Stranded on an island

I live on an island in the middle of the Pacific ocean, placing me squarely in the crosshairs of a million people’s most cherished dream, but also removing me three to six thousand miles from ones I love and with whom I share quite a long and incomparable history. No place is perfect, not even Paradise. And it’s not Paradise’s fault. Priorities have shifted, not the tectonic plates. Yet how apt a metaphor for the cataclysmic maelstrom within as I wait on a house to sell so that we might sally forth into the next grand adventure.

We cannot know in advance how choices play out, and at times feelings swell, grappling as they emerge like the bones of a fish wholly swallowed. Surging emotional tides can only be surfed like the giant rip curls they are – convulsive, encompassing, ultimately sweeping clean all in their wake. Waiting, biding time in the throes of these undulating currents can at times appear unjust. And yet it is we who determine under which banner to rally our gods. It’s almost certain they labor under a much more complex agenda.

If I have learned little else in this free fall, it is that any experience need not be polarizing in order to facilitate change. Liking or hating it alters nothing but the ph factor of one’s stomach. Best to boogie with the partner we’ve got, harmonizing movements as skillfully as we are able, until an opening appears and we are released from the dance floor. Otherwise the inability to move unrestricted can feel like being buried alive – a grasping for breath between tiny grains of earth packed all around us like a tomb.

Amidst the hours of solitude where I encounter both mental gremlins and spacious landscapes of indisputable concord, amidst that silence wherein coexist desire and the curled fingers of control, I find myself enmeshed in new house designs. Testament to the resilience of the human spirit, the inclination to focus more than I ought onto an unmet future likewise facilitates a harmless if necessary release. For until my timetable and that of the powers that be coincide, this waiting game is the only show in town. Finally as has transpired in countless times past, the moment will resolve, emitting sparks which fan themselves into flames as the phoenix at long last rises. Promise of renewal fulfilled, it will then move on like a ghost insinuating itself into memory.


image: Clark Little

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