This Far North

On the island of bicycles and horses, we peeled the compass rose petal by petal. The craggy shoreline sprayed Lake Huron's dramatic memoir – sometimes angry, sometimes at peace. Pine trees stacked upon each other higher than any path and their dense green mounds kept reaching and reaching, clear against the sky. This far north, I could breathe. This far north, my blood buzzed with belonging or recognition or knowing.

At night, stars leaked through the blackness all at once into a great stillness. Huron's half moon slipped in and out of filmy clouds, but it was still easy to see every thing. No manmade lights were visible and no sounds other than crickets interrupted the silvery silence. One can hear one's own heartbeat in the unbearable immensity. How I imagine things to be has no place this far north; there is only this reality.

The Monarch has miles of milkweed bloom to visit this far north. Even along the windward side of the island, butterflies would alight against gusts and sway and breeze. Watching them feed, my mind was settled yet very alive. There was no agenda in observation, only presence. Only natural proximity. Only a holy passing of one moment to the next.

Previous wanderers stacked the lake's stones in cairns all the way around the island. It's a joy to come upon the first one, but something a little less after that. Every now and again, the smell of horses would tangle with the indomitable air off the lake. Belgian Drafts pull wagons and flatbeds up the lane. Their power ripples with every step and thusly, a wave of awe registers. Which other creature offers such radiance?

Up this far north, the lightening bugs flashed a bluer light. This glinting asked if a love could exist outside one's longing. The sages say so. I'm not sure what to think anymore. I'm tired of thinking it all through and would now rather rest in the excellency of light as it touches each branch and stone and grain of sand.

Yet thinking or not thinking, the tidal ebb and flow remains. On the bed, in this northern light, the process for allowing it all begs for gentleness and truth. These words are the honesty that keeps asking for a stage. Please applaud now.