apparitions of longing


Sunday morning, Sept 20, Hay Lake Lodge

Our last morning in Canada. Today we make the drive home. The skies cleared overnight and I woke to the morning star in the east facing window. The sun has now risen to the degree where just a subtle hint of color – peach and gold – remain on the horizon toward which now the fog rolls.

It always seems to me, on mornings like this, as if the fog is hurrying to get to someplace, just around the bend, as if the other water droplets have seen something there and beckoned it come. It is horizons such as this toward which I am drawn to paddle, accepting that same invitation to come and see, as if the fog itself is whispering my longing

Killing me softly.

I suspect it is always present, though mostly unseen, this moisture filled air, this river of mist, flowing and following some unknown current that draws it. Yes, it is like that for me, the way my yearning emerges, wraithlike, like this to be seen at certain times in thin places, and beckons me to follow something unknown and unseeable just around the bend. Yet the longing is always present. Though just barely visible at times, it takes but a conducive climate or the subtlest shift, to reveal it’s pervasive ever-presence.

I imagine it would be much easier if I could name it, envision it, as if then I would know what to do with my life, in which direction at least to head. But perhaps not.

It is only when I am quiet enough to hear, in moments like this, that I can even begin to discern its shrouded whisper, and of course there is so little quiet, so few moments of peace, in my life.

A boat appears slowly, yet suddenly, from that bend around which the fog rolls. I wonder, what did it witness over there? Another boat arrives. They are fishing boats, casting lines, hoping to catch what they too cannot see, but of which they at least have some concept… its size and shape, qualities and features.

What is your shape, my longing?

I suspect that only I know where to find you, in the place I have known all along you were hiding, in the silent solitude of an away place, a starting-over place where the shape that you have longed to take can emerge from the one that is finally shed… shed in that place where no one would recognize the old shape that you wore in order to perform the role that for too long was your only definition of self.

To become wraithlike, as the mist, rolling over the water for a time, formless, almost invisible, but moving … toward something that calls, just around the bend.

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  1. Trackback: water and fire | Emmaatlast's Weblog

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