“That's why I'm easy, Easy like a Sunday morning”
Such a simple line Lionel Ritchie birthed and made immortal to many generations. Generations which have felt and observed such dramatic change upon this earth. How to get through such 'Dramatic' except to be easy. Easy on the earth; Easy on the beloveds around us; Easy on our many incarnations; Easy on the heart. Perhaps sunday is after all a special day. Though perhaps treating every following day with this respect takes life to the next band of infinite frequency. Contemplation needed.
Sitting amongst the jagged outcrop of volcanic peaks now known as the Canadian West Coast Coastal Mountains, births this contemplation needed. The approach, ski enabled, to this 'sitting amongst' births this contemplation needed. The mainstream agenda invisible to so many births not this contemplation needed. And why. After all we do have a choice.
The tall winds which brushed the faces of the greats and caressed the hair of the graceful now salutes me. With the suns persistence, dusk is approaching. Moisture filled cumulus clouds embrace the peaks to the south. Alpine-glow paints the peaks to the north. The moment has come to descend this fresh filled couloir, feathering below me. How each turn flows into the next, and how each next into the now. Elegance of cold smoke snow dancing with the air. Every turn a fresh waltz.
The Douglas Fir approach me with their timeless pride. When I ski closer, their voice grows louder. I come to halt and listen. A personal exchange occurs. This exchange re-awakens the too often dormant breath. A true deep soul breath.
The ski's point towards the Cerise Creek bed, which in turn points towards my ride back to the humble abode. A humble abode graced by stars in her eyes so vast and with such twinkles, the Eckasha itself embraces.
The side step up the roads snow bank brings the ever so conflicting moment. A transition of consciousness I am not too fond of. Ever so slight but none-the-less a transition. What time is it? What days do I work in the coming week? Does the vehicle have enough sustenance for the ride back? Small thoughts, but largely infiltrating.
In perfect step, the soul family speak. “Worry not dear one. As just like the spring blossoms, and the fall shades of grey, your time here will come again. And when it does no more, be sure of the grander visions to embrace your time.”
As I wind down the pass, this becomes my mantra. The high peaks on the left and right draw further inspiration. Inspiration to explore their depth. For now though, I am content. Content on parting my presence with these peaks. As I know, the souls desire will once more speak
