The Day After Facing the Dragon in a Rowboat

Maybe They're Just Waiting to Take
a Rowboat For a Ride in the Bay

Thank you, readers.   My time spent grieving yesterday, was well spent.  Very well spent.

This morning I felt a lot lighter.  I had taken the dragon by the neck and spun it around a few times so I could prove to myself I wasn't afraid of the beast!

I'm writing this morning before I Skype my friend, Birim, in Istanbul, go to my voice lesson (with Kate) at the U of M Music Department, and start packing for my visit, with the DeSelms, in Nashville.

Picture of Rowboat in Istanbul

I read an excellent book called "First You Have to Row a Little Boat", by Richard Bode recently.  I was at my brother Tim's house,  last week, and found it in his glass case bookshelf, facing me.  I was up at 5 a.m. and thought there must be a reason that book was staring me in the face, so I opened the oak-framed glass door.  I took the small book out, sat down and started a unexpected journey through part of my youth-hood.

The handwriting on the inside cover looked familiar.  With its calligraphy-type strokes and confident signature, signed "Dad"   It said:

To Tim, #10   Who First Rowed a Little Boat    Love, Dad    

I have to say, I thought it would be full of "BOAT" jargon. I had already decided, in my mind, it wouldn't be something I could sit and read without yawning quite a bit.(especially at 5 a.m.)

I started it and had to get my journal/notebook, so I could write down notes and things that spoke to me.  I knew I would be wanting to quote this author and needed to have page numbers so I could go back for the accurate words.

Bode described sitting in the dinghy-facing stern. "We can't always see forward as we navigate through the water."  and he talked about finding out  "destination is somewhere behind me",  "Where I was headed from where I had been."

On page 100,  Bode writes:

"In the aftermath of my parents' death I had vowed to never love again, for to love was to risk more than I could bare to lose.  I had pushed my sadness so far down into the base of my being that I didn't even know it was there.  Death does that to us, it's so irrevocable, so absolute, we would rather deny its existence than face up to our sorrow and pass through our pain."

I faced some pain yesterday.  I let it be what it was.  I let it hit me and I hit back.  Writing was very therapeutic for me during the process of grieving.  Some of my readers let me know they shared my pain by reading my blog.  It's a nice feeling to know I'm connected to the human race.  Even though it's not a race, it's a slow trip rowing the boat through unpredictable waters.   On page 48, Bode says, "…they mistake motion for accomplishment, as if they think they can defy their destiny if they move fast enough."  

I can feel the oars in my hands, I can picture the unpredictability of the water, the dock in the way, the shallow water, the wake from the ferry boats.  Being mindful of the present.  I look back as I row, but I have to constantly adjust how much power I put in each stroke, with each hand on the oars.  I can only glance at the future to get my  bearings, so I don't lose sight of my direction.   The greatest feeling from this memory is the moment.  

Carl, at Brevort Lake,
Bode says, "Daydreaming boys is father to a daydreaming man."

The clear, blue water, the seagulls, the sound of the ferry boat horn, the sound of the oars moving,  with the thud-sound as it changes direction when it's lifted out of the water. The oar hitting the water,  slurping as it pushes,  moving me forward.  I even hear sloshing of the water inside the boat, left there from the rain.  Too impatient to get out in the bay, I hated to take the time to scoop it out.

On page 51, "We never fully arrive…" 

Summer Sunset at Brevort Lake

  

One more quote from Bode I wish I had written:

"But, the world can't be controlled; it's patently not controllable-that's the only physical principal I know for sure."

View of Bridge from Mackinaw City Side