Sunday, March 17, 2013
Blustery northwest winds and choppy seas buffeted the ferry while I crossed Cook Strait. The sea presaged the coming of a front. I leaned up against the rail to steady myself to take pictures and eventually had to give up using my cellphone's camera for fear it would blow out of my hand. Now I am on the South Island. What began first as a gentle rain born in distant Southern climes has changed into a downpour and is drenching the long dry summer's parched ground. The mountains, so abundantly covered and surrounded by pine and beech forests, are being thoroughly soaked. Shrouded in thick misting clouds, it is hard to tell that they even exist. The once brilliant sunny sky has turned a leaden gray. The weather is telling me there is no sense in continuing my journey. It would mean venturing through narrow gorges on slick windy highways and missing vistas of what is reputed to be some of the loveliest landscape in the country. Therefore, I have decided to spend several days in a little river town named Murcheson where I will pass time with reading, writing, and drawing.
It became clear to me that I needed a respite from traveling and to release tension built up by constantly making spontaneous decisions about where to go, where to sleep, what to eat, and a myriad of other choices. What better way to accomplish this unwinding than to allow imagination and fantasy to work in productive ways. So in the quiet of my room, hearing only the forming of puddles and the rhythm of my breathing, I begin. First though I must overcome distracting doubts and worry and reassure myself in a series of staccato-like thoughts that I'm alive, I'm doing okay, and I'll make it back home. I repeat this to myself. I'll be okay. I'm only a little lonely. I'll be okay, now Lee, Start writing!
I shut my eyes. I am a distant traveler recording thoughts. It is Fall 2013 or is it really now Spring for me? My journal is my blog. Each entry is like a buoy marking a spot in time, a moment preserved from the fate of being jettisoned into a sea of forgotten events. The posts are waypoints which I share with those that care. They show my course through life.