How long has it been? Shivering in a gravel car park at Chesterman with frost on the truck window, pulling on 4 or 5 mm’s of yesterday’s chill waiting for my body heat to return between the sessions and words and trips to the Storm shop for t-shirts with skeletons beneath the waves, and the story goes,
‘and the sea shall give up it’s dead….’
The voices call out from rocky shorelines with tall pines and beach breaks and their boney fingers poke at my flesh where the seal is weak around my wrists and neck, where a rush of reality brings me back to a city full of cars and lights and 6:00am alarms.
The fog slips in between the fish filter noise and the white screens where my wife ‘Liked’ the Storms and Stories session in Tofino with Leslie Anthony and my life long nemesis, stretching, er, yoga. Writing and storms and struggling between the waves of this life and that and a dip in a frigid ocean to stand up and say…say anything.
On the mountain, and in these stories, the tribe is a band of brothers and sisters who don’t need to say but we do. We pull each other in beyond the chimneys and rooftops, up the ladders and under the ropes, and past the boardrooms and trains and loved ones lost and empty lines on mountains like the next empty page in a Moleskine journal and poems from my nine year old boy a year away from his mountain home and our long walks in gum boots and puffy Patagonia’s on those beaches once upon a time not so long ago.
(And if you read that entire sentence without stopping for a breath you are with me…)
The voices of singing women are calling from the rocks just there beneath the waves. If you listen you will hear them and see their green eyes and long tails and taste the salty lips of forever, and, if you are lucky, awake in the moment before you kiss their drowning mouths.
How long has it been? How long between that place where I found so many words and right here right now. Maybe it is time to go there again and find the words to say.