Shadows in the jungle are where sol does not shine but life continues to pulse and prey.
Returning to the finca, a widow, riddled with emotional bullets to the heart is not for the weak in the knees, or the gut. Too many memories of what could have been . . . living in a smirch of a dream state inside the next twenty hours spin on the blue marble.
Putting one’s human non-status quo into the here and now is a focus difficult to procure, at this stage of non-being. I float below, more than above.
Maybe I am lost forever or maybe I was always lost and Arthur was my sea anchor? Dunno know how to extract myself from doldrums except by paddling my pithing birch bark canoe around the barrel of pity potting and purge/write about it. Venting it here could be the singular therapeutic value of my blog, and every blog?
I am not alone on this pond of grief. As bumper cars at the carnival, the waterways of humanity are littered with the walking wounded, some with no idea how to rent a pair or oars let alone launch their craft or give the Carnie guy their ticket to ride.
Thank God Hoopoe is attentively cyber here with his arms under mine, keeping me afloat from going under as rogue waves twirl around the barrel. Family is Skype waving from the shore. Friends, the real ones, keep throwing out a line with a life preserver on the end, none alike in form or shape, yet each just misses my bow. Stuck in a cosmic spiral/whoop whirlpool, me and my canoe spin and spin, slower and slower, not faster and faster.
The mantra this too shall pass – what a friggin’ lie. Woe never leaves us if we give a shit.
My self-induced consciousness is this – it is God’s plan to remind us that stripping our human arrogance to micro sheds is part of the dance. This funky neo-process defines how thick is our mettle and how deep is our soul. No karmic-matter what we do, or think, or create, or build, or share, or love, or hate, or make, our species is actually a spiritually wimpy ass one.
When we unexpectedly get left behind, a macro rip cuts through the center of our innards. It is nearly unbearable for a distinctive miserable reason. The too private way to close the bleeding wound is to find a larger than life needle and thread and ask God to sew the f**ker up.
Heart-felt humans mourn for lost countries, lost family, lost lovers, lost friends, lost works, lost pets, lost faith, lost civilizations, lost philosophies, lost faith, lost inspiration, lost lives, and even lost politics. Lately, in unison with Hoopoe, we envision a beautiful path set with alabaster stepping-stones conveniently LED lit (read if cognizant). These stones are a mixed bag of shapes. The laser incised ones are decorated with ancient symbols and others with arabesque designs glow electric Nile blue. Follow the Alabaster glowy road as the way to the other side?
This new, yet old as the pyramids coordination, is a sign even I can get back up, off my green and blue knuckles, and proceed into the next stage of God’s plan for this jerky over sensitive persona (read the author of this stupidity, me).
Walking up banks of forty-eight shades of greenery and down into arroyos of violet blue shadows eventually leads one to a crystal light. It is a humblizing act of faith, if not a measure of love given.
Putting one Guatemalan booted foot in front of the other is at times worse than taking bamboo splinters out from underneath one’s exposed toenails, but what other choice is there at twenty-eight years, nine months, and eleven days of trudging along being sober and clean one day at a time?
It is like the Mets (read baseball team) fan chant – “Ya gotta believe.”
Is this not the exhaling truth of making a re-invented life charitable, elegant, and secure, Hoopoe? If not, then please smoke signal what is.
 Humblizing = one of my made-up words. If you need a definition, best you move onto someone else’s blog. Capiche?