i believe it was age 12 when i first heard talk about "finding one's self" and i know we all perceive life and change and "finding' differently. every word can have a hundred meanings. for me, finding has been quite literal and this morning i find myself in front of the fire, which i build every morning and keep stoked throughout the day, it warms us and we cook all our meals on it. i find myself with a heap of work ahead of me and no sure path as to how i will finish it. i find myself indebted to the ones who i love, i find myself tired, out of sorts and hazy. uncontrollably aware of the human condition.
outside, smoke drifts from our chimney and melds with the low cloud cover, a fog, i watch as it slowly lifts to reveal the small mountain that rests in our easterly view. i see five trumpeter swans fly by with their long necks guiding them, a hopeful weather vain pointing to better weather. we wander around the property, made up of patchy plots with patchy houses connected by a skeletal driveway system. tall trees, fir, spruce, maple, and windbreaks of poplars tower over us. the dog chases her shadow and sniffs at the winter's rot. a light rain starts and we stop to feel it on our faces, drops drip from my hat and fall to my boots, i follow them as they seep into the glowing moss under my feet. a neighbour emerges from his shed as we pass, his faces tells of hardship and his hands, perseverance. we exchange quiet hellos and follow the gravel home.
the warmth of this mornings fire greets our return and the house smells of coffee, i sit in front of my easel in the old paint splattered chair i found in someone's yard in victoria and i add a few more brush strokes to the painting i am working on. i think of the porridge and eggs we ate for breakfast and i think about income, i think about the sun and i miss it, i think about output and beauty and i think about frustration and music. i think about ideas and wonder if you are aware of yours.