Resolving Host

I try loading my WordPress site and the rainbow pin wheel spins while a message reads “Resolving host…”

These days, seems everything is in resolve, including my internet connection, which is my lifeline to the Archives. I am a writer first, and a blogger second, so in keeping with my resolve, I am typing here anyway, hoping that once the internet gods bestow me with a better signal, I can post these words for your reading. Until then, the letters are just for me at 5:42 am, as I sit at my desk which is now in a new location, in a house I’m still getting to know.

I watch my family reach for the familiar in this home that has none of our grooves yet inlaid. We seek simple routines, like which drawer houses the forks. We embrace new discoveries, like finding a vast collection of organic herbs and spices left behind.

The story goes that this house was built as a bird lover’s dream. There is literally a stained glass window at the front door from which a parrot shines. But after the birder left for a new island, the house hosted a lineage of others that used it more as an interim while their ‘real’ home was being built. After several couples had their temporary stays and left for more permanent dwellings, the house became a landing pad for island visitors, mostly a small cast of characters who visited regularly but stayed only a short time.

As we clear cupboards and closets, we wipe down the layers of about 30 years of history. I did discover two boxes of macaroni and cheese, the labels faded in color and looking to have been purchased sometime in the mid-eighties. Though one never knows the future, we’d like to settle here for a good long while. And it feels satisfying to wipe the slate clean before hunkering down.

Like every dream come true, there’s a full spectrum of reality. This morning, it’s a glitching internet signal that’s just not reaching our rural locale. Yesterday, it was a strange greenish-brown silt that had backlogged around the drain of the shower. Hmmm…

But the other end of that gamut gifted us with a cornucopia of citrus: grapefruits, tangerines, Tahitian limes, and oranges. Yesterday morning the Bohemian even sighted a whale breaching as he sat taking in the ocean view from the couch in our living room.

It’s all here. Like everywhere. The connect and disconnect. The light and the dark. The moldy shelf and the freshly cleaned windows. As an artist, I’m forever trying to encapsulate the scope and share it. The truth is, right now, I’m all out of my routine and scattered, unable to streamline anything.

This host is still resolving.

And with that, the roosters in the dark outside my window are crowing in the trees. It’s time to wake up Jeb and make our way to the bus stop. We’ll open a few drawers before we actually find the spatula. Start the day in new ways. Feel around for our groove. Remember gratitude in the chaos.

2014-02-10_parrot window

Fresh Perspective

It’s been one week of living in our new home. This is the ‘dream house’ I saw seven years ago, and have been holding as vision in my heart ever since. Though it’s still settling in as a true reality, yes, I am actually dwelling within these walls now.

Having been built about 30 years ago, there are layers of lives that have passed through the rooms of this house. We are slowly clearing cobwebs and cleaning cupboards, as we get to know the personality of this beautiful abode that has welcomed us to nest here.

Though some may argue that tasks like getting your kitchen in working order may rank  a higher priority, cleaning the windows seemed an even worthier starting point. Jeb and the Bohemian worked in tandem, washing both sides.

Gotta love a clear perspective…

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Hippie Angel

All I could do was notice.

Notice that birds sounded in the wet morning. See the waves rolling in mountainous sequence, soaking the shoreline where my toes were sinking in.

All I could do was watch myself, immersed in nature spectacular, yet round shouldered, hunched and worrying with a burdened mind. My story was a good one. The tale that stated the case for exactly why – this time, at least, oh yes, most definitely – I had every reason to be fretting. There were finances at stake, stability, livelihood. These were topics that had a right to overtake the morning.

Stress reasons well. I couldn’t argue its points. All I could do was observe that I was walking on a beautiful day and not a bird, nor a tree, or the breeze seemed to be a bit upset or preoccupied. And there I was – human that I am – moving one step in front of the other, in a paradise tainted by my own inner turmoil.

Not quite fully drowning in it (observation, my one and only lifeline), I held the proverbial rope of hope and made a request to the day: please help me remember.

My head stayed swamped with thought while my feet continued sifting through sand – that literal marker of time, so vast, though even its infinite grains could not penetrate my wrestling mind. I did notice a figure ahead, walking towards me and I glanced to my watch, continuing my pace. Work would start soon.

Backlit by morning sunlight, glowing golden, the lithe frame of a young man came closer into view as our paths neared crossing. He was probably about 21, his bare chest still boy-like and freshly pink from over-exposure to tropical sun. His hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and a hand-woven satchel was slung diagonally across his shoulders.

His face told all. The gentle smile spreading across it held no secrets (but for the greatest one that everyone forgets). I could plainly see that he remembered. His eyes were open windows, filled with awe and wonder and happiness. As we passed one another and exchanged “good mornings,” he did not look away. He gazed at me with serene endearment, a genuine openness. All-receptive, not just to me personally, but to all of it. To the moment.

Like a babe in an adult body, this hippie angel seemed to be experiencing the day as if for the first time, reverent and in wonder. Alive.

I continued walking in one direction as he walked the other, leaving a dusting of sweetness in his wake. His innocence and simplicity bathing me in remembrance. All I could do was notice. So touched, I felt like crying.

photo courtesy of Jewell Willett
photo courtesy of Jewell Willett