Day 2 – emerging from the fog, (‘you must lose your life to find it’)


Just before dawn.

Slowly, gradually, things becomes visible here. The jutting upward of the spruce and pine begins to outline, through the fog, the island nearest me. The peach reflection on the fog whispers that the sun is rising around the bend, while overhead the waning moon, just less than half, makes her late appearance. In a few days, the moon will be new. I yearn for stars so thick that I am filled with wonder.

There were two dead mice in the water pail this morning. Yearning for a drink? With all this water so nearby? What thirst drew them, I wonder, into a place with no escape? Of course, they did not realize this when they entered…

The loon have been calling this morning. It seems their time of song surrounds the dusk and dawn, in the hours preceding and following each.  I do not know if their song is one of joy, longing, fear, or grief , but something about transitional time elicits song…. in me too, songs that I also cannot interpret as of yet.

The others are beginning to rise. It is time to rise from this rock to help with the morning chores. May I carry my whole self with me into the work.

(Later, I will tell you about the fabulous nursery tree that found me this morning.)

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Late afternoon.

Dinner is on the fire. The sky is so deep, so incredibly blue, dotted with clouds so white.  The water mirrors their grandeur.

I have had a little rum. I am incompetent for anything requiring balance, so I sit upon this rock, soaking in the beauty.

We paddled over to explore Queer Lake this morning, after a fulfilling breakfast upon this rock, the conversation with my friend nourishing me in ways far deeper than the physical.  The paddle was windy, then calm; the exploration ordinary yet beautiful, meandering into quiet coves in search of the elusive – moose and/or tomorrow’s portage trail sign,  autumn glimpsing at us from behind her veil on ridges and rises, especially when the light hit her eyes just right.

A simple afternoon, stopping for lunch at an ordinary, yet lovely, unused campsite (they were all unused except one, where a sole paddler was packing up to depart), returning for some gentle exploration of the land surrounding the place where we have pitched our tents. So much fecundity …roots exposed, wetlands dripping, moose droppings, impenetrable young growth…kept us from reaching the small pond indicated on the map. Though we were close enough to hear her flow, we were content enough to let her keep her secret.

Oh yes! ….the Nursery Tree!, this morning, predawn, rising from the tent to visit the box, the beam from my headlamp alighting straightaway on the nursery tree. The remains of an old great one supporting a new growing sapling, the young one’s arms literally wrapped around the old one’s dying. Well, this felt like the very definition of  ‘Nurturing Generativity’ to me! Something young and vibrant, being fed, growing from that which has fallen. At first this felt like a worn out invitation, once again, to sacrifice myself, to ‘lay down my life’ for another, and I resisted heartily that this could be the sacred totem for which I had asked before falling to sleep last night. Yet, there was no denying the impact she had upon me.

Almost as quickly came the subtle correction from her. The invitation is for me to finally let go of what has passed, died in me, and to let it provide nourishment for what has been longing to (re)emerge in me, to provide fodder somehow for what has been waiting, for what has been growing in me,

To at last lay down my life for the sake of my soul

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