Train song

As I write this, it is very early morning in East Tennessee and I hear the northbound train approaching. The last several days have been damp and overcast and that causes fog to creep overnight across the Tennessee Valley. Fog, in turn, causes the sound of the train whistle and the train's passage along the tracks to carry more loudly across the hills and valleys. Having lived a great part of my life in East Tennessee, the sound of trains has always been a constant. Similar to how we can be lulled to sleep or calmed by the sound of rain, or a thunderstorm, so do the sound of trains rumbling, roaring and whistling down the tracks soothe those who have grown up with them always present.


I took this sound, this presence, for granted until I spent time in a city - Tampa, Florida to be specific - where trains weren't evident. I never did figure out this puzzle while I lived in Tampa; there were certainly train tracks around and about the city, but I never once heard or saw trains traveling. What I can report is that it took me almost a full month of living there before I finally realized part of my night time restlessness wasn't all due to being in a new city, new dwelling and new surroundings. It was actually greatly due to the fact that I wasn't hearing the familiar, comforting sound of trains traveling during the wee hours of the morning.

Once I did identify the source, I began to ask people in Tampa about the absence of trains in and around the city. I received puzzled looks and no ready answers as to why there were train tracks everywhere, but no trains visible. All I can say for certain is that it took me a good stretch of time to adjust to sleeping without the soothing sounds of far-off trains rolling along the tracks, and the occasional train whistle echoing and bouncing along the hills. Tampa doesn't have hills for the sounds to reverberate and echo across, so perhaps this is one reason I never heard the sounds the way I was accustomed to hearing in East Tennessee.

I have read of many people who have had near death experiences saying that they drifted from their bodies and went into an area that resembled a huge, limitless train station. Other people who have lived through tornadoes and hurricanes report that the sounds of the worst of the weather manifesting sounded eerily like a train running directly overhead. Years ago, I stumbled across an obscure book written by a hospice nurse who mentioned many of her patients who were slowly approaching death who mentioned hearing a train approaching from far away. I apologize for not remembering the name of this book, or the name of the author, but this woman reported this mention of a train approaching to be a common theme amongst many hospice patients.

It makes one ponder the train reference, the train station as a staging area for crossing over. Perhaps our Souls recognize something inherent to the concept of a train approaching that beckons us to release from the physical body, step onto that mystical and spiritual manifestation and continue the journey to the other side of the Veil.

Trains do indicate travel, and before air flight was accomplished, trains were the epitome of power, wealth, commerce and a literal ticket to the far flung, exotic, mysterious corners of the Earth. Distant and varied travel was possible, taking you as far as the train tracks lead. Perhaps it isn't that difficult a stretch to embrace that trains could also represent a mystical form of travel for the Spirit.

Here in my area, trains run day and night. To someone living in an area where trains aren't prevalent, that might sound horribly noisy and invasive. I am not describing endless activity; the trains run on schedules throughout the week and become a backdrop to our daily lives. To me, it isn't noisy. For the most part, it is similar to a clock in your home that you become so accustomed to that you rarely consciously hear the tick-tock sounds. Indeed, in the wee hours of the early morning, as I write this post, the sound of the northbound train is gentle, reassuring, and in its own way, quite majestic.

Perhaps the echoes of a train thundering along the track mimics in some manner a heartbeat, reminding us of our time in the womb. There is a rhythmic cadence as train wheels rattle and roar along the tracks. One close girlfriend has such a trained ear for the local train schedules that she can tell which direction a given train is traveling, simply from the sound of the whistle as the train approaches. I bow to her accuracy, because she really is incredible with this talent. That repetitive thundering sound could remind our Soul of a sort of homecoming, a welcoming portal to traverse from here to the Unknown There, the sure sound embracing us and wrapping around our senses.

For myself, the sounds of the trains each night are a lullaby that makes me smile and ushers me more deeply into sleep. The deep. smoky belltones of the whistle echoing across the Tennessee Valley rarely truly awaken me; it is more of a background reassurance that all is well. If I am having a night of fitful sleep, quite often the sounds of a train in the distance will relax me and help me drop off to deep slumber.

Much like an old friend, the song of the weekly scheduled train runs become so familiar to us that, were they to suddenly cease their normal schedule, we would become abruptly aware of the lack. As would the sudden cessation of that clock in the room, we would wonder why the wee hours of the night had suddenly grown so unusually quiet. Perhaps we would awaken and wonder at the strange lack of sound, not quite sure what was missing. I, for one, would be saddened to live in a world where there were no trains rumbling along the tracks, no piercing train whistles splitting the damp night air to travel, echoing their unique song across the hills.

It is a curiously gentle presence, the night train calling out. Distant, yet imposing as its inexorable rush onward is repeated week by week, year by year, imprinting in our memories with sound and vibration. This moment, this wee hour of the night that is slowly releasing darkness to dawn, the sounds of the train trekking northward inspire words to flow, to give voice to a sinuous, fluid trail of thought that mimics the journey of that train charging out into the distance.

In a moment, I will surrender to sleep, lulled by that soporific rumble....my heart and breath unconsciously matching the rhythm of the faraway rails being ridden by the Iron Horse of yesteryear. That curious anomaly of a bygone era remains an active, modern presence and continues to weave into the minds and hearts of those gifted with vision to dream, to hear a unique Industrial Age melody wailing through the night air.

This is a jumble of perhaps not very well connected or elaborated ruminations about trains. Perhaps I will let it rest as I surrender to the arms of Morpheus myself, and return to it anon, to read through with more clear mind and judge whether it is worthy of posting or abandoning. The train rolls on in the distance and I am pulled to sleep....

...and the following night, I have returned, read through these thoughts, and deemed them strong enough to stand. Jumbled and disconnected though they may be, I shall publish them. Another train calls out its song in the distance, this one southward bound, rushing into the dark to grace the mountains with its chant along the tracks, its whistle smoky and drifting out through the night. That is the interconnecting thread, the train song that trills ever onward.
___________________________

If you enjoyed this post and would like to read more, you can find me at Healing Morning blog.

In The Dark

"Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark"

Rabindranath Tagore

Deciding to do a pregnancy test in the North of Vietnam during a blackout was one of the more dramatic life decisions I have made.

Cowboy and I had only been in Vietnam for two weeks and to put it simply I had become way too familiar with the workings of Vietnamese toilets.

How I wish I didn't get so acquainted with you and your smelly counterparts

We were new lovebirds caught in an incredible 9 month whirlwind that threw us into the air and plonked us down in Vietnam to become English teachers.

Or so we thought.....

We walked from the chemist back to our hotel in the blacked out village of Sapa.

"Can we do the test in the morning?" Cowboy asked

"No!" I snapped. "I have to know."

The receptionist handed us a coke can with a candle in it to take to our hotel room.

We went up to our room and I wee'd on the stick.

We sat on the bathroom floor with the candle in the can and waited for the magic stick to tell us our future.

We were both very nervous.

The whole experience was surreal.

Until now, Cowboy had found my non-stop talk of pregnancy to be  just that... 'talk'.

I saw in his eyes that he was finally contemplating what would happen if I was pregnant.

Family planning had not been on our agenda.

Suddenly the candle started to flicker and dance dramatically.

I glanced down at the stick.

It showed two lines.

"Two lines" I said "What does this mean?"

The moment that changed our lives

Cowboy quickly grabbed the instructions which were written in Vietnamese.

"Two lines means.... Vung" he reported.

I gave him a blank stare.

"Where is the translation book?"

We struggled around in the dark until we found our bible.

I flicked through urgently until I came upon the word Vung.

It meant Yes.

Although I had 'the feeling' I was pregnant, this confirmation was not what my conscious mind was ready for.

"I'm pregnant" I said.

Cowboy looked at me in shock.

The candle stood still.

"Did you hear me?" I asked

He kissed me.

My stomach twisted and turned my heart did a hula hoop.

Cowboy grabbed my other bible - " A Guide to the Advanced Soul"

"Open it, quick!" I ordered hoping for some kind of clue  on how I should be feeling.

He opened to a random page and read out the contents:

"Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark"

We were going to be parents.

We had never been more in the dark in our lives.

to be continued.

Love you to visit my website 

Walkabout

Sometimes you just have to wonder. Not in the magical ‘what could be’ kind of way. Nope, it’s more of a wonder as you look down the path you’ve chosen

And suddenly you realize…. ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore Toto!’

What once seemed so clear makes you wonder if you really saw what you saw in the first place. Today was one such day. My mind kept wandering around in the world of ‘stuff' - big stuff, little stuff, unidentified and mislabeled stuff. I thought, perchance, I should reel it in, but alas, my mind had a mind of its own. I was not invited; quite simply, my mind had stuff to do.

I cannot say I’ve learned to accept this walkabout my mind seems to enjoy. Nor, can I say I appreciate the fact that it runs off without me. What I do know is that when it has finished its flight of freedom,

It will playfully call to me

And I will answer, "Don't worry, I'm still here."

And together, once again, we will sit together, as we usually do, breathing, listening, and riding the tide.

Loved and Lost

Image via Wikipedia

I have to say, it has been a while since I wrote here...As some of you know, the last two months my daughter, Maya, had some health problems and my mind was set only on more, lets say, mundane things. But now I am feeling that I am coming back to my old self and I am going to take it one step at the time...So, bear with me...

So many things loved and lost


A drawer full of old photos and memories
So many things loved and lost
My childhood
with sweet smiles and blond curls
Adolescence in short skirts and crazy haircuts.
All the dogs, tongues lolling, tails wagging
fidelity and wet kisses
the flowers we used to gather in the summer
the magical woods,
the sky so blue
seasons coming and going
each one with marvels and miracles.

So many people that disapeared from my life
looking at me from above
visiting only in dreams
heart ache and longing.

So many things loved and lost
never had the chance to cherish them
to thank them
to keep them close
not enough
and now they are all lost for ever.

Introducing Marla Hansen: Valium Optional

What can be said about me that hasn’t already been said behind my back by my sisters? I suppose I should start with the basics, so I shall. My name is Marla Hansen and I love to write. I can’t promise you will enjoy or even agree with most things I write. I can guarantee, I will find my writings to be just what I needed to say.

I tend to write about what matters most to me. I might post about my relationship with my best friend who is also my husband. There is a lot to say about our thirty-eight years together. For instance, neither one of us has ever thought of divorce. No, seriously, never. Murder many times, but never divorce. Then there are my seven children. Having children too numerous to remember by name can become quite a story in itself. Add six grandchildren to the mix and well, it’s just plain mayhem.

Did I mention we live on a farm? Yep, we do, with chickens and horses and pigs and ….. Well, I am going to save the goat sleeping on the living room couch story for another day. Let’s just say it is a real funny farm in every sense.

I also care deeply about deep things ….like people. I am especially drawn to people who are not like me. I like different. Different cultures, races, viewpoints, and everything in-between. I am a Christian who truly loves Jesus with all my heart. I also love people who love Buddha, Mohammad or No One. Yep, I love them and invite them to dinner at our house. I want to hear about their lives and what makes them tick, so to speak. I guess that sums it up. I love because I am loved.

Now before you ask if those are wings on my back, look a little closer….at my head. Are you looking? Closely? My mom always said I was an angel…with horns. I think that is probably one of the truest statements about me ever spoken. I can be opinionated but only because I am right most the time. I can get angry, moody, silly, stupid, scary.

Speaking of scary, I am always looking for the next adventure involving humanity. Right now, it’s about The List. What’s that? You’re a crazy adventurer too! Awesome….feel free to jump right in and be a part of making a difference too.

A privileged perspective: slumdog Millionaire

-My response after watching Slumdog Millionaire last year,
it is my opinion, which means it is highly debateable :) -

Truth is, we're all the same
we all want to survive
and we all kill and steal and cheat
find loop holes
to get there

It's just that
when you are poor
what you do is obvious and
can be
obviously incarcible,
often that is the only
choice you're left
with
if its illegal, then illegal it is
no lawyers to sort you out
what you do is out on the street
what you do to just survive
and often what you have to do
to survive
seems so shocking and dirty
to those
who observe it on a screen, a newspaper, from the sidewalk
from behind their gate
from their car window
from their privilege

When you are protected by your privilege
what you do to survive is subtle
covered up by policy and cushioned by self-protectionist laws
and the "ways of the market"
and when not justified by suitable law
well
white collar crime seems so inocuous, so clean
so
well hidden under nice and tidy
under "decent family"
under "good people"
under nice clothes and
clean bodies

While we are watching slumdog and think of ourselves
and our culture perhaps
the developed or developing world
or your caste or class...
as better,
more moral perhaps?
it is because we are blind
by our privilege
because it is made to seem natural
a given
not something earned by colonial greed and massacre
noooooo
we earned it, we are worth it. we are wise capitalists
we worked hard
sweat of our brow
no?


This is what justifies
our lifestyle pursuits
makes us feel better
when we want a good deal,
when we buy cheap goods made cheap by cheap labour
materials and methods.

I do this.

But we are good, no?
yes.
and therefore whatever we the good do
is not made criminal,
not really
there are ways...
our market is God, no?
no question...

the priviledged are mostly
tourists in someone else's land
or tourists in their own land
as if on holiday
perpetual tourists
touring around
consuming the best like kings and queens

luxury an every-day commodity

our mouths open for more
 we are hungry, always hungry

we are good        as are they        as are we   

we are ONE

when the clothes fall off
when the privilege fades away

flesh and bones
spirit and eyes


but
the God of the market
the God of the privileged

doesn't

see it that way                                             

                                                                          

Belly Up

Locked Out on Oxford Street!

I’ve been locked out, I’ve been locked in, 

But I always seem to come back again”

- Neil Finn

"Keys? Tools? Locksmiths - not on Oxford Street Darling!"

My lifelong friend Ailsa had just moved to Sydney.

I hadn’t caught up with my old mate from the OHT for eons.

I could hardly contain the excitement that she was heading over to my Darlinghurst apartment for a catch-up!

It started off with us getting a massage at the Chinese Masseuse joint across the road (one of the MAJOR things I miss about Sydney life) and then we decided we would get a DVD and some dinner.

Feeling a little out of it after the massage we headed back to my pad with DVD and Thai food in hand.

I rustled through my bag for what seemed like an eternity.

A familiar lump began to form in my throat.

I could not find the keys.

The contents of my handbag would make stock-take at Crazy Clint’s look like child’s play so I didn’t want to panic too soon.

I could tell Ailsa was  intrigued by what the hell must be in my handbag as I kept talking away nervously, every moment gaining more awareness of the fact I had locked us out.

My phone was inside and I had no money for a locksmith, no spare key no chance of climbing through a window as I lived on the third floor.

“Ummmmm… Ailsa….”

“Yeah?” she asked in her usual upbeat manner

“I haven’t got my keys”

“You sure?” she asked politely while I am convinced was thinking “Bloody hell you never change Montgomery”

I sat down on the pavement and preceded to empty out the contents of my bag.

This was an embarrassing moment, like I was emptying the contents of my soul.

Except my soul doesn’t contain excessive amounts of hairbands nor a glass I had inadvertently bagged from a nearby pub.

I felt terrible, there wasn’t a solution in sight...

Please visit here for the rest of the story