One thing I have never been able to accomplish in my short life I guess is contentment. Looking back that seems like a double edged sword lingering over my head. Part of me always looked forward to getting out into the world, the new world, seeing new places, new roads, new bands, new faces, new mountains, never letting myself hit the "repeat" button. This "New World" in a way did in fact lead me to a contentment I guess in which I always knew that I would be looking for something new when the sun rose the next day. But, upon a recent life changing turn in my life I believe I came to a crossroad, one of probably many in my ever-changing life, in which I have had to look at life as a sort of model, like the ones we used to get as kids with the little battery propelled motor and such which in turn we would affix to other simple machines thus making a moving(usually in some means) object such as an old vintage Volkswagen Beetle or an old P38 Lightning fighter jet that we would subsequently crash before takeoff. In the end we seem to all be just that, simple machines. It may be our beautiful fault, or, our beautiful secret, either/or. The problem, at least in my case, is it seems like I have lost or most likely have never realized that, in finality, human lives, my life, is most efficient when I am open to our world, this world, but at the same time closed to what my/our world calls "progressiveness", "technology", or "the road to success".
I vividly remember parts of my early childhood. Behind the old pines that pressed up against our home like a woken cat lay a trail that was quite trodden though it seemed I was the only one to ever dare traverse it. It led past the blueberry grove which seemingly always produced rather large berries. Ones that to this day I have yet to see their equal. And eventually through an opening in the overgrowth and salmon berry bushes that, on a sunny day, I could stop and gaze as far as my young yet already weary eyes could see. I remember how it led to an old what must have been machining shop of some kind. Old woodworking and metal working tools littered the walls and floors almost seemingly balancing between the broken soggy planks, victims of the Pacific Northwest's fervent rains, and the decade(s) old clumps of pine needles which seemed to like to huddle together like they were devising a plan. I remember every broken window, every rusty nail, whose location it seemed I knew by the counted paces from the front sliding door. Yet the trail led even further out and behind the old shed. It came to a "Y" which to me always seemed like an easy decision, the one leading into the dark forest because after all, it had the secrets. I always tended to turn over the stone to see what lurked underneath, to unlock the secrets, to see what went on when our gazes were elsewhere, when no one was listening. Stunningly was that it was a huge, unending world that seemed to all fit in just over an acre near the coast of southern Oregon.
I can remember every broken branch, every dead sparrow carcass lining the path and where I buried them. I always buried them, they deserved it. Yet, now I find it hard, almost impossible to memorize a simple dance step for a sister in laws wedding. Simplicity is in all things big and small. It will be a delight in finding it once more.