Path of innocence

The significance of meeting my Writing Angel on the Yonge car stays with me, so here I am. Thought that I would share a song I wrote this past year as it narrates an event involving a childhood friend.  As a child, this experience was overwhelming and in response I moved away from my centre a little bit more.  Writing is a way to come back to myself. 

  I am not a musician, but several of my writing pieces this past year have been songs. Sometimes melodies come to me with the words, sometimes they do not. The words to this piece came easy to me, but it was heart wrecking work to write. 

Garden Gate

She lost her innocence just past the garden gate.

In a screened in porch,

popcans and cookies artfully 

placed on a plate.

She was the lamb

who entered the shower.

Sat on his lap

taken to slaughter.

She was the one blamed for being such a loud mouth.

Smoking an cussing,

showing up late.

While I felt like a coward,

she lost her innocence just past eight.

And I felt it all

outside the gate.

Wondering now if I could have stopped her, but I ran

like a stranger embracing escape.

                                                          c.  Onyx Uriarte 2010

There's that word again-" innocence" the Writing Angel used it when he said to me that his mermaids and innocence would overcome darkness. 

 When I look innocence up in the dictionary it means "free of all evil" or "foolishly trustful". 

When I look to the Mayan divination card  of New Myth (which I recently picked from the deck of cards- nice synchronicity here!) -this card speaks of noticing the metaphors of your daily life as the moments unfold.  To be present to now and creator of your own personal myth- purpose. And that this way of being is the path of trust, the path of innocence.

So what does this return to innocence really look like? Feel like?

I reminded of a surprising occurrence someone close shared with me.  

They were in conversation with one of their in- laws- a woman who sometimes does unusual things like phoning to say, " Don't ride your motorcycle today"- and the two of them began to talk about me when suddenly she became entranced making a beckoning gesture.  This woman then began to repeat over and over again for me to "come home".  She sat with these words and gesture for about 30 minutes! ( I did mention she could be unusual) 

When I heard this it was so affirming.  Affirming that I am on my way, walking home to myself, everyday....  Walking the mystical path with practical feet- Basque saying.

 This return home as a life process I read in the words of Ted Kaptchuk , author of "The Web That Has No Weaver, "  -  "Healing is a crucible to encounter the source of our being in worst times; it is our genuine and potentially intact response to chaos, anguish, and suffering... an opportunity to uncover the truth of who we really are....Healing is not something we do only when we are sick; it is part of the process and journey of life"

And so I write....

 

Believe I met the writing angel last night on the subway home. He was decked out in fluorescent lime green high tops, shorts, outback leather hat and had luggage near by with Nightmare Before Christmas looking dolls hanging off the side. I sat across from him and immediately picked up on the vibe of the woman cramped to the window beside him.  She was politely trying to ignore his talk, but when I sat down I felt his radar turn around to me.  Now some people do the classic no eye contact tactic, which is usually successful, and if there was a hint of aggression  I probably would have opted for that. But clearly here was a man of artistic bent, with a handful of business cards that he was using as sketching paper. And I became his subject from St. Clair Ave. E down to the Yonge St. stop. He was an Chinese man with an English accent, and introduced himself as coming from England as he fiercely sketched my profile. I watched the woman beside him looking over his shoulder to gauge the outcome. Her expression was at once interested, amused and perplexed.  I imagined myself with three eyes. His words came out fast and passionate so I didn't catch his name, but he spoke of writing movie scripts.  This angel seemed bursting with ideas and talked about needing to write them down immediately so as not to forget them. He stressed this point or at least my brain stressed this point to me and my focus sharpened onto this messenger.  

He then shared the themes he was working on in a script where mermaids would save the earth from humans and innocence would triumph over darkness.  He said it was very serious, but a comedy. He spoke about humans truly in the third person, and then asked me to guess how many woman did he already have now for his movie as mermaids.  

I guessed 20. Higher. 85? Higher- he had 60 I believe he said billion women as mermaids for his movie.  I gave an impressed look and so did the woman behind him as she was still eyeing his sketching progress. I told him I was getting off soon, his fingers then flew faster over the card, and he handed his work to me signed and dated.

It was a good rendition of me with a serene look on my face. I thanked him and we said farewell with the praise of innocence being victorious in its rescue of earth. 

On the bus home I remembered his words and promptly started to write down...lime green high tops...mermaids....England.... What he said I needed to hear.

 I looked down at the business card, the labelled side stated community services. Turning it over I looked again at the image of myself and now noticed the swirl of water below my chin and the fish head popping up to the surface just beneath me. Was I one of his mermaids now? 

I hope so.  

As I sit down to write I am reminded of those letters received around the end of the year that give a summary of the writer's year. Specifically the ones that ramble on. 

And I think to myself, will I carry on like that?

What is the essence of what I want to express? 

That I am so sad, and yet so happy and grateful to have a friend as good as the one who just recently began her move back to B.C.  Her presence, just doors away from my place for 10 years, has been a real gift in this urban setting.

The idea of her leaving gestated for a year. We spent a lot of time warming up to the idea of her leaving. And I will miss walks in the park, True Blood at her place, potlucks in the torrential rain and making supremely funny faces together.

I admire her consistent plugging away at all the necessary details to haul herself and her dog up and out of T.O. in her packed up car.  And I admire her reasons for moving out West.

When walking down the street now to Garden Fresh Supermarket (what we call Not So Fresh) I find myself looking up to the darken windows of her recently vacated apartment.  Her leaving has me thinking about where I am at with Good byes- but look, I've been texted- she's just outside Regina now.