Moby-Dick :: Chapter 7 :: The Chapel

Mister Ishmael ~

Oh Mad Captain of my own vessel which doth bob and duck cork-wise upon the blustery oceans of reason, and indeed, moral or immoral life-eternal, weighs each moment against the next, and against the last, for what? What prize is sought? and to what end?

Truth be told, I like my dreams better than my life, on some days, and except the nightmares of course, which can wage havoc upon the smoothest glass-like sea, on twenty-first century hardened glass, I shatter but there are no sharp shard's for all is tempered against the newly energized lessons of life.

I can not purchase insurance enough, nor time enough, to stave safe my soul.

I pause under the harsh light, looking both ways along the street I enter, drawing my jacket tighter before closing the church door quietly behind me, soon the hard teak bench rises to support me. Eyes closed for a moment, I relax, all raging thoughts calm under the soft candle glow. The inside quiet, like a cave, a shelter. I lean back and breathe.

Having seen my shadow, I now breathe even deeper.

Trust Your Journey (tm)
~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver

* original quote by ijil RHG

Essay Review:

In the 2011 The BEST American Essays on page 90, Pico Iyer delivers to us a reflection of his calm space - CHAPELS - the places that he has found around the world as he has traveled and wrote as a journalist for Time Magazine. 
Essay first published by Portland Magazine.

Moby-Dick :: Chapter 4 :: The Counterpane

Mister Ishmael ~ 

Amazing how a good night's sleep can change the harshness of our thoughts and the sharpness of our actions. Last night you were so angry with Mister Queequeg, and now, you are almost loving. Is it when another does a tender thing, conscious or unconscious, that we are more able to return a tender gesture? Sleeping two to a bed is not as horrible as was once thought, and maybe returning avant garde. Children know the good dream of a warm body beside them as they crawl into bed beside parents, siblings or cousins. It is not so lonely, nor so scary, as sleeping alone; nightmares and awful fears are held at bay, and it is easier to stay warm. Plus the best plans are concocted during sleepovers while relaxed and safe with great-great-great-great grandma's handiwork.

Sometimes it is hard to separate the images in our minds with the images in our eyes; the angles and arcs reflect the same and then they are distorted. Looking for understanding or even something that makes sense and has reason. Chased by either canis or panthera, uniequus or taurus, we traverse the untamed pagan patch-worked landscape sometimes alone, but better with a shamanic friend, even one with strange customs and odd herbs in his rag, never carrying a book. Witness the wildness of wisen unfamiliar ways, foreign to ourselves, body stiff with tenseness, defenses on high-alert. And then as now, a thick arm thrown across, a shoulder after a game well-won, camaraderie is the language we speak, the feelings we feel, and the justice we recognize. When our minds are still enough, we know when something is right or wrong; we can discern the difference, our body, nature's true compass, pointing the way. Intuition can be taught as surely as ciphers and starpaths, squares and triangles, well, at least improved. Given the actions of man or the words of man; actions will never lie as consistantly as words will.

Is the threshold sill so dark and the jamb to tight, that without help, a friend, or supernatural hand, we will never be able to open the sun-lit window? Hold tight to the cord of connection. Circling, circling, circling, unwinding the center of our selves. No matter what this pilgrimage is called - correct name or no - maze or labyrinth; mightily warned against the dangers, regardless, the capri soul will not stay home. The innerlands call us to journey, whether one path or many, straight away or dead-end, false-starts or marsh; our boredom is now banished by fresh sights and newness of characters; we come more alive, nerve endings tingling with each new smell and vista, whether a painting on a wall or a painting on an arm, el signos we find around us are many, and the incredibly helpful hands even greater. But are you watching? Are all your eyes open? Do you follow your proper path? Where will your soul lie tonight, in a heathen-laden countryside or fanatically clean marble floor, or someplace worse? Who is the devil and who is the savior? Will the trice masted dawg crawl far enough to win the true-blue heart from the iceberg? I will watch for you and your son Tom in the rigging at the edge of water. Play at no curses, sing a sharp song, tools in good repair, right at hand, get your boots on.

The passat are blowing rhythms. The chill air will not keep us here much longer.

Trust Your Journey (tm)
 ~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver

Moby-Dick :: Chapter 2 :: The Carpet-Bag

Mister Ishmael ~

Surely, you know the value of having a safe place to lay your head at night, or at the end of the day, or even for a nap. A safe and quiet place, where you can not even hear the crickets' chirp, where slumber and dream time are encouraged to come as assuredly as the rising sun. This place need not be fancy, as you well pointed out, or even all that clean, but the respite that comes when a proper spot can be secured to hold the small bones of those weary of walking, moving, and doing - that bed that cradles the cranium, shelters the skin, moulds the mind like no schoolroom, no apprentice shop, no stoic under a tree can. Nay, the gods themselves send Hermes with dreams to a well-supported head, the nightmares too, for the peace-doves and the ankhs, the zombies and werewolves, mere symbols which have endured and withstood time come unhindered by conscious thought, which is often best, to warn us, encourage us, guide us, and to give us pause to ponder. Is that what you meant? That we too should miss the boat, maybe on purpose, so the sea-side stay can last through the weekend or longer?

With a warm Starbucks blowing in my hand and points of light overhead maybe I will ~ maybe I will donne my red silken night wrap, sit by the cooling coals keeping my toes safe, read some Sapphio, Robert or Joseph, finish planning my trip to Carthage, Santorini and Cyprus, or if I am feeling really wight, dive into contemplation of my fortune & copestone, and just make it so.

Trust Your Journey (tm)
 ~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver


note to self: 

• check the worthliness of my water craft. 
• pick up photos at store and get more batteries.
• see if Mister Temple can come by for a spot of White Lotus tea and crackers at the Five Trees Inn this afternoon.