27 July, 2014

Week Two: I See a World

I imagine that I'm someplace high. A vantage point of sorts. Perhaps a cliff watching over a deep valley, or a mountaintop that feels like a compass needle pointing to infinity. I see every direction, in every dimension.

I imagine the tapestry of infinity, woven in energy's loom and all laid out above and below me. It is the greatest art, vast beyond reason. Neither created nor destroyed, only changed from one colour to the next. I imagine that I am not colourblind.

How can I see infinity? In truth, I cannot. Its weave stretches beyond every horizon, a living canvas of endless possibilities. From far away it resembles coloured sands, forever blown and sifted by what if and remember when and that's impossible. That which is infinitely many seems to move as one.

I gaze across incredible distance to the edge of my eventualities, the limit of my perception. I wonder when my path will take me beyond the horizon. I cannot perceive the curvature of time, much as I cannot see the curvature of the earth when I look across the prairies, but I know that an eternity from now I will find myself standing at this place again, once every moment between now and then has been resolved. 

I look closer. And then I imagine me. Every cell, every molecule in my body a fibre much to small to see on its own. Look, crouch down a moment and run your fingers along the fabric. Follow the twines and the knots just here, there's an inch of infinity, this red thread. I'm a blink in measureless space before I go to weave something new.

I see a world of colours diving through a canvas of time. I reel with the overwhelming chaos of it all. Too much. My brain screams for want of patterns, familiarity, something to recognize or someplace to start.

I choose a cord. A thick bundle of green like vines climbing a kaleidoscopic lattice, constantly changing direction, gathering new threads and casting others away, sometimes with such power that they fly beyond my sight. I lose years in seconds watching it unravel.

And then it's gone. I am lost with nothing to follow but the anxiety that arrives in its place, and I wonder if I will ever find myself again. An inch of infinity is so tiny. The path I followed was never straight. There is no hope of tracing my way back.

Where is my red thread? Must be somewhere in this reticulated picture of time, I suppose. I am hidden inside an infinite collection of moments that have come to resemble a single reddened inch in this eternal maze of creation. Come find me.

Images and patterns bloom and burst and disappear, in and out of time. I would panic if not for my fascination. Where am I? Every time I shift my gaze I find a new swath of technicolour possibilities rolling through the fabric like waves in an endless field of grain.

I reach for a thread. As I touch the canvas, my finger splits into a million tiny fibres and interlaces with infinity. I follow. And as I dissolve into a crimson spiral and feel the universe envelop me with a boundless embrace, I wonder... how far will I reach before my thread runs out? Who will weave with me?

If only for a moment, I have received this breath, this gift, this inch of red. Only for a moment before I have to give it back. And I see a world where colours clash and I think, 

if only.

If only I could make a gift befitting the love I long to see, I would give all my thread. I would give every fibre to the dream of a finer infinity, if only the soul who came after to this peak of perception would see a tiny swatch of red spinning just so, and say,

beautiful.


21 July, 2014

Week One: Taking Steps

It's time to start writing again. I'm not writing on a daily basis, and this blog has been vital to my writing process in the past. It's like the t-shirt in my closet that I can't bear to give away, even though I'll go months at a time without wearing it.

I started in July, 2011 and wrote for 20 weeks. I went again in February, 2013 and wrote for 26 weeks. This time I'm aiming for 32 weeks. Wish me luck.





I hadn't planned to walk on fire. 

I'm camping with my tribe of body ritual practitioners on a beautiful lake shore, beneath a canopy of green in the shadow of the Lillooet and Douglas mountains. I feel an early bedtime coming on, but my partner joins me beside the fire and someone hands me a djembe, so I stay. And I play the drum slow and steady while the logs burn low. 

It's story time. We listen to tales about fiery celebrations and Hindu gods, sacred flames and cleansing embers that turn the past into ash. Instructions are proffered, dangers acknowledged. Feet shuffle and coals beckon.

It scares me every time, says the firemaker.

He rakes the coals smooth and straight and long. He steadies himself, and then he takes the first walk. Another drum finds its way into the circle. We play with excitement and resonance. My friends take the firemaker's hand one-by-one and walk the glowing red path. The moon is huge and full and yellow, and feels terribly appropriate for the proceedings.

Suddenly, a quandary. I want to walk. I must not miss this experience. Firewalking while drumming is not one of my skills, but losing the rhythm is not acceptable. I make eye contact with a friend who can keep a steady beat, then I clench the djembe between my thighs and waddle towards him, playing all the while, until I have delivered my drum.

It's my turn. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, that's what they say. My heart outpaces the steady djembe rhythms. I reach for a welcoming hand.

Hi John, I made a fire for you. 
Thank you.

The coals look like red silk sugarcoated with ash. Everything is otherworldly. I feel like I'm in that scene in a movie where the camera zooms to a glowing focal point in slow motion, and everything else goes blurry.

I take a deep breath. I walk. The firemaker holds my hand and I take measured, deliberate steps. Straight up, straight down. Don't curl your toes, you don't want to pick up hot coals. Second step, third step. An ember sticks to my left foot and I feel it immediately. My body tries to speed up. 

Get out of here, move! 

But I resist. Careful, deliberate. Another two steps. I feel another ember stick to my right foot and it interrupts my breath. Another step. Almost there, don't run. Three more steps, keep breathing. 

I step onto the grass. My feet are burning but I don't care. I am exhilarated. A good friend and mentor stands with his arms open and I dive into a bearhug. 

Let me feel your power, he exclaims! 

I imagine what all the energy coursing through my body might look like in this moment. I imagine glowing red and electric blue and neon yellow lines of flux that resonate all through me and arc across my limbs and sing in time with the drums. Flames dance through my vision. There's never been a better time to be on fire. 

My hands are shaking. I drift over to my where my partner waits for me, and I take her hand. I step into a bucket of cold water. 

You just walked on fire, she says. Holy schmoly. 
I know. Feels good, man. 

My body feels charged, like I could shoot sparks from my fingers. I drop into a chair and feel my heart pounding against my chest. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like they say. Deep breaths. I wriggle my dripping toes in the cool dirt and let the fire sink into the earth through my radiating feet.

I walked on fire.