The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.
My grandfather, Lyle Bush
I imagine two great rushing streams rolling down through history and joining in my blood. One a North European monastery, perhaps a military order as well as a healing one. Built for and by community, in the service of something greater than personal wants and needs. Tapestry, stone, and illuminated manuscript, herb gardens, cloister, orchard and stables. Wine and liqueurs, balm and tincture, wool and silk and leather. Sword practice and husbandry, library and hermitage. And periodically — for health, asking and gratitude — silence.
From the other side, a Dutch caravel who makes all land touched by the seas her own, but like another, who sails best when she sails north. Tar, hardwood, leather and hemp, iron and brass. Fish, seal and whale, owl and bear. Ice floes and great northern forests, midsummer bonfires and ice candles, sauna, aspen and plunge. Long distance travel by wind, oar and paddle.
Sailors accept the risk of death and glory in that life. Monks are buried by brothers, wearing daily robes, in ground tended by each other. In both, death and life protect and border and greet each other.
