Nautical Gypsy Wordsmith

I was graced by my friend Deb with the moniker of “Nautical Gypsy Wordsmith”—of all the things I could be on this planet, that is “It” in my book—and in my heart; for this Nautical Gypsy not only sails the seas of the ocean, but also the star sea, and the heart sea—allowing me even to go to the desert lands Sedona; skim the flanks of “Lady” Mingus Mountain, sheltering the Verde Valley, Arizona, where I was graced to live for 16 years, and to which I will bi-annually return upon my relocation to the Pacific Northwest in 2018. 

While ‘waltzing with an anchor’ brings up difficult images, being anchored, at least having a ‘harbor’ to which I can return and drop anchor, a port in the storm, is physically and psychically necessary, and renewing. We all need “pause” — “time out” — a place where it is safe “to stand in the gap” —  in refuge from that gremlin, 'the pursuit of perfection.' Embarking on this wordsmith journey, the carrier-wave upon which I hope to bring deeply explorative considerations of freedom and joy, two REALLY good reasons to be here in the planet. As I started this wordsmith journey, December 1st, there was a niggle in me, of: “Wonder if I 'miss the boat?'—my ‘word-arrows’ miss the mark (originally, 'sin' means missing the mark, and is still a term used by archers), or, the worry of "maybe I should have taken more minutes, hours (days, weeks?) —really honed those words, polished them up until their surfaces were satin-sheened, like the patinated ebony and ivory keys of a piano." 

Well, I didn’t do that, though -- I just plunged in, tail (tale) and all, into these waters of blogging. I didn’t wait to get perfect; I only waited till I got ‘ready.’ That’s a heady word: what is it, and how is it, that we know when we are ‘ready’ for something? Was I ready to get married when I did? Not as ready as I thought--I found I had to grow into it, grow a deeper, wider and wiser sense of what it was all about. Was I ready when my husband passed in a most difficult death? No — I wailed, in deep distress, internally, and externally, at times—years later.  

The other day, I had a woman share with me that she had never loved, and she was musing to me whether it was better to have loved and lost, or to have never have loved at all—therefore avoiding the pain of the loss. I answered unequivocally, without hesitation: ‘to have loved and lost,’ explaining that I would willingly pay the price again of potential loss should that kind of love show up in my life again. We all make our choices, and they are to be honored—and, I am so glad I was willing to put up with the ‘gaff’ of that loss, what at times truly made me feel that I had been impaled, because I am a far-richer and deeper sea-ed woman, deeped in the mysteries of the stars, sea, land and love—and I would have it no other way. I came to the Earth to learn this, amongst other things: the amazing, spontaneous joy that can spray out around you in a halo of water droplets when a wave crashes a rock right next to you; the strange sense of “thank you” that comes when you’ve been too spacey, and being so, you slip on sandstone rock and the ground slaps you back into some kind of coherence.   

Experience is the event, but it is in the later organic, or deliberate, ‘naming and claiming’ – the defining and contemplation that it becomes integrated into us, a part of our way of seeing and being in this world. At least while we are on this earth, we are, more than anything, a creatures of story--of our wordsmithing. Our bones know that as a species on this planet, we have sat by the campfires intrigued, spellbound, by the sharing of stories: we still are. We sit around the pale fires of our TV’s, computers, smart phones, big screen movie theaters, Christmas plays and candle lit dinner tables of a winter’s night—telling stories: from brief snatches of “Oh—I saw Meg down at McGregor’s Mercantile,” to deep, nuanced, richly narrated yarns of love, exploits and adventures: Sea (see)-tales.  

I grew up with a variety of traditional, albeit watered-down, fairy tales (tails--navigating systems)—including The Arabian Nights. The ones that most captured me in those very early years were the ones about flying carpets, horses and ships—and Aladdin’s lamps. They bespoke to me of possibilities, being able to reach into exotic lands and seas of both body and spirit—the rich scent of spices and brews, strains of music floating like scarves over the sand dunes, rippling of moonlight on a satin night sea; firelight gleaming from another’s eyes in the flashes of recognition and knowingness that is kindled in us when we are in proximity of a resonant soul. Our eyes tell unspoken stories, the body is always telling us stories about what it senses and feels. A Sony executive was asked how he so consistently made success-building decisions: his answer—I ask my stomach, “Yes? — or no?”—explaining that it never lied to him, as the head is wont to do.  

So, as we enter into the winter deep and candle cheer, when we dive below the surface of culturally cultivated frantic-ness, not-enough-ness, what we didn’t do, can’t have or how we don’t measure up . . . we have the opportunity to pause, to stand for some very long moments in the gap, in The Silence, to drink deep from the well of the stars and the mysteries of the night seas, and our very souls—that reminds us to our natural state of joy and freedom, to celebrate this divine inheritance with all of our fellow soul-lights in the velvet darkening of winter.