On Arriving

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The great meadow, Bar Harbor, Acadia National Park, Maine

I have arrived at my destination. My feet are firmly on the ground, inhaling deep lungfuls of sea air while my ears take in the sound of the waves crashing onto the rocky shore but somehow I’m not fully here.

Arriving happens in his own way much like a pilgrimage made up of many layers. Each layer has a role, has it’s part to play.
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Arrival had been working on you long before you made your first step of the journey. On arrival we have already gone through several layers, the first longings that birthed the concept, the anticipation, planning and the journey all separate layers we unpeel before getting to arriving.

Arrival is an unfolding, only when all of the parts of me having fully arrived can that ritual fully begin. I am still shaken and stirred from two full days on the road – there’s no shortcut to between Asheville NC to Bar Harbor ME, it’s 21 hours unless you come across a wormhole in space and time.
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Arriving involves listening and watching and the universe weaves you back from that threshold place with her language of synchronicities – signs and meanings of things that only makes sense to you.

When we’re outside our normal everyday things, no longer tied to all those daily to-do things a feeling of clarity forms. This perspective allows us to see those things that we’ve shoved to the sideline. Those things that wilted due to a lack of watering and light, but with a little soul tending the can flourish again Writing is one of those things for me, too often is is work with a looming deadline of words, words that are counted and fussed over and become a struggle.

Slowly I let the process weave its magic with the help of the sea and stars, trees and trails – and heed the words if John Burroughs

I go to nature to be soothed and healed and to have my senses put in order

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