SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
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Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
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Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Monday, Dec. 30, 2002 @ 5:38 pm
Sea Glass



I'm taking a deep breath, s l o w i n g down.

I'm tasting each bite and listening to every note. I'm calling her and her, listening to her problems and her daily whatevers. I'm drinking water and wearing my favourite sweater.

I read this morning. I struck a foothold in that towering pile of To Reads. I journeyed into the Deep South and away over to Tibet. And then I surfaced from my covers and ran down to the beach.

The sea was green, a light foggy green. The mountains were a jewel-toned blue in contrast to the tracing paper ocean. And the mountains melted into the grey clouds above. Choppy surf bobbed logs and terns, and it washed up onto the drying sand. Each wave revealed a new rolling assortment of flotsam, shells, and pebbles.

I gathered sea glass. The colour of the green pieces was astonishingly similar to the colour of the frothing ocean. The white pieces like quartz. The brown pieces hard to find against the scattered shining kelp. I gathered and gathered, promising myself I'd stop when I found an elusive blue piece. I gathered from Spanish down to Locarno, and when I reached Jericho I still had not found any soft blue pieces.

I jogged home with the glass clinking in my pocket with every step.

My heartbeat steadied. My mind cleared. Holiday blur falls away bringing with it my gathered frustration and jealousy.

I called Miss S. She met her 'dream guy'. She's flying on a wonder drug. I flew at her side, warning her of what happened to Icarus. She ignores. She tells more stories. All I can think about is the little clues that tell me he's not a dream at all. She can't see them, or else she won't. I understand. I've been there.

Now I'm stringing together a mobile of sea glass. It tinkles and sounds like Hornby Island. It sounds like summer beach cabins. It sounds like hammocks and running across the beach dragging kelp puppies.

I lived one dream: the farm. Will the next dream end with the bittersweet sadness that farm life has left me? It really makes me rethink everything I ever have hoped for. Nah, this farm just isn't the real deal. Nah, this farm isn't mine.


Roots | Shoots