Inhabiting the realm of spirit
is less easy
than most think.
Weathering the storms of blood crashing
against the walls of elastic veins
that give with the flow and
hug with the ebb,
as flesh seeks to mirror the mind’s flights
of fancy, chasing
objects of desire in dreams and sidelong
glances
reining in the roving eye,
the hand with a will of its own, reminding,
reminding, ever
reminding the heart to remember
the upward glance and check
the downward slide.
What dignity is there in love,
when weighted by heavy
bodies?
Of course, I cannot prove a word of this —
for the evidence is long since fallen
victim to conquest of truths
its distant cousin, or worse,
no relative at all.
Of course, I cannot heap up a mountain
of facts and figures
at our empirical idol’s feet and offer up
a smoking sacrifice
of eye-witnesses or reliable written
accounts.
So I must trust, instead, to the resonance
of cellular memory
to bear witness to my findings, born
out of chance readings of varied texts
that are magically related
in fully unexpected ways.
I must fall back on our faded, jaded,
ragged-edged ability to believe, our stressed
willingness to suspend disbelief
just a moment
till my side is heard out.
The following is less the offspring
of invented theory
than discovery and hope.
Oh, but we have traveled long, each
of us on a separate,
disparate course that somehow
comes parallel to the other,
now and then.
Now and again, I wonder
if your feet have fallen half
as hard as mine
on the dry, cracked soil of the dead
lake bottom
I sometimes call my “bid for glory”
and then again, my “bane” or
“obsession”…
Or if you are content
with anonymous comforts taken among
suburbanites and hidden
sinners.
Oh, but we each have taken
alternative routes — you
with your demure town meetings, I
with my spontaneous protests —
but still we find ourselves
linking arms
every couple of years or so — the chat
in a coffee house wedged into a strip mall,
the stray postcards blushing
of a latest adventure —
like loops in a chain link fence
placed around the perimeter of a once-
groomed garden
now gone to wild and woolly seed.
Again and again
I wonder if, and when, we’ll meet
again.
Speak to me not
of lost chances
and dashed hopes.
Dwell not
on opportunities seen
too late, then
passed over in the rush for more blatant,
immediate gratification.
Sing to me no songs
of remorse
over loves untended,
passions unkindled,
when the world smothered
the wayward sparks of your youth with the march
of police and dogs, and a series
of concurrent overdoses and
assassinations
that robbed you of your palpable hope.
No, tell me no stories
of folly and failure, don’t describe
how it all might have been
different.
Instead —
speak to me of the hopes that once
were, and will be
all over again.
Tell me how your unslaked thirst
drove you on past mirages
to drink at the waiting oasis.
Dwell on the fact that opportunity
did knock, once upon a time.
And hold precious your fantasies
of what never was — sweeter, to be sure,
than what truly could have been.
I almost drove out to Nauset Beach today. It’s an amazingly gorgeous day, bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. The perfect sort of weather to head to the beach.
Nauset Beach on Cape Cod is about 2 hours from my house. 2 hours and 4 minutes, according to Google Maps. And considering I was up early today, and I didn’t really have any hugely pressing duties that MUST be done today, I figured I could drive the 2 hours (and 4 minutes), arrive before noon, eat the lunch I packed, walk the beach, explore the areas that were carved away by winter storms, and get back home no later than 10 p.m.
It’s Saturday. If the day runs late, I can always make up for lost sleep tomorrow.
That was my thinking, anyway.
Another amazing sunset in Provincetown
When Laney and I were out in Provincetown, a few weeks back, we chatted with someone who lived in the area who told us winter storms had carved huge chunks of land off Nauset Beach. There were sections blocked off. Caution tape up. Facilities that weren’t accessible. I wanted to stop and take a look on our way home from P-town, but it was a rainy day, and we just wanted to get down the road. So, I didn’t get to take a look.
Woody dune growth, with their roots all exposed. Bunches of this had uprooted and were lying down the beach a ways.
I’ve been feeling disappointed about that, because while I was walking the beach at Herring Cove towards Race Point, I saw so much erosion, it was crazy. It was — as the fellow we’d chatted with put it — “like the hand of God reached down and just scooped it all away.” Dunes were eroded so far down that driftwood buried for many years was exposed, poking out of the side of the washed-away dune, a foot or so beneath the surface where the grass was growing.
Parking lot erosion @ Herring Cove North
Half the parking lot was cordoned off, because it wasn’t safe to park there.
A lot of the parking lot was just gone.
Massive swathes of asphalt had been undercut and just buckled and fell away… then washed on down the beach. Or out to sea. There was a lot of asphalt unaccounted-for.
The asphalt looked like it had melted on someone’s dashboard
And up at the bathhouse area? Well, that beautifully constructed deck and walkway leading down to the beach for folks with limited mobility… that’s gone.
Dune erosion – near where we used to build our fires
The spot where Laney and I built many a beach fire, not far from the end of the walkway? That was gone, too — as though it had never existed.
And even more remarkable — all those colorful stones and pebbles that have been the hallmark of Herring Cove South… gone. Washed out to sea. I think they got washed away a couple of years ago, but this year, it was even more noticeable… perhaps because of all the dunes erosion.
Damage to the stairs at Nauset Beach – no, this isn’t my picture (click the image to see a gallery of pictures)
So, of course I wanted to get a look at Nauset Beach! It wasn’t enough to look online. I wanted to stand there and look at it – in person. I wanted to feel the sun on my back, the wind in my face, the sand under my feet. I wanted to hear the splashing of the surf, the calling of the gulls, and spot the occasional beach walker bundled up against the wind. Maybe I’d get pictures. Or maybe I’d just stand there and look at it, shaking my head. I wanted to see for myself what the hand of God had been up to, and marvel at it, just as I’d marveled at the damage at Herring Cove.
There was just one problem. I was bushed. I’d had a pretty long week, and I sorely needed to catch up on my sleep. Nothing kills a weekend more than being dragged down by a sleep deficit, and I’d actually been planning to catch up on my ‘zzzs’ today — and tomorrow. And nothing turns a 2-hour drive to the beach into a chore, like being tired. I actually did pack a lunch and was almost ready to go, but really, I was way too tired to do anything.
So I went back to bed.
A couple hours later, I woke up and looked at the clock. I could still make it to the beach and have at least 4 hours of daylight to enjoy. On the beach. Seeing the sights. But was it worth losing all that time to driving?
Not really.
Long story short, I made the best of my time at home. I got my yard raked. Dead grass has been pulled up to make room for new growth. Leftover leaves have been removed from the garden areas, and the deadfall in the front yard has been thrown into the woodsy no-mans-land between my house and the neighbor’s. The chokecherries that have been encroaching on the pines in the front, as well as getting a foothold all along the front stone wall (nasty thorny bastards!), are now trimmed back and tossed aside. And the trees that sprouted a few years back and were starting to get a foothold in places they shouldn’t be, have been cut and piled in the side woodlot.
And so, for me, spring has officially begun. With work. And with plenty of time to think. Yard work is a kind of meditation for me — a moving mindfulness practice that always brings new thoughts to mind as I tend the land around my home. Some folks hate yard work, but for me, it’s a reminder of just how fortunate I am to live where I do – and how I do. It gets me thinking. As I rake and collect and toss and mend, it frees up a whole lot of ideas that normally don’t come to me.
This year is seeing a lot of changes for me. People are moving in and out of my life. I’m losing people I care about, and I’m gaining new people whom I will eventually care about. My work situation is… well… interesting, as we go through a merger that has a lot of people asking a lot of questions, without many definitive answers, yet. And my own focus is shifting more squarely toward my writing and publishing, as I dig out manuscripts I started years ago… then put aside to tend to the day-to-day. There’s a lot of decent material there — at least five full-length works that are “written” in my head, but still need the words on paper. Novels. Essays. Philosophy. A play. And yes, some poetry.
As I was hacking away at the chokecherries, it occurred to me that although the books awaiting my attention are all about different things, they’re essentially about the same topic: Change. How we handle it. How we prepare for it. How we avoid it. How we embrace it and manage it, or fight it every inch of the way. What it brings to us. What it takes from us. It’s all about change, with me. And it has been for many, many years.
So, that was a productive use of time. I got my yard tidied up, and I got some good revelations. Sure, I would have loved to see Nauset Beach and how it’s weathered the seasons. But I was welcoming my own new season.
So, now that I’ve decided to write under a pen name, I must revise all my past books to reflect my new identity. I’ve been publishing on Lulu for many, many years, and I’ve cranked out a bunch of books in the process. I’ve also started a number of projects which I never finished or fell victim to lack of time, so that actually inflates the perceived amount of work.
Turns out, when I look more closely, it’s not insurmountable. And it also turns out that some of those old projects really need to be retired, as they’re cluttering up my space for no good reason.
All told, my past published works that I’m carrying forward consist of: five poetry books, a handful of self-help books, a how-to guide on turning your eBook into a printed book, and a novella. The rest can come down. The podcasting guides, audio production training, and a handful of other odd projects once seemed like a good idea, but they’re not something I want to carry forward. And there’s more to come.
As You Think – A New Thought Classic for Today’s Woman
As A Woman Thinketh – The Timeless Classic for Women
Strange Bedfellows – get your copy here
Lots of people change their names. For one reason or another. To turn a new page in their life… to step into a different future. Or just to refine their “personal brand”.
I’m now writing under the name Kay Lorraine. When I used to travel to Paris for work, my name on my hotel reservation always got changed to Kay-Lorraine Stoner, and I liked the sound of it. So, here’s to a new chapter – and an ongoing process of updating my existing books in print to reflect the new change.
Inhabiting the realm of spirit
Testimonial
Again, Again
I almost drove out to Nauset Beach today. It’s an amazingly gorgeous day, bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. The perfect sort of weather to head to the beach.
kayLorraine 