I found my fall within the northern wild.
Amber fields of feed corn, patiently drying under a crisp blue sky. A backdrop of deep deciduous reds and golds. Disappearing patches of green resistance, evidence of summer's last, futile gasp.
I can not help but feel deciduous myself.
The cool, fresh air provided the perspective to understand some things are completely out of my control, and a little blog piracy is not going to penetrate the inner peace I have recently acquired, despite the suspiciously malicious nature of the contents posted in my stead.
My present state of mind is still wandering through those woods, avoiding briar patches and feeling the crunch of cycle underfoot. My present state of mind is still observing amber fields of corn stalks that are patiently drying under that crisp, crystal blue sky, backdropped by deep reds and golds giving chase to the ground beneath.
My present state of mind is still sitting by the burning embers of a campfire spitting sparks into a starlit sky, whose warmth is matched equally by the levity and laughter of like minded autumn worshippers deep into the dark spirit of the night.
Those mesmerizing flames, it is hard not to become entranced. Dancing shifts of color and shape, I am suddenly a young boy on a Saturday afternoon, flooded with icons of my youth. Blessed with an expansive backyard to explore, a child's kingdom surrounded by forestry, fields, gardens, barns and anything the imagination ignites before the harassment of age and reality douses its flames.
This particular afternoon of remembrance finds me wandering the fringes of the manicured yard collecting branches for a small brush fire my father has assembled within the heart of the property. A vivid blue sky abounds, large white clouds on the increase with distant rumbles of thunder, a slow moving storm system is looming. In this dream state of mine, I recall only images and the natural sounds of snapping wood on the fire, a faint breeze and the soft, distant thunder.
No words.
A fresh armload of sticks applied to the burn, we stand there, my father and I, entranced by the flames.
A low, vibrating rumble asks for my father's attention, which it receives as he looks to the impregnated sky and retreats to the house, only to emerge minutes later. What that thunder said to him, I will never know but he seemed to understand it perfectly well.
In my father's arms, an icon from his youth. A scaled down wooden frame of a dream home. Modest in size, yet meticulously built as some classroom project long ago. Not only did this delicate, skeletal structure of a house represent the architectural designs any young man would be proud to one day create and live in, but was also a small scale representation of an ideal, of an ambitious dream to pursue a career as a creative craftsman. The tiny pieces of wood and the miniature nails holding the structure together are a tedious model of detail and effort, crafted not only by the flesh of his hands but also of the imagination and hope of a young man with limitless possibilities before him.
Our gentle wind pulses with life, stiffening with the impending storm. Thunder rolling as if under our feet, we don't have much more time.
Collecting dust in a dark basement, this small scale model of a young man's hope, for years sat surrounded by boxes of clutter and junk, broken chairs, bags of old clothes, stacks of magazines, neglected toys, games and piles of old memories soaking up the damp, lifeless air.
But for some reason, on this particular afternoon, the wooden model structure was pulled from its musty grave. There my father stood before the hot, burning fire within the heart of our property, distant thunder fast approaching, holding his childhood dreams in his arms for one last time. After a short, contemplative pause, he placed that little house within the flames, backed off and watched her burn.
No words.
Just the sounds of thunder, sacrifice and acceptance.
Like giant drops of honesty the rain began to fall, at first as a subtle reminder of the impending storm, then with increasing brutality. My father and I ran to the house for cover as the storm intensified around us. Within the safety of a home that my father rebuilt from the ground up, I peered out the window toward the smoldering fire and through that pouring rain, I could see the remnants of my father's class project, and from my vantage point the sum of his childhood ambitions, reduced to nothing but ashes and distant memory.
I became entranced by the image of the rain and the fire's last futile gasp and then snapped from my dream state, back to present day shifts of dancing color and shape, burning embers of a campfire spitting sparks into a starlit sky, warmth matched equally by levity and laughter of like minded autumn worshippers deep into the dark trenches of the night. Most notably my father's, seated nearby, who set aside volumes of his own dreams to provide me with my own. I witnessed him acknowledge as much that day in our backyard so very long ago, as we watched that devastating house fire, without saying a word.
I found genuine laughter and honest levity amongst men upon this past weekend's journey. I also found the tamed spirit of a man once filled with an unparalleled fire, a deep respect for sacrifice, creation within the ashes of destruction.
And I found my fall deep within the northern wild.
Today's Jazz Hands are grateful.
Day two-hundred and seventy-four complete.
My present state of mind is still wandering through those woods, avoiding briar patches and feeling the crunch of cycle underfoot. My present state of mind is still observing amber fields of corn stalks that are patiently drying under that crisp, crystal blue sky, backdropped by deep reds and golds giving chase to the ground beneath.
My present state of mind is still sitting by the burning embers of a campfire spitting sparks into a starlit sky, whose warmth is matched equally by the levity and laughter of like minded autumn worshippers deep into the dark spirit of the night.
Those mesmerizing flames, it is hard not to become entranced. Dancing shifts of color and shape, I am suddenly a young boy on a Saturday afternoon, flooded with icons of my youth. Blessed with an expansive backyard to explore, a child's kingdom surrounded by forestry, fields, gardens, barns and anything the imagination ignites before the harassment of age and reality douses its flames.
This particular afternoon of remembrance finds me wandering the fringes of the manicured yard collecting branches for a small brush fire my father has assembled within the heart of the property. A vivid blue sky abounds, large white clouds on the increase with distant rumbles of thunder, a slow moving storm system is looming. In this dream state of mine, I recall only images and the natural sounds of snapping wood on the fire, a faint breeze and the soft, distant thunder.
No words.
A fresh armload of sticks applied to the burn, we stand there, my father and I, entranced by the flames.
A low, vibrating rumble asks for my father's attention, which it receives as he looks to the impregnated sky and retreats to the house, only to emerge minutes later. What that thunder said to him, I will never know but he seemed to understand it perfectly well.
In my father's arms, an icon from his youth. A scaled down wooden frame of a dream home. Modest in size, yet meticulously built as some classroom project long ago. Not only did this delicate, skeletal structure of a house represent the architectural designs any young man would be proud to one day create and live in, but was also a small scale representation of an ideal, of an ambitious dream to pursue a career as a creative craftsman. The tiny pieces of wood and the miniature nails holding the structure together are a tedious model of detail and effort, crafted not only by the flesh of his hands but also of the imagination and hope of a young man with limitless possibilities before him.
Our gentle wind pulses with life, stiffening with the impending storm. Thunder rolling as if under our feet, we don't have much more time.
Collecting dust in a dark basement, this small scale model of a young man's hope, for years sat surrounded by boxes of clutter and junk, broken chairs, bags of old clothes, stacks of magazines, neglected toys, games and piles of old memories soaking up the damp, lifeless air.
But for some reason, on this particular afternoon, the wooden model structure was pulled from its musty grave. There my father stood before the hot, burning fire within the heart of our property, distant thunder fast approaching, holding his childhood dreams in his arms for one last time. After a short, contemplative pause, he placed that little house within the flames, backed off and watched her burn.
No words.
Just the sounds of thunder, sacrifice and acceptance.
Like giant drops of honesty the rain began to fall, at first as a subtle reminder of the impending storm, then with increasing brutality. My father and I ran to the house for cover as the storm intensified around us. Within the safety of a home that my father rebuilt from the ground up, I peered out the window toward the smoldering fire and through that pouring rain, I could see the remnants of my father's class project, and from my vantage point the sum of his childhood ambitions, reduced to nothing but ashes and distant memory.
I became entranced by the image of the rain and the fire's last futile gasp and then snapped from my dream state, back to present day shifts of dancing color and shape, burning embers of a campfire spitting sparks into a starlit sky, warmth matched equally by levity and laughter of like minded autumn worshippers deep into the dark trenches of the night. Most notably my father's, seated nearby, who set aside volumes of his own dreams to provide me with my own. I witnessed him acknowledge as much that day in our backyard so very long ago, as we watched that devastating house fire, without saying a word.
I found genuine laughter and honest levity amongst men upon this past weekend's journey. I also found the tamed spirit of a man once filled with an unparalleled fire, a deep respect for sacrifice, creation within the ashes of destruction.
And I found my fall deep within the northern wild.
Today's Jazz Hands are grateful.
Day two-hundred and seventy-four complete.
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