To Feel Alive Again

I awoke this morning with a sense of expectation for possibilities. I had been trapped inside a bubble, weakened by a stomach running with bugs of African persuasion. I dare not ask why they entered my body or what gave them reason to hold on for so long, but needless to say I spent all of Saturday in bed. On this bright sunday morn I persuaded my weakened body to go to the pool and embrace the moment. It took some convincing, but i succumbed to ambition and headed towards the lucid waters.

Stroke, kick, stroke, kick, breath: there is something moving about rhythm and ritual. For in those spaces, our actions reflect the persuasion of the medulla oblongata: those automatic functions that require no conscious thought. The rhythms of the heart are matched by the cadence of the stroke from the swimmer. The times in life when our minds are not consciously engaged in "active thinking" is when the deeper level of thinking can take place. Dreams and values surface as we daydream about situations and conversations. This is the "time between times" when our subconscious breaks to the surface and showers us with insights inconceivable during higher level rationalizing.

I lounged in the pool with my arms stretched out on the hot tiles and observed the world around me. The breeze blew through the leafy trees with unregulated movements. The trees seemed to move with a natural bending and twisting, as if the wind was rubbing their backs and hitting just the right places. A small lizard sauntered past and pounced upon a potted lemongrass plant. He shimmied up to the edge and propped his arms onto the rim, supported by his skinny legs on the body of the planter below. Was he mimicking me? We looked at each other for a moment, both content in that moment to just be. After warming in the sun he was off. "Life is as it is," I thought. Just then, a butterfly, yellow as a lemon, floated by on tiny parcels of air. Buoyed by determination and luck it found its way to some destination. I was pleased with this good omen and decided to embrace the moment as this butterfly showed me how.

I jumped on the Yamaha Bronco and opened up the 225cc.s worth of pep for a ride into aburi hills, just north of Accra. The dark clouds over the hills were threatening, but the need to feel alive caused caution in the backseat (or in this case, tossed out all together). The rain drove hard as i climbed the hill up to Aburi. Those first few drops felt great as the road smelled fresh from the rain and I reminisced of times growing up in the wet town of Chilliwack. The sky grew dark and the light dim as I rode on to an unknown destination. My only goal: to feel alive.

I stopped in a town a little further past aburi and pulled out a book of poetry. The poem that resonated was this:

A sketch for a modern love poem

And yet whiteness

can be best described by greyness

a bird by a stone

sunflowers

in december

love poems of old

used to be descriptions of flesh

they described this and that

for instance eyelashes

and yet redness

should be described

by greyness the sun by rain

the poppies in november

the lips at night

the most palpable

description of bread

is that of hunger

there is in it

a humid porous core

a warm inside

sunflowers at night

the breasts the belly the thighs of Cybele

a transparent

source-like description

of water is that of thirst

of ash

of desert

it provokes a mirage

clouds and trees enter

a mirror of water

lack hunger

absence

of flesh

is a description of love

in a modern love poem.

By: Tadeusz Rozewicz

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As I sat on the motorbike soaked to the bone with giant towering cumulonimbus clouds stretching to the troposphere I thought about art. There is such beauty in the diversity of interpretation. Perhaps the greatest personal transformation that one undergoes as a person is when interpretation becomes one's own, rather than prescribed by cultural influences (parental, societal, and religious.) I thought of my childhood and religion. Could the Bible be considered a work of art? Could there be several interpretations accepted without one denomination claiming the corner on the market of sacred absolutes?

In my languid state I observed the clouds so full of movement showing off their variations of tone and shade. Subtle hints of blue swirled in the threatening mass of sombre greys and void blacks. The light was electric. Purple splashes of colour pasted in the form of delicate flowers on a shade tree. My mind turned to the poem. Can the best description of bread be hunger itself? Can love be described only with loneliness being central to its exposition? I played with thoughts as the tarmac passed beneath my feet. Can someone truly appreciate warmth without being exposed to the biting cold of a mid winters night? Perhaps love is best formed in the forge of bitter moments alone with oneself, left with only the choice to either walk away or into the pain of the past and the feeble hopes of the future - to sit in that present moment and embrace that which is.

I road on straight into a full force African rain squall. My body was beaten with driving rain chilled by the icy downdrafts of the giant storm cloud. After shivering for 15 minutes I pulled the bike over to find shelter under an awning. I opened the book of poetry. Another Polish poet touched my soul while my pants dripped to the same tempo of the falling rain.

The Same Inside

Walking to your place for a love feast

I saw at a street corner

an old beggar woman.

I took her hand,

kissed her delicate cheek,

we talked, she was

the same inside as I am,

from the same kind,

I sensed this instantly

as a dog knows by scent

another dog.

I gave her money,

I could not part from her.

After all, one needs someone who is close.

And then I no longer knew

why i was walking to your place.

By: Anna Swir

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I have been pondering compassion lately. In the moments of disconnect I ask myself: what is it to move with empathy? For compassion to be a first reaction and response or better yet, a proaction? What is possible in this world dictated by selfish desire?

The rains abated and I took the bike slowly down the steep incline happy for the chance to embrace the elements. As I shivered I laughed, for it felt good to be alive again.