pick up trash Archives - Owl Medicine: Shamanic Healing

Random Discoveries? – Photo: L.Weikel

Random Discoveries

How many times have I mused about the random discoveries we make in our day to day lives that actually feel like they’re messages? How many times have I picked up trash beside the road or looked at a billboard I’ve looked at a million times before and known with absolute certainty that it was meant for me to find or see in that moment? Even seemingly random tickets in line at the DMV can feel like a Hallmark card to me. Yeah, this is a theme I come back to over and over again.

I’ve made some pretty bizarre discoveries in the decades we’ve walked and picked up trash along the way. The other day was one of the odder discoveries. But in a peculiar way (naturally), I made a connection between what I found crumpled and tossed into the thicket beside my country road and my son – whose presence I’d felt very close recently.

I’d seen his initials on license plates at least half a dozen times over the past two days. I overheard random mentions of ‘1111’ or turned my head quickly when someone called out, “Karl!” in the grocery store. (No one was with me at the time.)

These things happen occasionally and they make me smile. Sometimes I ache and wish the connection was stronger or could segue into a conversation, but I’ll take what I can get. I’ll feel the hug. I’ll send the love right back at ya, Karl.

An Odd One

But the discovery the other day was different. I noticed the papers crumpled up in the grass as I walked by. The grass is tall along the roadside at that spot and initially I only saw one wad of paper. The other was actually a few paces further along.

The first one I picked up, while balled up, was still fully intact. It was clearly a poem ripped out of a book. So was the other, but that one had been ripped with less care, the bottom corner obviously remaining with the binding.

“What’s the message, Spartacus?” I asked as he eagerly nosed the balled up waste and looked expectantly toward me for a treat. Absently, I fished for a treat in my pocket and tossed it to him, which he deftly snagged mid-air.

Tucking the leash under my arm, I used both hands to smooth the page. I felt my heart skip just a bit faster. “Huh,” I said. “Good one, Karl.”

Poetry Thicket – Photo: L. Weikel

A Poem

Here in the middle of nowhere (see the photo above), I found a poem entitled ‘the bluebird.’ Not being a poet myself, nor a student of that genre, I had a feeling I should probably know who wrote this, but of course I didn’t. My Google search once I got home immediately yielded the name of Charles Bukowski.

Its words are haunting. And I can easily imagine my son thinking some of the thoughts expressed in the piece. But beyond that, it reminds me of Karl because he played the part of Moonface Martin in the musical Anything Goes when he was in 7^th grade. He had a solo: Be Like the Bluebird.

I can’t even credit the book from which the pages were torn. But the two poems (I’ll share the other one tomorrow night) feel raw and important; at least important enough for me to pay attention to them and give them another venue in which to be read and contemplated. Do they hold a message for you? For me? For any of us?

Or are they just random discoveries?

the bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I’m not going

to let anybody see

you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pour whisky on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that

he’s

in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the

works?

you want to blow my book sales in

Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody’s asleep.

I say, I know that you’re there,

so don’t be

sad.

then I put him back,

but he’s singing a little

in there, I haven’t quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact

and it’s nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don’t

weep, do

you?

(T-161)

Wild Sky – Walking Home Last Night; Photo: L. Weikel

I Walk

See, it’s the little things that make me realize my mortality. Or at least realize I’m no longer 42.

I walk. That’s my primary means of getting exercise, with a random yoga class thrown in sporadically just to remind me of what flexibility might feel like.

Karl and I almost always walk together. And we try to walk every day. Walking together has been the backbone of our marriage.

We have our ‘usual route’ – the one we’ve walked consistently for the past 34 years. Although truth be told, in the very earliest years that we lived here, we probably were largely inconsistent.

And we take a plastic grocery store bag with us every single time we take a walk.

Never Walk Without a Bag Stuffed In My Pocket

I have to admit, picking up trash while we walk is the most natural thing in the world to me. It’s such an integral part of my psyche that I try to always have an extra bag in my pocket just in case I’m walking somewhere and I see stuff that needs to be picked up. (And as we all know, it is rare to go anywhere and not see – at the very least – cigarette butts on the ground.)

But this is not a post about trash. It’s a post about walking; or at least that’s what I intended when I started this evening.

The route Karl and I almost always take measures 2.2 miles from doorway to doorway. Occasionally we’ll have enough time and flexibility to make it ‘around’ twice, but lately, at least, that’s been a bit challenging.

Piling On the Mileage

So it took its toll yesterday when, in a fit of pique I set off to one of our County Parks. (‘High Rocks,’ which we pass every day, is a State Park.) Karl and I had already walked around once (during which a disagreement between us took shape), but then I strode to Tohickon Valley Park after our failure to resolve our mutual irritations reached an extra special level of misunderstanding. Once at the park, I used one of the spanking new wooden picnic tables to write in my journal, an exercise that actually yielded a lot more clarity and compassion than I was expecting. The sun set shortly thereafter, thus closing the park, so I packed up and made the return trek home.

All told, including my initial 2.2 miles with Karl, I walked 7.6 miles yesterday.

Then today I walked a total of 8 miles even.

Yep. And I can attest: I can barely keep my eyes open. But the most interesting aspect of this is how much my feet ache. I never would’ve guessed that aching feet would be the predominant sequelae to my walking barely 8 miles a day. That just sounds so – mundane, I guess. But here I am.

Aching Feet – But Some Great Benefits, Too

But aside from the aching feet (and looking like I’m about 100 years old when I first get up from the couch to retrieve something from another room), I feel great on many levels.

I love logging some significant miles under my belt – if nothing else, it gives me an area of life that I can playfully compete with my son. (AS IF.) (He’s a runner and is starting to train for bigger and better competitions, so…the tracking of my mileage is just a fun distraction ‘thing’ we do for laughs.)

I also love/hate pushing myself a bit more. Our baseline 2.2 miles is a wonderful daily practice (and is essential to our pups’ health and happiness as well), but I can feel a difference when I walk for more miles.

I’ve slept like a rock. And I’m hoping the extra miles will burn off the after-effects of the recent spate of birthday cakes a bit more quickly.

Inspiration and Change

But my greatest wish/desire/goal? I’m hoping this increased time spent directly one-on-one with Mother Earth will inspire me to whip open my laptop upon my return each day and work enthusiastically on my next project. While I’ve had the rough material ready to write for decades, I know my perspective shifts with each extra day I live, and I am eager to see the direction my tale ultimately takes. (That’s where some trust comes in.)

There is change in the air. My goal is to harness that change and apply it to my body, my attitude, my service, and my life in general. One step at a time. One picked-up cigarette butt at a time. One typed word at a time.

But in the meantime…I’m going to get some sleep!