A re-think

The far hill beyond the creek is the back on a wild boar this morning. The sienna stain of flesh of the land peeks from beneath the hard bristle of hawthorn and dogwood and brambleberry. And the water has receded under the bridge. Geese get a move on across the slow, cobalt sky. I take in the scent of November in the wetlands, of summer leaving, decay of one season leaning into the drench of a gathering other.

I’m taking pause this morning. Just so I can watch the plume from burning elm rising in the distance. Rising from the chimney of my studio and over the ceiling of the secluded ridge of hardwood; rising as if I’m still back there staring at the blank page. Like seeing me from a distance sorta thing. That’s another good sign that I oughta be walking. Like when the need hits to keep me at a distance. To get me out of the way of transparent thought.

It’s moments like this when I like to hyphenate words, speaking them in time to the sound of my boots hitting gravel. A personal parade-call of sorts; try it with me, why not? In-hale, re-fresh— Lord I need it—re-create, in-spire, ex-press. Believe it or not, it generally works on the morning walks where, for example, I’m trying to shake myself alive and deal with the shortening days and chill of nights.

Wool-socks, long-johns, mitts-and-scarves, lock-de-icer, window-scraper surface in my consciousness. They work with the walking tempo. But I try to change the topic. Maybe think about how bears have it right, and maybe I was one in a former life. And maybe I’ve just discovered the problem. I mean, feast heavy, find a dry comfy hole in the peace of the bush and sleep through winter, why not? Ya get to not know about holiday-season-expectationanxiety- disorder while trying to get the friggin’ truck started when-it’s-freezing-already. I figure we were never cut out for that kinda thing? Yeah sure, woodstoves, food preserves, heavy breakfasts are some of the off-set pleasures. But just wait ‘til the snow-plow guy comes by. Off-set that after-math eh? Yeah, right.

In my case, to hibernate I’d need a number of good books, some local spirits and some writing material to keep me going. Oh yeah, mustn’t forget the fruit cake, nuts’n berries bonus. I’m big on that. Maybe that’s why on this go-round through the cosmos, I left the bear thing behind. Packing for winter was getting to be work. Yet I still think they have it made. Bears, I mean. Once hunting season is over that is. Maybe another reason why I changed guises in this re-incarnate. Meanwhile, this time round, I needed to re-invent devices to get me through the season of snow-shovels.

Which takes me back to the walking thing. I find these are the moments that feed others, that feed our capabilities to tell what it is we in-spire. Add to the memory of the senses, to be later re-instated into words, onto paper, forged in glass, in steel with hammer, paint, pen or the cook pot. Re-membering our-selves is how I see it. As in putting pieces to-gather, spelling intended.

All of what we know merges into the stream of re-call when, isolated in time and space, images climb like that chimney plume. Climb from faraway places and moments and smells just like today. Re-call ascending through the crevices of ex-periences only to make visible a thought, a dream, a vision: To do so with, and as in, pass-i-on. But it can be a lonely world. Alone with the crossover of images or conversations with your new friends, who happen to be characters in a writing piece. Yep, I admit to having imaginary friends and I’m happy to share them in a non-therapy way, like over dinner, or coffee or on a trail march and finally as they appear on the page, blank no more.

So it’s mornings like this one that I take me for a walk. Re-emerge. Problem is, I figure at any moment now, one of us’ll be on the hunt for honey—if not at least a bowl of porridge.