Danny James

Tag: Sunday

390

For a little over a month now Sydney has been swept by an habitual storm fall every Sunday, preferring its visits late in the afternoon. It’s as though the skies have been pent-up all week and delight, as we all do to finally let go. It is always the same; a short stay, a passing temper, worse in appearance than in conduct with a rather benign, even pleasant refreshing Summer afternoon quality. From the heights of my apartment have I full view of oceans from Bondi to Coogee and beyond and the contrasting sections of sky have been quite an inspiration for pause. One half still azure and awash with subtle sunlight, the other overshadowed by a crawl of dark and bulbous smoke that with each meeting so far has prevailed the initial contact but tires quick and disperses having spent itself. It might have made a fine occasion for reading had I energy to surrender at the opportunity. Still there was much in the sky to rest my attention on; the rain fell harder and straighter than previous expulsions, every drop seemingly in parallel direction and equal haste. Then it was gone and all things settled as though rain had not fallen and no agitation had occurred at all.

From Bondi, over Clovelly

From Bondi, over Clovelly

314

It’s a Sunday afternoon you could be, and apparently should be doing something outside and more agreeable and instead the day is carrying on without your involvement this time because it’s been too many since you’ve been able to open your book. You’ve been busy. All week in fact and probably actually for longer than that, having forgotten the choices you used to have, and the feelings that a human gets to feel whose life is enriched and balanced by the guiding implorations of his own Nature. Can’t accustom to modes of recreation. Can’t seem to adapt without having a process to immerse in, or remember what things you do that are for your own souls recovery, and you now despise having to designate a gap to read, to write, to do anything of the things you enjoy when so much of this life is partitioned, allocated and dispersed already. Being has become exhausting and static, and you, jaded, trudging forward into grooves of chore and an obligation to just take part and be quiet, have somehow invited these dull perspectives by expending so much attempting to live in their opposition. Then, too many options was always the problem in the first place so you burned all your bridges to remove some of that noise, to be able to move forward unhindered, to somewhere or anywhere and not be stopped with indecision.
The day pales, wanes of its light and opportunity, and you let it. It is but a day towards other days the same and you are so tired, that the feeling as you drift into sleep is so exhilarating, you are charged to a more intense and fatiguing wakefulness. It depletes as much as gives, to be always wringing out what juice holds life. The pressure can be immense that you lay upon yourself, to contribute than rather detract in this world. To be always climbing, and calculating a climb, never having or making arrangements of an arrival anywhere, and withal missing the sunshine on a hill and the way birds seem to hang, suspended in the path of its golden rain, under rule of some primordial wisdom. Might well it be out there for all you know, finally the era for which you have been all this time labouring, when fortunes cycle has rounded, veering unto your position, and, for better or worse, you have arrived at the confidence that presently it simply can not matter. You don’t want or need to participate in everything so much as observe, and recover in quietude a wholeness of self, left behind. Tend there, soul and honour this gift. Sometimes, the drafts, or whatever mundane task needs doing needs for now to stay undone. Ever something will be undone, for all things can’t all at once accomplished be. Quit considering all the things considerable for once and accept the chance to sit and just listen to your beating heart and the flow of air coursing your lungs, escaping and blending with the atmosphere, with the melodies and pulsing of your entire being and a throbbing Universal aliveness that will incite tears in the eyes, sourced from the deepest wells of pure and rushing emotion dammed up since youth, and every bit a significant element of the human experience.

301

He who uses well his time and enjoys his work, sees little value in vacation.

A man, in this sense, can save his day with a walk.

300: Reason

Be content. If you can still wish upon thee a rain of blessings, which you do. Enjoy what is free and unimpeded. Warm sunshine and a cool breeze. Flowers by the road. The grass beneath your feet and a white clouds lull. The might of Reason. Be satisfied.

299: Entry point

A gentle wind reminds the heart of its wings, and by degrees draws an idle travellers musings again to contemplate the horizon.

293: Tropic

Is it a heavy price he happily pays?

147

In cowardice too often we smother our preferred or truest intentions for customary ideas less removed of tact. This when the eye concedes more risk than the hands can overcome, and with regularity becomes the automation, strengthened in its exercise. Who then wants to strive and fall short again, having not leapt a full leaps power, dwelling already his soon regrets? He may still, if only to find solace amid confusion of repair.

Hitherto every energy has allowed to being surpassed by a nobler action only thought of. And we know of diviner depths which we cannot articulate, where springs a tendency of genius so frighteningly accurate that surely some fatal misstep awaits, and so reason to curtail its directing. And has anything lately startled you truly out of all propriety? Remind yourself then, of when some spontaneity has occurred that you did not make your own; that you did not survive, or that ever failed to elevate you to new intellectual strengths, and you will not recall an occasion. As though we should snuff out the candle once in a while, and there in the dark by an innateness somehow will we reach out only for what’s needed.

120: Storyboard

Sunday came as Sundays do, with utile retrospectives of the week that was, breaking dawn over the yawning consciousness. These early ended days and seasonal moods seem no longer parallel with my evolved pursuits and may after all prove the last debris of habitual civilities being to a better advantage left as I go to the grove. It is not now enough that I can draw rational ends from what is done, but consider need how they may be useful if only in ways ahead. Just as Auroral warmth will, in the course of time sun the outermost blades of a dew-dampened glebe, it touches the curiosity sooner or later, of who linger long enough after young ire cools, that perhaps many more insights might be hidden in the forest bed that could rend the former outworn. The idea of setting in to meet a future self, more intelligent and virtuous, that you never could imagine much less decide on, becomes with accidental age an increasing prospect of interest. The flow of streams do not cease, and though the refractory trance of shimmering light gives good reason for satisfied reflection, the brooks on which they bend keep right on pouring into an unknown. You will appreciate then a favourable discomfort when can you dwell on renewal, and receive it well, knowing there is some knowledge to be gained from the mountains still, which, from their peaks impart more than will the valleys ever read, and can the mountains themselves even tell.

The areas I would explore, until today I’d stalled in visiting. Knowing well the enjoyment gathered there before, would be increased with new awareness added since, and compounded further by anticipations of forthcoming study. I went once more to the woods and felt instantly recognised and secure. By a warmly gesture of introduction, the entrance appeared fitted with a near ceremonious fanfare proceeding long back to the mark I ventured from, growing in a silent fervency not immediately obvious. Leaves rained down from above, every so often at first, tumbling in fine spun algorithms too sharp and delicate for the pace of human eye, then, in multitudes were flung unabated and cheerfully to enhance the charm of the trail.  Meadows bristled with tactile hush, – the very roots playfully inspected by low swerving gusts which without warning suddenly would surge up, bursting clear and jubilant from a gap in the grass, to rejoin the surface current. Much of the forest in concert swayed solemnly, but the diligent observer would have noted dotting the flanking elevations in crucial positions amid the chime, stood sentry Coniferae, ominously firm yet acknowledging in generous respects. As I passed through the thicket there intimated a mysterious parting of things on approach, that closed to my heel, swallowing before it fell, the very dust hurled by my arrival. It was as though an agreement had whispered over the lands, that I had consent to saunter unhindered and accepted, a brother lost to the years, and finally come home from his wilds.

Though all the day long, storm clouds had moaned the difficulty of holding verve, I found it trying nonetheless to suppose a more lenient setting than I’d found in the dandelion meadows where I lay a good hour. With none but the breeze for company and fits of chimeric spray escaped and washing the distant hilltops to delight my attentions, there is sufficient shelter and entertainment here no doubt, should the lid relenting begin to weep, and in doing so arrest the course of any traveller. There remained however, much of the valley to reach and while the thought of staying had qualified it’s charisma, worsening tempers in the sky did thrust a buried preference forward, impelling thus a need to gather at once my last looks and be on my way.
So into the great Maitai I pressed deeper, neither hurrying nor with delay, and with the constant threat of a downpour hanging where I went. I can tell you, that time in the meadow with my ear to the Earth, and feeling the heartbeat of Thunder throbbing all the way through, indeed was the finest hour of the day.

Setting off from the hostel to Nelson town in the early evening, to take my final walk of this December 8th, one event of disagreeable familiarity transpired as I approached the Collingwood bridge. No sooner had I marked a black portentousness in the summits, now buried in shroud of pending tumult, than it barked recognition and volleyed at once towards and upon me loosing an increasingly light-hearted cloudburst that suffered no malice to it, and within mere seconds tapered into a drizzle. How six years ago coming to that same bridge I met with a similar inexplicable wave that did rush to welcome me my first hour. Although I had not since been still, having lapped the Earth over many times, and numerous personal revolutions undergone to the fact I am almost somebody different entirely, it was here finally the fretting sky had caught up with me.

dannyjamesblogNelsonNewZealand1/2

dannyjamesblogNelsonNewZealand2/2

dannyjamesblogNelsonNewZealand3/2

DannyJamesblogNelsonNewZealand4/2

Nelson, New Zealand 2013

Nelson, New Zealand 2013

30

Sundays especially, are ripe to be fled to the great outdoors, to observe the curriculum of the wilderness and by tuition of a breeze, shake ones spirit loose of the dust upon a weeks earthly philosophising.