This chair is in our unfinished camp. I imagined Mike sitting here thinking out the floor plan, where he will put studs for the bathroom walls, calculating how many feet of romex are needed to put electrical through.
But as I edit the photo, now, I am thinking of me sitting in the chair. The darkness that has crept into my soul before winter. Before winter. If I am in this shadow land, now, how will I make it through a sub-zero gray January?
I will turn 45 in January. Mid-life? And I am trying to find that spot of zen. The balance I had 4 years ago. The hope of healing my arm and neck. The hope of my massage practice, flourishing. I remember trusting the sands of Lake Superior as I would stand the shoreline rubbing the wet sand into my injured arm and letting the waters wash me clean. A wonderful therapy, really. I would follow by doing Tai Chi and Qigong. I would meditate and breathe deeply.
When I closed my massage practice. Something within me faded. I have had a difficult time facing the path, choosing a path, coping with my path. I sit in this chair, still?
Contours, the curve of a street, the arch of an overpass, a rolling field of grass, and our own edges that attempt to define us, and confine us. This summer I, too, reach past boundaries and edges. The word, contours, more feminine and soft, more curve and allowance, more spent, sexy, wild even.
I wanted to start a new blog called Contours. The name is taken so you can instead visit the category here at The Dailies. Contours, a theme for my year, like abundance. I am moving beyond the definitions that have bound me. This summer I dedicate to travel, a new genre of art, a return to daily writes, morning writes, and work on my poetry and books.
I have been following another writer’s adventures, Cynthia Morris explains, “Journey Juju insists that life is a creative adventure, that the wonder and delight aren’t just for kids, and that you have everything you need to embrace your life as a creative journey.”
The school year is coming to a close and I recommit to my journey. It seems I still panic at the concept of less income on a weekly check. I become rigid. Flow stops. I block. And, in doing so, even my body freezes up with back pain.
This photo was taken on the trip to Michigamme in May. The empty wiondow is sitting on top of furniture leaning in a corner. Lines that attmpt to define in a church gone art shoppe. Church of the Wildwood, and I here a psalm whisper in my ear.