The Life and Times of the Plume

I began a new journal this morning.  I use a large book (about 8×11 inches) for writing and sketching.  Each time I use up the last page in my sketchbook journal it feels like a momentous occasion — like a huge goal has been actualized.  When I sit down to start a new book, I feel like the first page can set the tone for the next section of life I write about, for the designs I dream up in metal, for the hopes my soul brings to light as my pens and pencils drift across paper.

This morning, I lit a gritty wand of marvelous coconut incense* I found at a local shop, wedged the smoking twig in the deck railing and simply watched the smoke curl and twine as it burned down.  I looked out at my river valley and the snowy peaks beyond and felt tranquil.  Unhurried.  I found myself thinking, “I am supposed to be here, and so here I am.”  I felt so completely intact, whole, cognizant of where my body begins and ends, aware of the capacity I have to shine, intent, content, unhindered.  My palms felt full of light.  Some tightly closed door in me fell open and I felt fully dimensional — utterly vibrant in essence — I saw myself in that smoke, the way it unfurled freely from the glowing tip of the incense as a white, expanding ribbon of perfume, pushed and pulled by an inconstant breeze.  I saw myself there, waxing and waning, full and thin.  I liked what I saw.  The drift, the pull, the gravity of sinking and rising ribbons, the spooling and looping of a wisp.

I’m thankful to have finished this journal.  The contents of it are weighty, at times, but light and exploratory, at other times.  But the weighty content, I have felt, deep within.  In some ways, traveling with it and toting it around the world with me was a heaviness, a burden of sorts, I will feel lighter when I set it on the bookshelf in the studio and only refer to it when I need to see the thoughts and sketches of the past.  I closed that journal this morning and thought about how I can be guilty of trying to keep a dead thing alive when it really belongs in its grave, at rest, forever.  I’ve been carrying something, permitting myself to press (and access) a deep bruise over and over again.  I’ve been rejecting the healing that is offered to me every moment of every day, the healing that comes with laying down my hurt and letting it fade away in its grave.  I thought something was repeatedly hurting me, breaking me, harassing my soul…but the truth is, I was keeping a dead thing alive, instead of laying it down in its grave and saying goodbye.  We’re all doing something like this, every day, so I’m not beating myself up over it.  To hang onto our hurt is such a human act.  In fact, I’m so thankful that I realized what I am guilty of this morning when I shut another bound edition of my life.  I cried a bit, from the realization, from the relief of suddenly seeing and comprehending my mistake, from the hope of seeing so many perfectly white pages opening up before me.  I suddenly understood and the billows washed over me.  Deep cried out to deep.

We can be so busy living in front of ourselves or behind ourselves, but never really in ourselves.  We have to look up, look around and realize that we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be, and so here we are, body mind and soul, in the land of the living.  We can let the dead sleep with the dead.  We can lay those things down and allow them forever rest.

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I’ve been meaning to write about all the books I’ve been reading and some of the music I’ve heard but I’m going to save it for tomorrow.  I hate to exhaust or overwhelm you!  Go forth today and be courageous in all you do.  Be brave.  I believe in you.

xx

*I was never fond of incense until I was on a climbing trip in Squamish, hiking through an old growth forest with my climbing partner and girlfriend, and I caught a random whiff of scattered Nag Champa smoke.  The scent was so musky and elusive.  The forest was so green and silent.  My friend and I ran through the forest, following the smell, until we found where someone had lit a rod of incense and placed it in a mossy tree stump.  It was gorgeous treasure.  I felt like I had bodily passed through a dryad, like a ghost walks through a wall.  It was a beautiful moment and I’ve loved to burn incense outside ever since that day.  I don’t like to be surrounded by the thickness of incense smoke in a closed space, but I like to catch a tiny flicker of it on the breeze from time to time, while I garden or write — it feels like delicately holding the frayed edges of a wise secret between pointer finger and thumb.