four leaf clover

I sat there, and just watched. Not that anything was wrong, immediately,
but I sat there, in the middle of the night anyway, watching her heart raise the sheet up and down, as she breathed peacefully.

I watched as she slept as the moonlight shone in the window, and I stretched out in my rocker, standing guard, against anything, any Thing that might jeopardize this wonderful life.

Suddenly she cried out and I reached over, touching her hand and offered comforting words of love and sitting quietly, completely still, as she dozed off, back to sleep. I breathed in deeply, but quietly, and sat uncomfortably up straight so the rocker wouldn’t squeak and wake her. She needed rest, and tonight, and every night she was with me, in some way, she could sleep knowing I would be standing guard.

I have seen many rites of passage that should have, or could have made me feel grown-up, but never did. I often wondered why, I continued to live like a gypsy, tumbleweed and could never quite settle down, completely…but the feeling would always pass.

Although I held many great jobs, I never felt they mattered, and although I had several relationships, deep down, the tumbleweed in me, refused to settle or settle down. I would stand at the graves of loved ones gone far too soon, withstand monumental break ups and break downs, move away, move back, and fight for causes and my Self. None of them, ever made me feel grown up.

In some way, I suppose I wished I was an adult, or felt the wear of responsibility of one, but I couldn’t. I had been married, owned businesses, moved 1200 miles from home, divorced, but still I pictured myself as a kid. I would always be the youngest in my family, the youngest cousin and the silliest of my friends. I was responsible, yes…but grown up, no.

I got my degree at nearly 30 years old, worked three and four jobs well into my thirties, worked at a gym, waited tables, and still held real ties to a job considered “real” by most. My acts and actions were completely unintentional and I never realized that I wasn’t a grown up until that night.

I began surfing later than most and even traveled to New Zealand, alone, just for fun to be there, in the moment. I could justify some of this by saying my parents were from a generation that accepted my behavior, or my family had done this, but none of it would be true. I was my own person, and forged my own path, as unpleasant as it mostly was.

I tried hard, mind you, to do what was acceptable and proper, but none of it was me and none of it stuck for very long. I was neither selfish or conceited. I chose my path and for the most part, accepted the consequences that rained down on me.

I was a gypsy at heart, but a New Englander by body. My soul wanted to travel and help those who could not help themselves, but my mind and body thought differently. So, for decades the battle raged on.

As battles go, this one was doomed to produce a reluctant winner and a tired soul. Neither would produce a grown up, or a person rooted anywhere, but certainly not for lack of effort. To say I “tried” would be a fib, but it was in that goal was in the back of my mind, and since I felt I owed society, and my family some sort of obligation, I fueled the fires.

On this July night I would be there for her, just in case. As I sat there on this warm night, in my rocking chair, she would be safe and she would sleep soundly knowing I was there to make sure nothing would harm her.

As the moonlight dripped in through the thick windowpane, and madness existed all around, I was there, just in case. It was the just in case that instantly made me grown up. So many things could go wrong, and the world was a scary place, but I was there, just in case.

As her IV beeped, and nurses drifted in and out to check on her, just her, I knew I was now grown and grown up. It was not the circumstances that had defined me as grown up, it was the fact that I was there, just in case.

The just in case made me, grown up. As I rocked ever so quietly and my mother looked up at me, wondering why I was in the hospital with her, so unexpectedly, in the middle of the night, she smiled. And I smiled.

She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer just days before and soon we would find out it was inoperable and we would begin a new battle, as grown up’s, all of us, in the fight of our lives. Together, we would ensure the battle would rage on.

I sat there, and just watched. Not that anything was wrong, immediately,
but I sat there in the middle of the night anyway, watching her heart raise the sheet up and down, as she breathed peacefully. She could rest, with a silly smile, I was there, and her gypsy, tumbleweed daughter would make sure she was safe tonight.

Wishing you all mindful moments and memorable times, cb

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www.fourleafclover.us

I was running downhill, faster and faster,
nearly out of control.

The thin white soft line that had offered my tired feet some
protection,
now trailed off in a direction I could not follow.

As my pace quickened I could feel my heart beating,
in synch with my feet hitting the hard ground below.
Pound, pound.
Pound, pound.

Still faster, I ran.
I was tired.
A tired that I had never before felt.
A tired that crept over my eyelids and begged them to shut,
and when they refused it would wash over my heart,
pound, pound, pound.

My feet would soon be wrapped in this thick liquid blanket
of exhaustion, and begin to go to sleep with or without me.
Leaving me twitching, and aching, and then
numb.

As I ran clumsily at top speed now, a crash was most certain.
Today my path was straight down, into a dark valley.
The trail below was littered with loose, sharp stones,
and although I could not slow down, I did manage to see the faces
of friends, family and strangers up top.
They were cheering for me.
They were there.
They would do anything for me,
except walk my path.

Just as darkness encompassed me,
I fell.
As my flesh twisted and tumbled, I did not know which way was up,
or where I would land.
I was hurt now, and bleeding. When I finally stopped falling,
I realized I was alone.
I could feel warm blood just about everywhere, and the sticky sap-like
goo seemed to be everywhere.

Pound, pound.

I could not see, or hear anything or anyone,
and although I was damp with blood and sweat, I felt nothing.
I knew now what lived on the
other side of numb.
Only my pounding heart reminded me that I was alive.

I couldn’t see you, but felt your hand, just then,
reach out for mine to pull me up.
I quickly caught a glimpse of the mischief in your eyes and knew right away,
we were breaking the rules.
We did not know the players, or the exact rules, or how to win,
but we knew this was not allowed,
typically.

As you wobbled, and I wobbled, somehow I managed to stand up. As I breathed in deeply, just like that, you vanished
with my exhale.

I started to walk up the craggy rock to what I could only hope was a summit,
and I once again saw the faces of friends, family and strangers.
Some familiar, some not so much,
and some that I had seen earlier now were gone.
A twinge of sadness stabbed at my heart,
and I was glad to feel it.
To feel anything.

Once again my pace was fast, and I hunched lower to maintain balance
as I made my way along my unsure, loosely built path.
The summit if I reached it, would find me bloody, scarred, dirty
and mostly disheveled.
I was no longer the pretty, perfect envelope I was when I started out.

I was worn down now, nearly completely
on most every level.
My rough edges were smooth now and my body
although had been carefully kept,
had now been to war
and showed signs of pain, heartache and sorrow.

Although my path was uncertain and dark, it belonged to me,
it made me Real.
Although the price was high,
to stop would be far more costly
than the reward that would eventually find me,
when I could run no more.

Peace, Chris

www.fourleafclover.us
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Everybody dies. Until very recently I have found very little, if any, comfort in those two words. I have searched, prayed, meditated and asked those whose opinion I trust often more than my own….this one question: Why?

Why do the very young die, the wonderful suffer, and death surround us in such terrible, un-peaceful, terrifying ways, and so often. If we are not given more than we can handle, why then do some lose control, lose a sense of self and take their own lives? Why do the most beloved souls of all suffer the worst kinds of deaths, and those that live without any sense of soul at all, seem to live on carelessly, forever?

As I ask this, on a rainy night, in my dark bedroom, I am reminded of something that happened nearly 23 years ago. You see, I was one of the few, very lucky, to play college sports. I went to a very small picturesque college in NH and when I was a freshman we learned that we would be playing not only a Division I team, but a team in my own hometown backyard. Before I could process that news, I learned that at least for that game, I had earned a starting position.

As we traveled the 3 hours back to my hometown we listened to our coach, a legend in her own time, tell us how we would play with heart. We knew what our chances were of winning and were not in this to kid ourselves into thinking we would win. We would play hard, with heart and pride and use this as a life lesson.

Life lesson. Funny, I had forgotten that one until tonight.

We may win, she said, and we may lose, and quite honestly we may get punished, but we will go out there and mean it. This was our time, a time that we earned and belonged to us. A time that very few got to experience, and for at least this one night, we would not be spectators.

As we started our warm ups I noticed the stands, while not full, did hold more of a crowd than I expected. Those people, I thought to myself, probably never had this chance, and while they cheered and clapped for us (and them) they sat on the sidelines. Rarely did I see their faces, but I heard their cheers. My family was there, watching in pride, a tiny miracle take place. While few would ever know, a small Lady Pilgrim team from Henniker, NH would do the unthinkable on this cold winter day. They would play with fundamentals, practicing each post up, foul shot and jump shot as they had been taught from day one: with heart.

That day there would be a losing team, and a winning team, and a smaller than average shooting guard who broke her personal best and did so, just this one time, in front of her father.

Now, I can’t lie and say that didn’t matter, it definitely did. It was an amazing feeling and one I tucked away for over two decades, until tonight.

I have been searching for answers to questions that may not belong to me, and ones that perhaps I will never understand. I have asked the Universe for answers, rules and explanations and been so busy asking, I stopped listening, fully.

As I sit quietly, and listen to a rainstorm on a cold summer night, under a full moon, I know that everybody dies. Every thing dies. We are born and take a magical first breath of life and we die and take a breath no less magical that carries us away. That is the order, the control.

It’s what we do in between those two breaths that separate those riding the pine, from those riding the wave.

Everybody dies.

Surf’s up….Chris

www.fourleafclover.us

Went out the other day, angry, for a surf.
The waves were crashing down hard and mean, the sets were fast, choppy and miserable.
Rip tides seemed to catch me at every pass, and great whites were closer than ever.
The air smelled of rotting fish, wet trash and raw sewage. With every breath, I inhaled death.
I paddled and struggled and fought that day for every ounce of water, to be peaceful and soft, and liquid.
But it wasn’t.
My board felt hard and ill fitting and every bump of wax and dirt threw off my balance
and left me
on the outside,
searching to come in.
Each awkward fall reminded me that ocean had teeth, and on this day, she both pushed and bit back.
Behind me, even the shadowy shoreline was abandoned. .
The murky water that lurked below offered no sign of life, no reflection and no peace.
Liquid cement.

Went out the other day, calm, for a surf.
The waves were fast and challenging and a little frightening.
I breathed in deep the rich salty ocean air, and paddled strongly towards the thin blue line, feeling every muscle in my broad shoulders dig deep and press ahead smoothly, gliding and guiding me towards a medium that few ever touched.
I pushed myself to get beyond the break to the outside
where the shore looked peaceful, quiet and serene.
From here I could see the world from edge to edge,
ebb and flow,
feeling every ripple in between.
Thousands of champagne-like bubbles danced across the wave tops,
casting golden sprinkles as far as I could see.
Each tumble reminded me that I was just a visitor, a student, and a guest,
in this world that invited me often, but I could never fully belong to.
I would cherish each bump, bruise and scrape that my session would leave, and smile and laugh with each story that accompanied each and every battle scar.
As the waves passed over me, I searched for life within them,
but saw only blue and white
and fleeting gold.
Liquid essence.

Went out the other day, to think, clear my head, and watch the waves.
One surfer paddled out, beyond the break, to enjoy perfect solitude that only comes from the outside, while waiting, and hoping and talking to the above,
and the below,
about the ride and the fall.
I stood barefoot, teasing the frothy white bubbles to catch me.
As a wave broke just beyond my reach, I stared into the perfect curl
and saw my own
reflection.
Liquid.

Wishing you all blue skies and long, mindful surfs, Chris
www.fourleafclover.us

PS I also invite you all to visit www.foundsounds.com and check out Ellen Clegg. She is an amazing person and kind soul, who helped me out, after meeting just one time. Her music is amazing, her sound inspiring, and her spirit gentle and compassionate. Please check her out and help a fellow artist by watching her on You Tube or purchasing her CD or even attending a class!! ….the beat, always, goes on….