is rational thought as you see it? My explanation of rational thought makes sense to me; however, it might not necessarily make sense to you. I could use rhetoric to influence your rationale in an effective matter but that would mean I have not achieved my end goal…and my end goal is for us all to think for ourselves, not as another may tell you to think; or what to think; or how to think.

So, once again, I return to virtue as being equal to knowledge and vice versa. I will state the intercessory to bridge the gap between these two interchangeable ideas and the purpose of rational thought. It is the taking of these three elements, applying each to our lives, and realizing what is needed to evolve; to survive; to progress.

The missing link is wisdom.

Wisdom is the taking of practical reasoning, applying past experience, and using rational action in life decisions. For example, if you believe in the virtue of patience and see that everything has a time and place, and therefore, need not be rushed, well; you now have a formula to use when faced with a dilemma. You use the virtue of patience to reflect on a possible consequence instead of rushing to a hasty decision. Through practice of virtue you gain knowledge of how to act in tight situations, when before you would have grabbed on to something; anything in order to ground your self in life.

Now picture that the same situation arises again and again. What do you do?

Well, through proper reflection, you recognize that it is not a situation per se, but in fact it is the same mistake arising again and again. Once you recognize the mistake, you can now acknowledge that its lesson has been learned. You have now applied practical reasoning to past experience, and applied rational thought to effective action.

You now have wisdom.

So many of us feel that it is much better to ground ourselves in past mistakes; maybe because we feel we owe something, anything, to our past. Our souls travel along broken roads, scuffing our dirty feet in the lost remnants of our lives. It need not be that way.

Let me explain.

I have learned so much about character in my university years: societal character and individual character of past and present. I have come to see that my whispered thoughts actually hold valid truth when I once felt they were only random words. I become lost in these thoughts at times. When that happens, I can freely admit that it is needed to ground my self in something; in anything. I choose to ground my self in faith. Faith in me. Faith in you. Faith in us all. I prefer to ground my self in this glorious creation we call life.

That is virtue of character, my friends. When the road seems long and oh so dark, you must believe that much harder in your self. You must not only believe, but you must also learn to trust that your path is just; that your path is true. Understand that your character is forming it self into your personal reflection and what you feel on the inside will show true on the outside.

One more morning is one more reason to shine. One more day is one step closer. One more night is another glimpse of time to reflect on who we are and who we will become. Be resilient. Be strong. Know that it is okay. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.

"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is a habit." - Socrates

Coming of Winter

Swirling leaves blew up all around me. Rain pounded on my windshield. My thoughts ran back in time to only a week ago; a time when my whole world turned black for three days. A slight thud pounded above my eyes. I squinted through the sheets and did my best to ignore. I remembered what I am not allowed to forget.

The colours of autumn passed in front of my eyes and the wind whistled through a crack in the window. I lost my self in its current and faded back to only days ago.

Drugs. Pain. Loss of sleep. Stress. Compassion. Blackness. All of it in only seventy two hours of my life. The story of how I lost most of them in the hazy shadows of a bad bad headache. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

My headaches have always been the bane of my existence since childhood. Migraines they are called. I only wish I was so lucky to have one of these migraines because mine are much, much...much worse. Yet it is always the same diagnosis and the same prescription of ineffective drugs. Yet always the same end result.

They had been absent as of late and I began to hope they were on extended leave. I sat in my class last week when it hit me. An insane line of splintered pain ran across the back of my head to the front of my skull. It slashed a razor arc between my eyes and then just sat there. It pulsated slightly but not so slightly that I did not feel its insistent message: I am here it said. And I am here to stay for a while this time.

I sat numbed in my class, aware of the voices in the room, assaulted by the bright white lights, and acknowledged there would soon be a full systems shut-down. I stumbled to the campus doctor, grabbed some minor drugs, went home for more, and called my best friend the Paramedic. He shuttled me to the hospital for nine hours of wait, wait and wait some more. Throw in some more drugs, this time of the heavier kind, and top it off with a catscan whirring over my head.

Drowsy and drugged, I fell into a coma for a couple of hours. I woke in a hospital bed with synthetic heroin in my bloodstream and away we go. The next morning I headed to school, and walked like the living dead have arisen. Pain now a common presence as I shuffled slowly and my personal Paramedic kept a tight vigil at my side. I go to the campus doctor once again for more tests, more of the same drugs, and then suddenly found myself washing dishes in the dark.

Blessed darkness. Windows shut tight, blinds pulled close, and a pillow over my head to block any remaining light. Then black...nothing but a sweet starless sky. My roomates told me they rock papered scissored to go in my room and see if I was alive. Yet I only knew eighteen hours of exquisite blackness. I was out cold.

It has been over a week now since then.

I wish I could tell you pain has left but I would be a liar. I wish I could tell you it lingers ever so lightly but it has me tight in its jaws. Every now and then it gives me a good shake to remind me to continue on no matter the cost. Don't give in to anything it says because I never will.

I will find a way to one day ease the mandibles of pressure and when I do the whole world will know. But for now I breathe a little harder, think a little deeper, and smile through it all. I won't let it be my maker. Only I can be that.

Be strong. Work harder and work another way. Be resilient. Be a foundation for others to build upon. Be yourself. Fight damn it; fight through it until the wall is crumbling all around you. Then build anew. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.

"Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit." - Bernard Williams

Life of Semantics

University is a brilliant way to further one's education. That said, it is in intimate interactions that the true education occurs. That may necessarily include conversations with your professor or instructor, but depending on the forum, it may not. For me, it comes down to the front lines: Students.

We are the ones who stay up burning away the midnight oil and we are the ones who are your future. Can you handle that? Here is a small insight into the mind of a university student. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

Identifying a university student is not as simple as one might think. We are chameleon's at times, one day wearing ripped jeans and a wrinkled shirt, another day we may be perfectly styled in today's "acceptable" image, and at others we may be in business attire.

But, if we have anything in common, and in this thought I attribute only to the studious person, it is in the fact that we look hurried. Our eyes are absorbing everyday scenario's and applying classroom lectures to mainstream situations. We move with a crisp saunter, habitually check our celluar phones for calls to arrange group meetings, and are seemingly forever behind in our course work no matter how diligent we may be.

School. Work. Study. Books. Papers. Assignments. Analysis. Application. Social life. Booze. Parties. Sometimes sleep. And not necessarily always in that order.

To be honest, I love the life of a university student; I truly, truly love it. Creation of theories, application of ideas, and moral development of well-tested phenomena. It is in that gap between theory, definition, and explanation that magic occurs.

Learning, my friends, learning is what it all comes down to. Stretching intellectual thought past boundaries of impassable depth; destroy, create, and rebuild that ideology of old and surpass the new.

Marxism. Republic of Plato. Fundamental Questions of Philosophy. Virtue Ethics. Media influence on public opinion...and the list could continue on into the wee hours of the morning. Ironically, it is in the wee hours of the morning that students are awake and hurrying to meet deadline.

Which brings me to the topic of next week's posting: The Art of Procrastination.

But, for now, if you have the time and if you are not happy with your direction in life, then why not look into a higher education? Why not learn new ideas, why not learn new theories of the past, present, and future? You will never be bored, and yes, you may pull your hair out at times, but the opportunities to grow as a person are endless.

Go on. Take a walk to your local University and pick up an academic calendar. See the wide array of choices and see that maybe, just maybe, you find your eyes widening at what life has to offer.

Learn Spanish, learn French, learn German. Taste the exquisite beauty of coming to terms with time constraints and seeing you can do whatever the hell it is you want to do. See that we all have a limitless capacity for knowledge and that one step in the right direction can be a simple step in bridging the gap between knowledge and wisdom.

And we all know that wisdom is the ability to see knowledge as experiences that open up in an entirely new light. Go ahead. Take the plunge. You might just find you are falling into some of the best years of your life. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.

"The principle goal of education in the schools should be creating men and women who are capable of doing new things, not simply repeating what other generations have done; men and women who are creative, inventive and discoverers, who can be critical and verify, and not accept everything they are offered." - Jean Piaget

Thought Process

Maybe I could do it.

Maybe I could try.

Maybe I could stop saying maybe.

Maybe I could do that.

Creation begins with the simplest of steps. A creative thought becomes a creative idea, and a creative idea becomes a creative plan. It is the transition from that last stage to the application of action that fear resides. Fear of failure, fear of looking the fool, and fear of being stranded on a wayward limb of a random branch on the tree of life. Maybe I can try and see what happens, maybe I can take a chance, and maybe I can do it.

If you take away all those may be's you will find that you are left with I can try and see what happens, I can take a chance, and I can do it.

It is as simple as that.

You see, it was only years ago that I saw a future looming in the distance, and that it was actually more tangible than I thought. From a single thought came an attainable goal, and from a single idea came a plan to make my passion a reality. A book. I could do that. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

Life. It surrounds us in our waking days and in it influences us in our sleeping hours. What we do with this life is entirely up to us and us only. If you want to see the world, then take that thought and make it a goal to live for. If you want to be a teacher, then take that idea and study, study, and study some more until you are the one writing the study manuals. If you want to be a snowboard bum, then act on that desire, and become the best snowboard bum known to man or woman.

Ambition. Restraints are unnecessary in striving to touch your dreams. Barriers are easily removed and reconstructed until they are sturdy walls of confidence and strength. It is the will to live that drives us but it is the will to become something great that need urge you on. Do what you want with life, but in the end, it is doing what you will with it that makes it glorious. No longer shall you sit by as the river of opportunity rushes by and leaves you sitting by the fall line pondering if you should or should not.

You will never know the temperature of the water unless you stick your toe in.

Create. I read, write, and edit, read, write, and edit, and then read, write, and edit some more. Time builds up and time disappears, but still I sit and read, write, and edit some more. We all have a job to do, but if you love what you do then it is not considered work. For me personally, it is what I have always done, and what I will always do. To create, to express, and to one day leave a legacy for those brave enough to follow. For the ones who paved the way and for the ones who will prepare the groundwork. If creativity is the key then just show me the lock.

Plan. Even though I am the writer of my own script, it is still exciting to see what will happen. It is an anticipation of an event I knew would one day arrive. It looms in the distance, lingers around the edges of reality, waiting; just waiting. Can you feel the excitement in the air? Can you taste the success of following a dream and then one day seeing it is now real? This is life, my friends, this is why it is special.

Adversity. There is no need to watch life pass by while you are standing in the pouring rain waiting for a bus that will never come. There is no time like the present to relinquish the past, and there is no need to fear the unknown. It is in our acceptance of courage that we face our demons and see they are merely apparitions. It is in our ability to continue moving forward that we see the light of day and forget we were ever terrified of the dark.

Progress. Go on, do it, I triple-dog-double-dare-you. Be a shining star for others to hang the moon upon. Be an inspiration for your own life. Yes, I know, we must learn to crawl before we walk, but who is to say we cannot run as soon as our feet touch the ground. One step forward is one step closer to home. Forward progression is the only link to survival. Be the reason for survival; be the reason for progression.

Think. Think big. Think bigger. Think it is possible. And then one day, that thought becomes an idea, that idea becomes a plan, and that plan becomes a call to action. Listen to the words of logical advice, heed the wisdom of personal stories, and understand we all have everything needed to succeed. Know that it is in you. Know that it waits for you. But do it now while you still have the time. Do it now while you still breathe. Recognize the fear, profess the courage, and walk to where your steps fall. One foot in front of the other. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.

"And did you lose yourself somewhere out there? Did you get to be a star? Don't it make you sad to know that life is more than who we are?" - Goo Goo Dolls in our hands, my friends, it is

Last Days of Summer

It has passed by like the lingering scent of roses growing by the roadside; one minute, a light fragrance of Nature on a breeze, and then the next minute, gone in the finality of a season. There were many ups and downs on my road over this past summer, days spent hunched over many details, small and large; nights spent sitting in front of my computer tap tap tapping away.

And now, here I am, once again back in school, and in the last fruitful days of a late summer. The sun is setting outside and I am in full swing of another year in University, but yet so far behind I am already scrambling to catch up.

So many memories from the past five months, too many to catalogue here and now, but as always, I will give it the old collegiate effort, and at least pull one from my bag of imagery. One defining moment from a season full of them, and I can only hope you live yours as I live mine. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

There was a light mist in the air, gathering on the element of wind, and swirling all around my existence. I was on a remote island just outside the inlet of St. Paul's, on the western coast of the Island of Newfoundland, and my group and I were in the final stages of an artic tern survey. We had spent the last number of hours traipsing amuck patches of sand and rock, counting tiny eggs to check population cycles of the bird with the longest migratory route of any known creature in the free world. It had been an amazing day and it would only prove to get better.

There we were, a group of park wardens, biologists, and a writer, walking across a narrow stretch of soggy land, reciting numbers of bird eggs and hatchling creations of God. Above our heads flew hundreds of ringwells, also commonly known as seagulls, screaming at us in anger and indignation for ruining their fun and their mealtime. They are on the lower spectrum of the food chain, and scrounge for whatever will fill their bellies, and this time they were after the artic tern.

I was garbed from head to toe in rain gear, from the waterproof hiking boots on my feet to the waterproof hood pulled snugly over my head, and yet my senses were still alive with the anarchy of my environment. Birds were flying helter skelter all about me, swooping through the air and diving into the ocean to rest before taking flight once again. Yet, for some odd reason, my group was cool, calm, and collected, and focused on our assignment with calculating precision.

That, in a nutshell, my friends, was my summer. At times during the last five months, I was surrounded by distractions of destruction and pain, sunshine and rain, and fleeting episodes of a random collection of stolen moments. I would go on surveys of the abstract kind, of counting birds here, there, and everywhere, or going on exotic adventures to magical places I have never seen before. But throughout it all, I stayed true to my course, dropped seconds and minutes until they were days spent behind a keyboard and mouse, tap tap tapping away until my goal was complete.

In the midst of chaos, I was my own personal guide of safe passage into the eye of the storm; returning from the calamity of personal history, more alive and confident then when I first entered the maelstrom. The product of this journey is now waiting patiently as I edit, edit, and edit some more. But, for the most part, the second draft of my book is complete; I have no more chapters to write, and only a couple more to revise.

I am almost home. And to think that to get there, I first had to make it back to the soil I was born on. That I had to travel all the way home to truly start my journey from the beginning.

Clarity waits for us all, my friends, it waits for us all to sort through the clutter and rubbish of negative thoughts; it waits for us to deconstruct our questions until they become answers, and it waits for us to see the truth in it all. If you are working hard and the answers seem to only be farther away, then breathe deep, step back and away, and come at it from another angle. Don't give in to the naysayers who rant and rave that it cannot be done, don't give in to your fear and let doubt be the overlord of your domain, and for the love of all that is sacred and just, don't give up on your dreams.

The road may look worn, tarnished, and dull from afar, but apply a little elbow grease and some hard work, and suddenly you may realize that it is actually paved in gold. Work a little harder, work another way, but keep working on that internal drive that says I can become more, I will become more, and then, one day not so far in the future, you will see that you are more. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.

"You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star." - Nietzsche

Comfort Levels

Physical adj. Of or relating to the body as distinguished from the mind or spirit

Spiritual adj. Of, concerned with, or affecting the soul

In this life there are many levels of comfort. We have levels of friendship in regards to close knit crews as opposed to acquaintances. We have varying degrees of tolerance before we react, we have limits of privacy versus intimacy...and the list could continue on for centuries.

The most essential, for me anyway, is that of physical comfort and spiritual comfort, and how they relate in so many ways. Physical is sometimes mental, for example, how lack of money in my life upsets me to the point of laying awake at night...fretting over details outside of my control. That negative effect on comfort levels sometimes leave me gasping for room to breathe.

But, spiritual comfort is my balance. The introspection of self, faith in gift, belief in vision, and the search for my soul...and, once again, the list could continue on for centuries. Hold on for some deepness of thought. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

Money has always been the bane of my existence. I am the youngest of four boys raised by a single Mother in a low-income, subsidized community of row houses; in essence a ghetto. I walked amongst that old haunt during my recent visit to St. John's and saw how it is now dilapidated, worn, and devoid of warmth. I knew not the faces anymore, except a random few still living in the dredges, and the weight of despair thickened the humid summer air.

The status of poverty can become a burden for people, a routine that they are unable to break, and in effect, an open fissure of chaos designed for failure. I am lucky, indeed, truly blessed, to come from a woman strong enough to rise above the ascription of her birth. My Mother instilled in me a sense of soul, to look past the personal limitations of a young boy, and taught me the value of belief in strength. With that lesson learned at an early age, I am now able to walk with my head held high as an adult, and therefore see that chasm on the road ahead.

And with one deft movement of step, I easily walk around it. Money is not the end all be all for me...personal comfort is.

Personal comfort means being comfortable in my own skin, patiently comfortable in keeping my goal in sight; comfortable in fulfilling self-prophecy. I will make something of myself, you will know that when it happens, and please, for the love of all that is sacred and good, please hold me to those words. I walk hand-in-hand with fate and each step brings me closer and closer to the true beginning moments of my life. My passion is the flint, my obsession the spark, and my destiny the fire that keeps me warm.

I am writing a book...a fictional memoir where the only fictional aspect is that all the character's names have been changed. I set a personal goal of finishing it this summer and in the last eight months wrote over thirty chapters; twenty in the last three months alone. As summer draws to a slow close, my goal becomes tangible and now only three more remain.

Accomplishing that objective involves so many variables of nights in solitude, pressing friends to read chapters for feedback, promoting the fact that I am writing a book in the first place, and ignoring the fact I am an impoverished student. Ignoring ideas of finance and principal; capital and debt needed to start an aspiring publishing career. These thoughts play with my physical comfort and I toss and turn; then toss and turn some more. Sometimes it is almost impossible to close my eyes and attempt to shut down my mind during those empty hours of darkness.

But, there are the nights when I lay awake and listen to the quiet tapping of rain falling softly against my window. It is in those moments that I am held in the arms of spirit and it is the only comfort I will ever need. I know everything will be okay, and in time, everything will work out. I only need see what is written in the stars for one is written for us all.

So, when you feel tightness in your chest because you want more than your bank account can supply, or if what you want costs more than what you have, realize it is only one scale working to balance the other. It is only a reaction, nothing more, nothing less, only a reaction of your spirit calming your physical with a light hush and whisper. Listen to what it is saying, take comfort in words of solace, and know that you are being lead in the right direction.

The rest will only follow. Head up, shoulders straight...now march. Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." - Psalms (ch. xxiii, v. 4)

What If?

"What the...Oh my God! Oh My God!"

It was as if the voices in the back of the truck were coming from another place. My mind was unable to conceive the reality of what was happening. I was strangely calm, was reminded of the hard rain pounding with a frenzy on the windshield, of the wipers moving in slow motion across the window, and that up ahead was certain death.

In the opposite lane was a large-size passenger bus, coming up along the bend in the highway. Steaming around it, heading our way while driving in our lane, was a transport truck only metres away from colliding head-on into our vehicle. My hands were still, my mind was working over possible escape routes, and I did not even think of panicking and driving off into the neighbouring ditch. Instead, I slowly applied my brakes so as not to hydroplane in the wet road, slightly tugged the wheel in the opposite direction, and breathed a sigh of relief as the big wheeler screamed by us, its heavy load of lumber sitting snuggly behind on its track.

What if things had been different? What if the bus driver had jerked in fear and cut off any escape route? What if the transport truck wheels slipped in the slick conditions, flipped over and crashed straight into us? What if I had lost control and our truck jumped the ditch and rolled end over end...what if? What if my life ended today? Gone in the intake of breath and never again to be returned to my body?

I went for a walk tonight, so many hours after that near death incident today, and thought about occurences in our lives. How they may change in the blink of an eye, of how roads become altered through fear or indecision, and how our future is so fragile yet so strong in the same breath. I can only hope you see what I see. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

The sun was setting in the late evening night, splintering through a layer of clouds, and forcibly sending rays of light over the Atlantic Ocean. The light travelled across the water, and the water calmly and gently lapped at my toes as I stood on the sandy shore. What if I had not left Newfoundland as a young boy in the midst of growing? Would my life have been the same? Would I have still gone to school, or for that matter, would I have ever left the Island of Newfoundland?

What if I had never had a dream about a girl that would send me on a wild goose chase through different countries, along both the western and eastern coast of Canada, and years in the mountains? What if instead, my life was boring and dull, without the pain of loss, and the trials and tribulations of taking chances to only watch as they become failures? Would I be happy with a life of ordinary measures? Would I have settled for someone just so I did not have to spend my life alone? What if I believed that regret could fix the wrongs in my life and make it all new again?

What if we never took a chance on our dreams? What if we believed all the naysayers who tell us that dreams are for fools, that they only consist of heartache and rough roads? What if you let all your misery build upon your shoulders and never allowed yourself the right to control your own life?

What if?

But, what if you reached deep inside and found a well of hope? That this well of hope gave strength you never knew existed, and that this new strength gave you reason to want the rough roads? What if you now saw a new day rising on the wind, and that this new day was yours to run with...to run screaming and laughing into the future, scissors in one hand, and desire in the other? What if you knew all this and more was at your fingertips and all you need to do is reach out and softly brush your palm against your dreams? What if, suddenly, they became tangible and oh so real?

Would you be afraid? Would you feel the fear and yet still carry forth? Would you freeze up and run back the way you came? Or would you smile and give thanks? Would you see the possibilty in fighting for the right of your life, and make your dreams a reality in your waking days? Would you push a little harder when days seem heavy, would you smile a little easier when a smile is hard to come by, and would you run when walking is just too damn slow?

It awaits us all, people, it awaits us all. Right in front of your eyes, even if you cannot see it just quite yet, is an outstretched palm. Inside is hope, inside is strength, and inside is everything you have ever wanted and more. In the end, it comes down to how much you truly want it...it comes down to how much you truly want to live. Grab it, people, grab it and find yourself one day walking in foreign lands, holding your soulmate close in your arms, or playing a musical symphony for all the world to hear...feel love in your heart and wisdom in your soul.

What if indeed. Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things that we did not do that is inconsolable."
- Sydney J. Harris

The Passing of Days

Summer is blowing by me with a light breeze. The mornings come too early, the nights fall too fast, and the months drop off week by week, and day by day. In little less than eight sleeps I will say hello to the oldest city in North America, my birthplace, and a legend that I have not seen in over twelve years.

In less than thirty days, I leave the Island of Newfoundland behind, and head back to Halifax, friends, and with my finished manuscript in hand. I sit and think of all the memories created this summer, of all the adventures I have had, and the glorious stories I have yet to tell. Yet, there are so many images flashing through my mind, and it is not possible to place them all in print...the wonders of the eye for a world to see.

But, I will give it a go as they say. Imagine if you will, finding yourself under an onslaught of memories and delights that you pick and pull from the air. Then asking if you may please have some more. The following is a small glimpse into what a summer in Gros Morne holds for the lucky few that venture out to the Island of Newfoundland. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

I watched as waves evaporated over a pebbled beach, listened as they faded back into the ocean, a foamy wake clattering over wet rocks. Time has plainly left its presence here as layers of white and silver streak through solid stones; trees bent backwards by the force of strong winds, yet they grow so proud and oh they are so resilient. My Island.

Rains fall and the fog sweeps in like a fisherman throwing his net out into the calm sea; the sun rising high in the sky, splintering rays of light and serendipity for all to see. Grass so soft that it begs to be felt by bare of foot; waters so deep with whispers of old wrecks and lost ghosts that sleep underneath. My Island.

Cliffs of wonder and crags of awe, a dory softly slapping against a wooden wharf, while a sun sets over a cove and a lighthouse grants entry for the weary soul. A safe passage into a land of strength and might, permission to come for a day but allowance to rest for many a night. My Island.

The moon it rises, the sun it sets, and outside the world continues its hurried pace; lost amongst the trials of war and control, a tiny island stands alone in the calamity of the sea. It is not forgotten and I pray it never will be. Rocky shores turn to mountains of wisdom, while a mist gathers off the salt water draft, and the birds buffet on a current like sails on the wind. My Island.

The days draw short and the nights grow dim. I stand on a perch and watch ships sail in. Inside I can hear the audible click of a tick and a tock, as time tells me there is still some left but yet it is passing oh so quickly. My Island.

Soon, not so far away, I will be walking on streets that need no name, just memories of a different age and a different way. I long to see my home, I long to see old faces, and I long to see narrows coves and wooden benches. My blood it tingles, my heart it races, and my mind it asks for patience...not so long now, young one, and not so far to go. My Island.

I know it is not long before I will say goodbye to it again. And so I breathe in and I breathe out. I take my memories and truss them into my bag of stories and know one day they will be out to play again.

Walk barefoot in the grass, taste the wind on your tongue, and travel to the lands where you are known and where you are from. Climb higher and higher still, catch the uncatchable dream, and may your days be only a reminder that the best is yet to come. Follow your path. Build your road. Let your soul run free. Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"You know I'm a dreamer but my heart's of gold; I had to run away high so I wouldn't come home low." - Vince Neil of Motley Crue

Love of the Game

Whap. Whap. Whap.

If you control it the right way, a basketball can do so many things under your hands. You can spin it away from you, you can cup it just slightly enough on your dribble to confuse a defender, and if you have the patience, it can become a lifetime of enjoyment.

Whap. Whap. Whap.

For me, basketball has always been a love; love to play, love the challenge, and love of the sport. I find the sound of the ball hypnotic as it bounces hurriedly on a hardwood floor, or its solid constant thump on a concrete court, or even a hardpacked dirt driveway...just give me the ball and I will take care of the rest. The following is what the game of basketball means to me over the years of my life. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish.

As sweat dribbled into my eyes yesterday, I stood out on the dirt road, flipping a ball to myself, then catching and shooting...catching and shooting. I thought of all the different places I have played basketball over the years, of the person I have come to be, of the changes I have seen in myself, yet how my love of the game has always stayed true. For so many years, it was my only release other than writing, and at other times, a basketball was my only companion.

I have incurred many injuries from the game, countless twisted ankles, ruptured my kneecap during an outdoor pickup game, and even a fat lip from an errant elbow thrown by ex-professional Canadian Football player, Tracy Ham. I have played until there was no one left to play with and then I have stayed around to shoot on my own. I have played when no one else wanted to play, when the court was empty and devoid of life, flipping the ball to myself then catching and shooting...catching and shooting.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish.

I have played basketball all over Canada and even parts of the States: In the Rockies, both North and South, in the coastal mountains of Whistler, the farthest western regions of Vancouver Island, Halifax on the East Coast, and in a national park on the Island of Newfoundland. Flipping a ball to myself then catching and shooting...catching and shooting.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish.

There are so many things I love about the game. The no-look-pass that sets up a teammate for a rim-rattling dunk, the-length-of-the-court-mad-dash to lay the ball softly in the net, and the defensive steal that leads to a fastbreak and score on the other end. The aggressive play under the hoop, arms-all- entangled, battles of strength and brawn, and the resounding slap of my hand on the balls surface after winning the hard-won rebound. All these and more.

But, what I love most about the game comes from childhood memories that I have taken into my latter years. Times when I had no one but myself to share company, times when I knew not a soul, and times when there was only a hoop and a ball. It is during those times when my love for the sport shines. There is no one around to see me score, to hit seven or eight consecutive shots, or to see the smile on my sweat-drenched face.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish.

And nor do I care if they do. I only care for the flip of a ball that bounces back to my hands, the caress of leather as it spins in my palms, the quick juke to free up space from an imaginary defender, and the step back to jump and release the ball from over my head. Watch it float through the air to snap the mesh from the bottom up, and the sureness that I only need to grab the ball again to play some more. Just flipping the ball to myself then catching and shooting...catching and shooting.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish.

Behind me, the sun sets over an ocean inlet, a lighthouse from the turn of the century lights the way for wayward sailing vessels, and a young boy from Newfoundland does what he has done for as long as he can remember. He flips the ball to himself then catches and shoots...catches and shoots. In his mind the clock ticks away, the score is tied, and the ball is headed his way. He catches the pass, shakes his defender with a quick movement, then steps back, and lets loose from about fifteen feet out. The crowd is screaming in his ears, his heart is pounding like a jackhammer in his chest, and his chance at immortality is floating through the air on the way to certain victory.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Clang.

Damn...missed. Oh well, I guess I will just have to keep shooting until I hit.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish. Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"Even when I'm old and gray, I won't be able to play it, but I'll still love the game."

- Michael Jordan

Time to Spare

Clock ticking,
Seconds burning.
Mind clicking,
Soul yearning.

Beautiful sights,
Ocean Walks.
Gorgeous nights,
Empty talks.

Days of old,
Times of new.
Wet and cold,
Summer and dew.

Winds of change,
Clouds and rain.
Mountains that range,
Devoid of pain.

Slip away,
Another day.
Trees that sway,
Smile you may.

Somewhere Between North and South

Picture this if you would: to my right, mountains as old the Earth itself, capped with snowy remains from what was a long, arduous winter, and stretching out as far as the eye can see. To my left, the Atlantic Ocean, and its white-capped waves lapping against a sandy, rocky beach. I would tear my eyes from one scenic glory to only gaze in wonder upon the other.

And somewhere in between I would remember to focus on the sometimes windy highway.
Driving along the west coast on the Island of Newfoundland, on a day's journey in Gros Morne National Park, I watched seagulls float on ocean wind currents, and thought about life. How surreal it can be, how it forces me to pay attention, and what I take from it. These are some of the sights I saw during a trip between northern and southern Newfoundland...remember, this is all in one day. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Gros Morne, the mountain before time, stood off to my peripheral, its top shrouded in cloud, and below it, a layered forest of dark green, dusty white, light yellow, and pale orange trees begged my eye to notice. To my right, the road faded into a cliff, and hundreds of feet below that, a sea inlet rose and fell between fjords of majestic ranges.
I blinked, and suddenly was deep into the interior of Canada's National Park. Towering crags gave way to large ponds, large ponds gave way to smaller ponds, and even a bull moose stood proud on the side of the road.
And I laughed. And I gave thanks for what is afforded to me.
I followed the road as it curved up and over a high rising bluff, and underneath a town nestled into a bank of trees and an ocean floor exposed in a low tide. Green hills filled my rearview mirror, and blue waters marked the passge of time.
Then, the rocky, shamble of a road, led through mountains of orange soil, and to the right a garden of rocks that, once upon a time, was the ocean floor so many eons ago. I drove into the town that time forgot, dropped off my message, and made my way out the same way I came in.
A rolling hill bottomed out to a view of flowing water passing through a channel of shaved rock, sandy stone, and a melange of coloured trees.
Oh God what a beautiful place my Island is, people, it truly is a sight to behold.
Life is short. Did you know that? Did you know that every passing second is an opportunity to stretch past trivial worries and momentary fears about the future? We, as the ruling race on this planet, need to see that we are not the supreme beings here. We need to see that we are all just a small, tiny piece of a much larger puzzle. This world was around so much longer than us...and unless we realize that, it might not last much longer.
You must grab life, you must accept it as the offering of hope and faith that it is meant to be. Understand the value of the air you breathe, feel it enter and leave your lungs, and maybe, someday, you will see the beauty like I did today...and then maybe you might just hold that breath in just a little bit longer.

Absorb life my friends, absorb it until it becomes what you want it to be. Make the choice to be happy, make the choice to be free, but please, make the choice to live this life the best way you could ever imagine...I mean, what if you knew this life was the only one you had? Would you do anything different? Would you wake the same way every morning knowing that time is slipping away like summer pollen on the rising wind?

Or would you realize that we have as much time as we need, it is only asked that we make the best of it in how it is used...so use it wisely and be free; be strong in the face of your struggles. Remember, they too will soon pass. Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"The tragedy of life is not that it ends so soon, but that we wait so long to begin it."
- W. M. Lewis

A Time of Reflection

It is just sitting there...waiting for me to sit down and type. The screen is ready for my words, the drive is ready to save my memories, but why do I seem unready to do any of that? Oh yeah, I am writing about her, and a time of when I was madly in love, of a time when everything made perfect perfect sense, even if the whole world seemed facked.

Is that what it is? Is that the reason why it has been hard to write? I know there are only so many chapters left to finish, only so many more years to write after I have written so many in the last years...yet this last part is what drains me more than any other. It is the act of going back in time and saying hello, to only say goodbye again.

So, I need to put it out there. I need to get it off my chest so I can continue on, and finish what needs to be finished. Bear with me, people, bear with me. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

To all the women I know, I say I am sorry. To all the women I have wronged some how, some way, some time or another, whether it be friend or lover, no matter I just need to move on. I need to know that it is okay to say that I am worth your tears, that I am worth your thoughts, and that in the end, I always knew I was worth your time.

But now? Here in this present day and time? I am making my own plans for my own goddamn life...I am heading to that setting sun on the horizon to make my own future as bright as that which I travel towards. If she is out there, and I hope to God she is, then I can only hope and pray you are headed in the same direction.

I can only hope you recognize my soul when you walk into my life.

Until then, no mas, just no mas. This man has had it up to the scar between his eyes in lost nights wondering about lost words. I have had enough sadness to last a lifetime for every single one of your trivial reasons as to why it had to end. I respect your decisions, one and all, but no longer will I listen because no longer will I be around to hear them. So, for now, let me pull you all close, let me whisper the things I was never allowed to say, and let me tell you I will never forget...while I say goodbye.

For every plan I made, for every time I lost myself in the softness of skin, the lovely smell of pefume on a hot summer's eve, for every time I gave into the tender taste of lips on mine...for every day that falls behind me, I have decided to take the time to only look forward. After all this is said and done, I have decided I need a break from the lust and want for love, that I need a break from all the silly fairy tales and forever love.

Even when I do not want to let the fairy tale go. But, for my own piece of mind I know I must.

It weighs on me like the anvil weighed on the coyote, like the cat felt chasing after the tweety bird, and it follows me like the moon follows the sun. I need to cast away from it, to set my mind straight and prepare for the glorious life I know is not far off. I need to prepare, mentally, physically, and wholly, for travels on soft sands, for new continents, and for new memories in faraway places.

And, now, I need to write. I feel slightly better, but how can one truly feel better when he knows he has more worth than he is shown? That he is being passed by when all he offers is the world in satori? As always, screw it...I will be my own damn saviour. When I give myself again, it will be for the one who appreciates true spirit, true grit, and who also searches for a true soul. I did not come back from the dead to let life wear me down. Not when, in the end of it all, it is life that shows me the way to true happiness.

Not that far away now, people, and I will be done. Not that far away now, and my story will be out for all to see and read, and I hope to God it shows you a sense of hope and realization that we only have this one life. It is too short to lose ourselves in trivial hurts and misrepresentations of who we think others are. In the end, be yourself, and the rest will follow.

Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"Well, I've dropped out, I've burned out, I've fought my way back from the dead...I've tuned in, turned on, remembered the thing that you said. And I'll be your crying shoulder, I'll be your love suicide, I'll be better when I am older...I'll be the greatest fan of your life." - Edwin McCain

Sharing the Circle of Life

Maritime adj. Of, relating to, or adjacent to the sea

Archaic adj. Ancient time period

Racing out to the car, I could feel my heart pounding in anticpation of what was happening...and more so, where it was happening. I was in Port au Choix, a Parks Canada National Historic Site, and there to cover a meeting between children of two local communities on the Island of Newfoundland. I was about to come face to face with the history of my homeland, and see some small examples of cultures from the past 5,000 years.

The amazing thing is that although I was there to write about the experience for the children, in the end their youthful energy brought peace to my heart. This is the story of today's generation embracing yesterday's past. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Port au Choix is a modern day example of changing climate, changing people, and the sense that community is alive and well. It has a long history of change and consistency over the last five millennia, and each occupation of it has lasted for centuries. The Groswater Palaeoeskimos, The Dorest Palaeoeskimos, and Europeans, just to name a few, are all generations that adapted to harsh environments and flourished by living off the sea's resources.

Walking along the coast of Newfoundland, in one of its richest archaeological burial grounds in our Maritime Archaic Indian history, I was struck with the timelessness of the place. As we all gathered around a depression of worn grass and old rocks, the interpreter wove a story of how it was once a house, and how it had over 800 years of habitation in that one place.

Imagining it, as it must have once looked, I could picture smoke rising from the dwelling, could hear seals splashing in the nearby ocean, and could almost hear the laughter of children as they ran sledrunners made of bone over rich, black soil.

Not so many hours later, children of Aboriginal heritage, dressed in ceremonial clothing, beat on ceremonial hand-woven drums, and sang songs in an ancient language that told stories from our past. I watched as everyone present, young and old, joined hands to form a circle of dance and celebration. It all comes down to the teaching and education of our youth, people, for it is they who light the way for our future.

It was the sense of time and place I took with me on the way back home. For me, it was not only uncovering layers from our past, but learning about cultures that have withstood the trials and tribulations in the history of our Earth. The same winds that blew around me today were the same winds that buffeted birds in the sky for thousands of years. No, we may not be here for an eternity, but yes, we can leave our mark, and yes, we can show the young that there is a future to look forward to...that there is future to build and leave behind for their youth.

So, take the time to learn a little more, take the time to take a child in your arms and laugh with them, and take the time to teach them the path of truth. After all, in the end, we have nothing but time anyway. Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"What guides us is children's responses, their joy in learning to dance, to sing, to live together. It should be a guide for the whole world." - Yehudi Menuhin

Box in a Cage

I am alone out here. Not lonely per se, but I have not been able to place my soul on display, other than my writings that is. When that happens, and it does happen occasionally, I go for walks to ease myself into a state of just being. Usually when I take those ambles, my mind starts to race, and tonight would be a classic example of that.

It is in those times, that I liken my thoughts to a Hot Wheels race track. The kind where the little toy cars zoom down a plastic raceway, flying through loop-de-loops and propelled by the remote control in a child's hand. Sometimes, I get lucky and instead of the repetition of circles in my contemplation, I feel the wheels dislodge from its grooved roadway as a finger slips on a trigger. I fly through the air, end over end, spinning into a freefall, and it is there that my dreams overtake my waking minutes.

I am not sure about you, but to me, dreams are stages in life, tiny flashes of random moments that happen in random settings. It is like I am living a simple second in life, when I realize wow, I have seen that before, or wow, I have been here before. I think I see my waking days while I sleep, but stranger than that is the conclusion I came to while walking tonight as my mind raced.

I started to think about the potential we all have, the potential you have, and the potential I have. The following would be some of my conclusions. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

We are all given an opportunity of time, to learn the potential of a skill, a talent, or even better, a gift. We are given the chance to develop that potential so that it becomes more than just a hobby; more than just a love. You start to see personal potential when that love becomes a passion.

But it is after the passion that the obsession has been known to follow. It scares us so much that we step back, maybe even step away, and ponder our next step. I feel like I have been doing that in the last week, feeling like writing has been a chore, and when that happens...I get scared. But, I refuse to accept anything but the best from myself anymore, so those around me receive nothing but the same.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I am getting closer and closer to some of the remaining chapters in my book. I threw down some words the other night, and felt my soul exult in remembrance; felt it recognize what it has always wanted. Yet, as the words appeared in print, I relive another life, another time when I had to pick up and move on again. To be honest, it can be draining at times returning to days when I thought I was so close to love, so close to something...to only remember that it was not to be.

I guess what I am getting at is that, now in my present day, I am seeing how much I have grown as a person since those days, and becoming the person I was diligently building oh so many years ago. I see that I am tapping into that well of opportunity, that source of potential to make myself the best I know I can be.

It is truly amazing to see this, people, it is truly amazing. As I walked, the sun shone down so bright from its perch in a cloudless sky, the water was so calm and glowing in the silver light, and the mountains were a painting in the background. I raised my chin higher, and saw that although I may be in a box inside of a cage, at least now I can realize that. Soon, nothing will hold me back from being what I know I will be, and nothing will place borders around my soul.

So I face the fear, I pull my shoulders back, and I hold my head proud...and I walk. Forward progression is, and always will be, the only link to survival. Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"I've got another confession my friend...I'm no fool. I'm getting tired of starting again...somewhere new. Were you born to resist or be abused? I swore I'd never give in...I refuse." - Dave Grohl of Foo Fighters

Strength in Numbers

Newfoundland is a place reknowned the world over for its culture, sense of humour, and love of a good stiff drink...or maybe more than just one.

It is an island full of fable, myth, and legend. Everywhere you go, someone will offer up a story, a memory of a time when, or even just brighten your day with a hearty smile and laugh.

But, what do you know about our character? Our strength of mind, body, and soul? How we continuously thrive through the dead cold of winter, the dreary thaw of spring, and enjoy every second we have on our rock amongst the outside turmoil of the world...what have you heard about that? The following is an example of the strength of one man, his family, and how I came to see that community support is so vital to this rapidly depleting island I call home. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

It was the blood that caught my attention first; not the amount of it, and believe me there was a lot of that, but more so the way it was falling to the floor. It dropped in small rivlets of crimson red, and I watched as his hands desperately tried to keep the flow in his body. His eyes were so crystal blue in something akin to fear, but his voice was strong as he told me to drive him to the hospital...as his tongue licked over the missing gaps where his top and bottom front teeth used to be.

I drove as fast as the van could manage, the whole time making sure he was okay, watching out for other cars as I roared past them, and paying close attention to any moose that might venture onto the road. They are plentiful this time of season, and are extremely stupid animals with no hesitations of suicide versus feeding their bellies. I looked over at him holding a towel dripping in blood, and was amazed that he did not even so much utter a groan or a whimper.

I marvelled at his strength, wondering how he was keeping his composure, then paid close attention to the road, while ignoring the increasing speed of the van. Finally, I raced into the entrance of the hospital, slowed down for him to jump out, and then parked the vehicle. Another car pulled up with his partner inside, her face a mask of fear and worry that it had been one of her sons in the car with me...yet it did not change from concern when she found out it was her companion.

A few hours later, with the room full of relatives and friends, I donned a pair of rubber gloves, grabbed some hot cloths, and washed away the blood off his hands. I tried not to stare at the gauze covering his lower chin that was becoming darker and darker as the seconds passed, and silently gave thanks for small favours that he only lost some teeth and skin...and not his life. Turns out he had been using a table saw to cut some wood for some cupboards, when the wood caught and kicked back into his face.

I was the one who saw the aftermath not even ten seconds later. Thank God I was home when it all went down.

But, it was the people at his side that refused to let him go through it alone; the family and friends who made small jokes to make him laugh, and offered support in time of need. I watched them as a silent observer, an outsider looking in, yet still feeling like a part of the family. Everyone waited until the ambulance whisked him away to the closest dental surgeon, and I gave thanks that he would be okay.

The image still stays with me though...missing enamel, blood, and the surprise in his voice that it had actually happened to him. But, he never made a complaint, never cursed or swore, and only accepted that which can be unacceptable to most. My people, I tell you, we have the strongest skin imaginable, the most beautiful hearts I have ever seen, and we laugh in the face of struggle while looking to the sky for guidance.

I am home again, back in the land of the unforgotten, and back in the arms of God. Life only gets better from here on in, my friends. I guess you will have to wait until next time to hear the story of my hike up into no man's land, the mountain known as Gros Morne. How was I to know that both incidents would happen in the same day?

Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

Strong Winds of Spring

It all started yesterday with another glorious sunset. I grabbed my camera and snapped off some shots as it fell into the harbour. It was an image that I have collected in my mind's eyes, but had yet to capture it in real time. I smiled as it dropped from my sight, then climbed on the back of an ATV vehicle, and wound through an interwoven collection of trails complete with roots on the path. I was bounced around this way and that, loving the speed and the brisk Newfoundland wind in my face. The driver, a young sixteen year-old Newfoundland kid, born and being raised.

Feeling the temperature falling lower and lower, I remembered there was a toasty woodstove warming up at the house I was staying in. After clambering off the four-wheeler and walking the short distance back to the house, I decided to do some writing on my book.

And thus began the beginning of the night I was to lose six years of my life. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

I walked into my room, and placed my laptop on the small sidestand next to the bed. It seemed a mite rickety, but all in all, I figured it would hold. I booted up the power, and cleaned up the room until it was ready for me to write some more words.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the table shudder under the weight, and turned to watch as the laptop slipped off...and fell to the ground with a crash. My first thought as I watched it slide off was if my removable hard drive disk was tucked away in its box for safekeeping...or still in its port on the back panel.

With a small shock of dismay, I remembered it was indeed still plugged into the back of my now upturned portable computer just as it made contact with a sickening crunch. Then it sunk in that I had no other recent backups of what I have been writing for the last six years. I went over, picked it up, and observed the disk. It was bent at an obscene angle, but yet was still in place.

It was when I pulled it out that I saw the motherboard was pushed up out of its shell, and two hairline fractures ran down the side of its plastic casing.

Gone. 100, 000 words, 108 computer pages, 22 chapters, and six years of my blood sweat and tears. Six years of writing all gone. I racked my brain as I catalogued disks I may have saved a hard copy on, or maybe I could salvage what I had on hard drive at school. Either way, I knew I had at least lost the last 14 chapters I had written in the last six months alone.

I am in a place on the west coast of Newfoundland, and it is a hell of a distance away from any source of city or anywhere I could take to have it looked at. Instead of a really nice laptop, I figured I may now have a really expensive piece of useless plastic.

Gone.

I fell asleep around 3 in the morning, after spending most of the time before tossing and turning. Working things out in my head as to what I must do next, and when I would at least start to pick up the longhand version where I left off. Ironically enough, it was at the end of the most recent chapter I was working on. It was a start. More so, a little voice told me that I was not allowed to be upset or distraught...I could always start again.

Today, the woman I am boarding off of, recommended a friend of hers who knew about computers, and after work I went to see him; removable hard disk in one hand, and the laptop in the other. What was there to lose, right? The strange thing was that I was surprisingly calm because I see these accessories for what they are: possessions. I might have a long road ahead of me with all the backtracking and such, but in the end I still had my memory, and well, it is my life I am writing about so I think I remember how the story goes.

Then sat in amazment as he plugged in the disk into his laptop, and it brought up all the history I thought I had lost. And then we took out the battery, put it back in, and I watched as my laptop came to life. Turns out those little drives are tough little suckers, and it cushioned the impact of the fall and saved the day in the end. I am now saving to a rewritable CD and will make sure to make backup copies in triplicate.

The little disk that could. Just like the story it is holding in its palm. And back to the craft I go. Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"A good artist should be isolated. If he isn't isolated, something is wrong." - Orson Welles