The Process of Season

I love the idea of seasons.  A continual cycle of spring with all of its promises, summer with its easy, relaxing days, fall with the glorious joy of harvest, and the snowy winter covered in quiet, secluded contemplations.  Years cycle past and every one becomes another notch on our calendar.  Endless.  Continuous.  Lately running the long stretch of highway between Canada and California the effect of season has become even more pronounced.  The California landscape never really suffers the indignity of winter - unless you venture into the Sierra Nevadas that reach over 7000 feet and experience the exuberance of an overzealous snowfall.  But eventually even at those altitudes the green slowly starts to creep in, the flowers bringing color to the edges of the highway, and the sounds of summer echoing through the forest.  It's beautiful, encouraging, and heartwarming.  I love it.

But the seasons of the soul are not as enjoyable.  Here is pain, uncertainty, and confusion.  Nothing is simple or straight forward.  When life disintegrates and you're left staring at an empty horizon, the questions come much faster than you can process.  Time slows to an agonizing crawl and every moment becomes a struggle.  Futility.  Anger.  Everything swirls around and through you like fog.  You become lost.  The distinction between seasons are blurred.  Are things still dying or is everything dead?  Are the days gradually warming towards a new spring?  Is this new growth or simply a patch of grass that survives the cold and refuses to lose its color?  The process of emptying becomes endless.  Every emotion becomes a journey of identifying, naming, processing, personifying, and in the end, welcoming.  Hello loneliness.  Come on in.  Throw your bags of pain, sadness, and betrayal in the corner by all the winter boots.  Come settle at the table, and let me make you a cup of tea.  It's a miserable day outside, and we've got days of bleak weather ahead of us.  But we're warm, the fire is crackling, and the kettle whistling.  We're safe here, and we'll be OK. Eventually, the days will lengthen, the eaves will begin to drip with the afternoon thaw, the sun being a little brighter and a little warmer.  Trust the process of season.  Spring will come, with new birth, new life, and new hope. 

Home by another way

The years have rushed past, life exploding and disintegrating, and suddenly I find myself reduced to a solitary life confined to a truck and miles of highway.  The kids are scattered, and my tax forms present my status as separated.  My time has become hours of silence, contemplation, and recovery.  Recovery to discover my essence and value.  Contemplations of God, family, and love.  Silence.  Emptiness.  Letting go.

These processes are never simple, painless, or easy. I happened upon something I wrote in a draft years ago:

 "We have been following a trail through a dense forest for the last two years.  Sometimes the path was steep, sometimes strewn with roots that threatened to upend us, sometimes wide with dappled sunlight glistening through the overhead leaves.  But today we have emerged into bright sunlight at the edge and are facing a grassy meadow that is gently beckoning us forward.  Today our lives are changing, and though we don't yet see the path stretching off into the distance, the path is as sure as it was in the dark forest.  And one thing we do know; the path before us will be different."

Prophetic to be sure.  Dark forests, dangerous footing, indistinct direction.  Moments of joy and clarity, coupled with dark nights and despair.  It's all part of it.  It's all important.  And it's all leading us home, even if by another way.

A Couple of Words to Change the World

The holstered tazer hung no more than two feet in front of Sam's eyes. A revolver was strapped on the opposite hip; the radio with its selector set on channel three separated the two weapons on the wide black belt of the thirty-something RCMP officer waiting stoically ahead of us in line at the 7-11. I was vaguely aware that the line wasn't moving, my attention and thoughts drawn more to the coolness of the air conditioned store as we held our sweating slurpee's in hand. Evangeline began to suck her icy grape/orange concoction into her mouth. There was a lady with a small girl at the cashier that was causing some sort of complication and I could sense impatience setting into the stagnated line. My gaze dropped back to the well armed officer in front of me.

The sleeve of his shirt was stretched taut where his bulging arm emerged. It was a large arm. Large and colorful. A tatooed fish curved around his forearm and lept up over his elbow. Many designs covered what little bare skin was available; two words in plain black ink caught my eye on the inside of his forearm. My attention shifted back to the lady that was now over by the ATM machine in the corner of the store and I noticed her staring incredulously at her receipt.

“I like the two words on your arm,” I commented to the officer.

The line was moving now.

The officer placed his three small bags of candy beside the conspicous pile of goods left on the counter. I barely made out his words as his arm made a vague sweeping motion over all the items. 

“I'll get this too.”

“That's $34.20,” the cashier informed him as he inserted his chip card into the keypad and punched in his passcode.

We placed our selection of slurpee's on the counter just as the lady with the small girl reappeared.  The cashier, scooping the pile in her hands, pushed it towards her.

 “Your items have been paid for.”

“What?” the lady enquired.

“Your items. They're all paid for.”

"That's right!” I said. “The man ahead of me just paid for them!”

“How? How can they be paid for?” she stammered.

“Officer White just paid for your things.” the cashier stated flatly. “They're paid for.”

“That's amazing!” the overwhelmed lady commented as she gathered her things. “I'll have to thank him for this. The bank machine was broken. This is just amazing.”

I left the 7-11 feeling euphoric with hope surging in my soul. Sometimes you witness something so profound you can't help but love the people around you.

“What did you say to that RCMP officer in the store?” Sam inquired.

“He had tattooed 'Grace and Mercy' on his arm. I told him I liked that,” I replied.

Grace and Mercy.

Pretty good words to live by.

Thank you Officer White.

Rebuilding a Camping Trailer

Our little Scamp trailer has been wonderful.  We've dragged it up and down the Alaska Highway six times, and it has handled all the bouncing and bumping without complaint, even though it was often overloaded.

But it shows.  The cabinetry, never a well made item in these trailers, was falling apart.  Time to pull out my tools.

The cabinet was disassembled, and a new front glued up.

My fiberglass experience came handy as I  laminated the 1 inch framework to the new 1/4 inch plywood.

With all the appropriate openings cut out, the reassembly went without a hitch.

My eye for wasted space discovered room for a second drawer, something sorely lacking in the old design.

Some shellac and varethane finished it off, and it's now solid and ready for another run of highway.

A shop in the country

One thing I'm very excited about is the shop on our yard.   It's a fairly decent size; 24 X 30, with two large doors.   I'd like to develop one side into my wood shop,  keeping the other bay available for automotive work.

And it can even have a touch of beauty when you have a daughter that loves to hang out with you.

The effects of time

Time has a way of altering our landscapes before our eyes and before we realize it we can find ourselves in a completely new environment from where we were.

A year ago my father passed away.

A year ago we were living in Anchorage.

A year ago we faced an uncertain future.

Today I completed the import and registration process for the van.

Time alters our lives; sometimes for good, sometimes bad.

Sometimes it's good to take some time to remember.

Because that can help us view the future.

A night at the barn

I am a working man

But I ain't worked for a while

like some old tin can

from the bottom of the pile

-Big Sugar