A cold front is ushering in showers that forecasters claim will turn to snow overnight, though without any threat of an accumulation for the Buffalo Bison’s 25th anniversary home opener tomorrow afternoon.  I just devoured a Subway Eat Fresh and am now sipping a fresh brewed cup of organic French Roast enduring quite the turmoil on this early spring day.  I felt sick to my stomach and near passing out after returning home this morning, with meager improvement as the day has carried forward.  I was able to finally extract the persistent sliver beneath my fingernail and in so doing celebrated a modest victory.  We have another showing of the house this evening and can only pray for a serious buyer.  No news on the divorce paperwork.

There is so much momentum in the direction of dismantling that I hesitate to inject myself into anything constructive at present.  I feel like a complete failure and the sense of loss is magnificent.  Remaining isolated here at the beach has allowed me to feel the upwelling of emotion that I’ve perhaps evaded in my various pursuits of late.  As much as I may claim to have struggled miserably in recent years, there were of course many precious moments of warmth, affection and accolades.  I yearn for those moments and yet to romanticize them serves only to keep me stuck in a polarized past.

And so I am adrift on the mighty seas without a breeze to propel me anywhere.  I am not one to float carefree, yet I’ve been granted this opportunity if only I may embrace its gifts.  I’ve seen turkey buzzards soaring in my commute to and fro the lake over the last several days.  This morning as I departed Nelson’s Ridge with a belly full of eggs, home fries and sourdough toast I caught a funeral procession arriving at the Basilica.  On the ride here this afternoon I witnessed a cop pulling over the car right behind me for the second time in as many days.  Signs signs everywhere the signs…death breeds creation.

Raindrops spatter the kitchen window as leadened skies obscure the light of day.  I feel myself resisting what I am feeling in response to the present circumstances of my life.  I’d finally managed to create a rather sweet existence when I just wasn’t satisfied in longing for that someone special with whom I can share my life.  I attracted a mate for whom I felt more sympathy than intimate connection.  I’m often a sucker for the damsel in distress.  I’ll never forget the barren refrigerator and half-finished living quarters- aluminum flashing dangling precariously and a roof with more moss than asphalt shingle- when I visited her home during the brief time we dated before moving headstrong into lifetime commitments.  By no means was she living in squalor as there’s never been a shortage of men in her life to pick up the tab.  Nonetheless, she simply adored me after caving to her pressure for a diamond ring and once I put that 1 1/4 carat princess cut on her finger I’d sealed my fate.  I could’ve walked away unscathed, instead stubbornly forging ahead.

I’m not looking back but I want to look around me now.  Ok I admit I am looking back as I intermittently pause to observe my present state of the union.  I was supposed to have advanced to an upper management position at my former employer by now, or was I?  Plans for a bigger house nestled upon wooded acreage a bit further south of the mass production zone with room for children were all for naught.  Now I’m dreaming of sleeping in an Amish shed this summer, a humble abode at 140 square feet.  The road less traveled is lined with peril and I refuse to lumber upon the path well-worn by the masses before me.  What hasn’t killed me has indeed made me stronger.  It’s time for an Epsom salt bath to ease my troubled mind and cleanse my weary body.

Now that was just what the doctor ordered.  I realized as I was drawing the bath that it had been over 4 years since I’d last enjoyed one.  I used to love soaking in warm brine following a sweat lodge purification ceremony back in the day.  But ever since relocating from the apartment to the house where there was only a shower stall I’d left behind one of my most favorite ceremonies, ditto for the sweat lodge, which I’ve re-visited in recent months up on the reservation.  It’s peculiar what acts of self-love we will abandon in favor of seeking fulfillment in external forms.  I’d stopped writing shortly before my marriage too.

And so everything is as it is supposed to be, as fucked up as this world is at the same time it is utterly breathtaking in its natural beauty and cycles.  Sometimes I feel as though I am just taking up space in this realm without having made any significant contribution toward the advancement of the species.  I am then reminded that some of the most profound contributions in history have not been in the form of gadgets or widgets or tangible things, but rather in the simple acts and words of an open heart and mind.  This life’s trials and tribulations continue to open me up in gratitude for all that is and will be.

I have a few phone calls that I could make, although I do not feel much inspired to conduct any business for the remainder of this evening.  A friend of a friend creates websites on the cheap and we’re in need of someone to put the finishing touches on a site for the fundraiser now less than 2 months off.  Sister Sharon had me come back to the grounds for an estimate on another section of overgrown landscaping that she’d like spruced up.  I am not sure where my ex-business partner is at as he hasn’t responded to my emails or texts.  I hesitate to call rather than address the matter.  And there’s a special lady who stands out among the various and sundry females who’ve crossed my path since the divorce has ensued.  Invariably, I enjoy our conversations, yet I feel too withdrawn to reach out to her.  I’m enjoying my own company right now.

In common wealth,