Saturday Muses in Meat Camp

Today, like many of you, I'm dealing with feelings I'd rather not be dealing with.

Anger.  Sadness.  Confusion.  Fear.  

Usually I am able to write out my feelings.  Not necessarily to share with anyone other than myself, but a way to sort of connect the dots of my brain, my heart, and my soul in an attempt to get them all on the same wavelength.

Right now that's just not working out for me.  I'm struggling with expressing all this.

So I'm seeking expression from other outlets.  

As I struggle I embrace "home."

My home is, and has always been, my sanctuary.  Even back when I was young, divorced, poor, working two jobs, living payday to payday in a small apartment by myself.  Make no mistake - these were, honestly, happy years.  But more about all that at a later date . . . 😊

Home - Sanctuary

 Now more than ever.

If my tendencies toward reclusiveness take that turn into agoraphobia, it'll be now.  It could happen.

And, sometimes a picture truly is worth a thousand words.

 

And a little meme or two can sum it up, for me, quite nicely.

I refer to home as my nest, and I feather it with pretties.

and books (and stuff)

It's where Donald brings me little treasures.

It's where I dream.

It's where my heart lives.

It's where I can wear any hat I choose

It's where I remind myself to stand up straight, remember who raised me and start quoting, aloud, important life lessons

And remember to take breaks from life to feed my soul.

Today I'm choosing to feed my soul with beauty.

With the beauty of images and the beauty of words.  Art, music, poetry - you know - the important stuff.

I hope you all are doing a little of the same.

Take good care of yourself.

* * *

Ithaka

When you set out for Ithaka
ask that your way be long,
full of adventure, full of instruction.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - do not fear them:
such as these you will never find
as long as your thought is lofty, as long as a rare
emotion touch your spirit and your body.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - you will not meet them
unless you carry them in your soul,
unless your soul raise them up before you.

Ask that your way be long.
At many a Summer dawn to enter
with what gratitude, what joy -
ports seen for the first time;
to stop at Phoenician trading centres,
and to buy good merchandise,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensuous perfumes of every kind,
sensuous perfumes as lavishly as you can;
to visit many Egyptian cities,
to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.

Have Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But don't in the least hurry the journey.
Better it last for years,
so that when you reach the island you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.
Ithaka gave you a splendid journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She hasn't anything else to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka hasn't deceived you.
So wise you have become, of such experience,
that already you'll have understood what these Ithakas mean.

         - - - Constantine P. Cavafy

Tuesday - Home, and what I brought with me

 Home.  ❤

776.2 miles (roundtrip) and 7 days later.

I'm home.

Someone once said, "there's no place like home."

Dorothy, honey, you know it's the truth.

https://introvertdear.com/news/why-theres-no-place-like-home-for-introverts/

The long drive home from St. Helena Island to Meat Camp was approximately 341 miles, and with a few brief stops to refresh my weary bones, took me about seven hours.

It's been a long time since I did that sort of drive alone.

Usually Donald does the driving.  He enjoys driving.

Me?  Not so much.

Although, driving long stretches I do sort of slide into a Zen mode which is good for thinking and reflecting.

I had lots to reflect on driving back home to The High Country after my week in The Low Country.  These two areas could not be more different.  They both have their own essence of nature and character.  Their differences are sharp, crisp, and in some demesne, quite stark.

After some time to ponder my week in order to form words coherent enough to put to paper, I'll share my thoughts.

In the meantime, I'll do what I do here so often and share some images.

I am like a lot of people when it comes to traveling; I pick up souvenirs.  Things that hold particular meaning and remembrances of the place of origin.

Images embedded in my mind of the experience.

Of the culture

Of the people trying their ever best to save pieces of their culture that are in danger of disappearing.

And while I bring home memories important to myself,

I hope I show respect for the cultural integrity of The Low Country in my photos and in my words.

My Life is Good

Let me never forget

Thinking about hitting the road, while also appreciating home

 

Yes, yes, yes, my feet are itching to travel!

And yet, at heart, I'm a nester.

My home is where my heart is, surrounded by things I love - including photos and memories of past travels.  Souvenirs gathered and placed on a shelf, to be randomly picked up over the years to remind me of a moment in time, far far away.  A moment in a place at a time that may have changed me in some way.  Had me reaching for Donald's hand, to share a smile.

For the Traveler

Every time you leave home,
Another road takes you
Into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await.
New places that have never seen you
Will startle a little at your entry.
Old places that know you well
Will pretend nothing
Changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself
Alone in a different way,
More attentive now
To the self you bring along,
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad; and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune
To the timbre in some voice,
Opening in conversation
You want to take in
To where your longing
Has pressed hard enough
Inward, on some unsaid dark,
To create a crystal of insight
You could not have known
You needed
To illuminate
Your way.

When you travel,
A new silence
Goes with you,
And if you listen,
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing:
Make sure, before you go,
To take the time
To bless your going forth,
To free your heart of ballast
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life,
And the urgencies
That deserve to claim you.

May you travel in an awakened way,
Gathered wisely into your inner ground;
That you may not waste the invitations
Which wait along the way to transform you.

May you travel safely, arrive refreshed,
And live your time away to its fullest;
Return home more enriched, and free
To balance the gift of days which call you

                         - - - John O'Donohue

He who becomes the slave of habit,
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace,
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not experience,
dies slowly.

He or she who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
dotting ones i's rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer,
that turn a yawn into a smile,
that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,
dies slowly.

He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy,
who is unhappy at work,
who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,
to thus follow a dream,
those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives,
die slowly.

He who does not travel, who does not read,
who does not listen to music,
who does not find grace in himself,
she who does not find grace in herself,
dies slowly.

He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,
who does not allow himself to be helped,
who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops,
dies slowly.

He or she who abandons a project before starting it, who fails to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know, he or she who doesn't reply when they are asked something they do know,
dies slowly.

Let's try and avoid death in small doses,
reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.

Only a burning patience will lead
to the attainment of a splendid happiness

             - - -  Martha Medeiros 

And, on the other side of the travel coin, we have this, lest we forget the joys of home ❤ -

Consolation by Billy Collins

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer, wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns. How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets, fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots. There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous domes and there is no need to memorize a succession of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon. No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon’s little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass. How much better to command the simple precinct of home than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica. Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps? Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyed camera eager to eat the world one monument at a time? Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice, I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning paper, all language barriers down, rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way. And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner. I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window. It is enough to climb back into the car as if it were the great car of English itself and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna. From The Art of Drowning (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1995).

For more words about travel and life, click here

" . . . They represent a wide variety of views and are taken from different time periods. They raise questions, share the joys of travel, and remind us to not take it for granted. Enjoy!"

Me, on the road

at home,

in Boone, NC

Life While-You-Wait by Wislawa Szymborska

 

Life While-You-Wait.

Performance without rehearsal.

Body without alterations.

Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play.

I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot

just what this play’s all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,

I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.

I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.

I trip at every step over my own ignorance.

I can’t conceal my hayseed manners.

My instincts are for happy histrionics.

Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.

Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can’t take back,

stars you’ll never get counted,

your character like a raincoat you button on the run —

the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,

or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!

But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen.

Is it fair, I ask

(my voice a little hoarse,

since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).

You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz

taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.

I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is.

The props are surprisingly precise.

The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.

The farthest galaxies have been turned on.

Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere.

And whatever I do

will become forever what I’ve done.

Photo by Don Barley