To rest is to give up on worrying and fretting and the sense that there is something wrong with the world unless we put it right; to rest is to fall back, literally or figuratively
from outer targets, not even to a sense of inner accomplishment or an imagined state
of attained stillness, but to a a different kind of meeting place,
a living, breathing state of natural exchange. . .
~ David Whyte
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Much of Florida floats on water. Ground water inches from the surface. The land pocked with ponds they call lakes. Bayous and coves fingering from the oceans and rivers. Artificial waterways constructed for our use. Acres of swamps. In summer water falls daily from the sky. Inland it used to be a shower that dropped in like a polite visitor, moving on after a decently short time. Along the coast and the peninsula I’m on, it’s thunderstorms and rains every afternoon that drop buckets, cause the groundwater to swell, overtake roads and yards. Allow a manatee to cross streets and thru yards to munch on cultivated shrubbery. This week it’s all about water, and seems to reflect my insides.
One morning as I pumped gas, I noticed a drop in humidity, how good the breeze felt. A sea breeze. Noted with appreciation it wasn’t unpleasantly hot as usual. I watched a crow hop big-leafed floppy limb to big-leafed floppy limb across five waving above the roof of the gas-mart, dropped my gaze to the palms down the road. Thought how if this was your place on the planet, I could see how you’d love it, especially with that sky.
But I hadn’t kept up with the weather. Didn’t register how that beautiful moment portended days of tropical rain. The next day the sky lit up frosted white bright. Not a drop of color. Thunderclouds rose up, gray-tinged white, not gray. Nearly the same value as the sky. A completely white on white landscape overhead I found beautiful. And freaky. Because it was different from the humid white skies of the mid-Atlantic I know. Was not the color of storms. A friend joked it was an apocalyptic sign. Stripped of color as it was, I could see that. What I didn’t see was anger I’ve not expressed.
I’m one who goes to self-responsibility, understanding, frustration, love. I note anger when it rises, and feel my way thru, transform it to something constructive. My lapses are spikes that quickly settle to something calmer to hold. But the anger with family from two weeks ago has no way to channel. A Fuck You rose up inside me, even for the ones I love most in all the world that I always forgive. And I said it aloud to the empty rooms. Fuck you _______. Every time it rose. Like a storm battling the love I feel. The anger pooled like a rain from a stalled tropical depression. My love turned white in the moment. Like the freaky white sky. Still beautiful. And I hoped this rain nourished the ground for something new to grow.
Sunday I was talking with a good friend in Santa Fe. The story, again, how even tho I see the many positive things for my relationship and both of us as individuals, I feel battered from this time in Florida. I kept thinking it wouldn’t get any lower, I said. And then it struck me hard, bright lights on a movie set hard, it’s not getting lower. Since December, the trajectory’s up. Starting with this home, everything I wanted, saw as essential for my productivity in the time I remain here. Clean and upgraded with quality, walls painted with color, kitchen I love, abundant natural light and a sense of space, responsive landlord I trust. And I hired a coach who didn’t help me to what we contracted for, but brought me to clarity and confidence so I’m making offers to help others from a place where I excel. From my zone of genius. And my circle of connections with authors is expanding. And I found the best person ever to record my work. Who also gave me so much beyond the work – conversations and sharing, something to look forward to, settling into challenge and process I love. My sights shifted as if I’d struck Eureka gold talking to her.
I take my dawn walks inside the ring of townhomes in my complex now. A buffer to traffic roar 2 blocks one way and 3 another. Monday I was relieved to discover a break in the steady rain when I woke. The breeze feeling good in the thick air as I walked. I ventured beyond the complex. The little voice said take the shortcut coming back, thru the gate that’ll put me right across from your townhome. But I said no, I may catch a pretty sky over the small lake. Halfway down the block, the rain started. Insistent, this side of heavy. I shaved steps by backtracking to the shortcut. But still arrived drenched. And here’s the kicker, not ’til I got in the shower did I realize how refreshed that rain left my skin. So different from the brutally hard water coming thru my shower head, even with a double filter. In this minute, I call it baptism.
That afternoon I drove to a small villagey-town at the bottom of the peninsula, met a new author referred to me. She’s written a book. I love that she approached the work the way I’d advise. Let it evolve, be what it is, didn’t push her original intent on the work. That she wants to learn craft, make her book better. That she’s smart. Intuitive tho she doesn’t claim it. I found myself wanting to read what she wrote, but I declined her giving it to me. When she asked if I’d edit it, pointed out when I hesitated that I said I edit, I conceded I’d think about it once she made it the best she’s able. But my mind questioned how I’d fit this into so much already planned, and do her right. I feel overwhelmed, can only do the next right thing most days. Some days feel the strain of the gamble in uplevelng. That deadlines are pushing me, instead of me moving steadily, in flow, toward goals. Question myself in the process.
Outside the restaurant streets flooded. I’d parked two blocks up & brought my rubber shoes as prep. But water ran nearly to car tailpipes. Another woman slogging thru said a catfish lay on the sidewalk further up. It surprised me water stretched 6 blocks to the main road, and 33 blocks on the main road before the land rose above it. Water high enough to elicit a mantra ‘keep moving; please, tail pipe stay free.’ When I got home, saw the street to the entrance of my complex flooded extra deep, I decided to go for it. Didn’t stop for the beeps of a car I hadn’t seen coming fast at me. I kept moving. And we easily missed each other, with space to spare. Another reflection. The water on the edge of overwhelm. Me traversing safely thru miles, not stalling. Keeping my date without expectations, tho I knew it may flood.
At the end of the day I talked with my publisher. I expressed my concerns. Reminded him I’d be in Canada 12 days, scoping venues for workshops at the invitation of a writer I’d helped. And he reminded me I’m ahead of the game because people ask for my work, and refer me. I shifted sights once more.
In dreams, water represents emotions. I wish I wouldn’t miss the Persaid meteor showers with this overcast sky. But I’m grateful how the Universe says, look here. We’ll give you a mirror if you’ll notice. And just in case you missed the water thing, the little ducklings you watched grow from yellow puffs will settle in front of your windows, preen and nap, all safe with their mama. More than once be angel messengers. And in case you miss that, note there’s 8. Eight, the number of prosperity.
Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
Tell me. . .what mirrors of your life do you see?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I’m still scared.
I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth. All about
the creative life for people living in the real world.
