Treating myself thusly

Henry David Thoreau, who left the world we tend to think is the "real world", for a couple of years to live at Walden Pond, kinda figured it out.  He rose even before sunrise, tended his wild gardens, observed his neighbours - the mice and the gannets and the deer and the white cherry and so on and so on - and drew correct conclusions about exactly what was the "real world" after all.

He wrote: "The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruit, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling.  Yet we do not treat ourselves, nor one another, thus tenderly."

True that my homies would say.

Today is about the 20th day or so that I have been clean from crack cocaine.  It feels like my twisted, painful dance with that shit has reached its final turn.

My body feels great.  My lungs clear and full with no cigarette shmegma crawling up my bronchi.  My muscles ache from being used occasionally - the good ache, that is - and my digestive system is responding well to this transition to more vegetables, whole grains and less meat.

Life is good.

I feel this amazing bloom occurring within my frame of reference, from behind my eyes and as the silent witness to my own actions.  I am touched to no end by this flower of truth and beauty that is become a part of my life.

To ensure it does not wither or go to seed is my task now.

Last weekend my wife and I were fighting a bit.  Nothing too serious.  Just echoes of guilt and resentment from my behaviours of so many years and mistrust at my continued efforts.  I left.  Saturday morning, I packed up my fishing rod and knife and leftover pizza, even some leftover bait minnows I had in the freezer, and I left.

I went to the land that has been the source of so much anxiety these last few weeks.  Land that my late mom walked and rediscovered her beauty and spiritual connection to the earth.  Land that my friend and colleague wants to turn into a discovery centre, a cultural centre.  Land with with I have started planting roots and laying hopes upon.

I sat there with the osprey, the red tailed hawk, the chipmunk, the goldeye, the squirrel and the ducks... even with a four foot garter snake who crossed the river to hunt in the fallen tree beside which I sat.

Nearly eight hours I sat there, smudge pot burning strongly, echoes of my mom, who once sat at that same spot, bouncing off the walls of the river valley.

I sat there and reclaimed my centre.

I didn't run and hide, I didn't prescribe instant gratification from a little baggie...  I sat and caught nothing for nearly 8 hours.

This filled me with pride and love and I came home, much to the surprise of my family, and was the better man for my choice.

Today I am going to the mountains, to sit in a circle of progressive thinkers...  and of politicians and of new agey lovers of the world.

I am a little closer to the centre of my being, to my connection to God than I've been for a long time, and I pray today that I conduct myself with respect, love and forgiveness so as to not cloud the possibilities of this gathering with petty jealousies and the like.

There is a man who will be there who has injured and hurt people in my circle.  He has worked very hard to establish a strong following, and a solid perch in this city from where he can build an empire.  He wrote once about a red tailed hawk, how even in the city it still was a red tailed hawk.  It didn't need to be in the bush to retain its hawkness.

I agree.

But I also think, that every once in a while, one has to come down from the glass pyramid to be among the grasses and trees, chase a mouse or two and feel the wind in his wings to remember what it truly means to be a hawk.

Ekosi.
S.