hazel (part two)

The night is quiet and I’ve never been as content as I am right now inside a dark coffeeshop nestled into the Smoky Mountains. The bell on the front door jingles and I look up into your handsome whiskered face. Your torn jeans and tanned forearms tell a story, but your soft eyes a volume unto themselves. For a moment that feels like forever, yet remains not long enough, your green eyes meet my brown... an alchemy of irises creating a delphic hazel chasm between us. And for a moment your smile steps off stage, then does an encore, leaving me to wonder when brown and green would meet again.


To the Celts, hazel was the color of wisdom and poetic inspiration. There’s an old legend about nine, old hazel trees born around a sacred pool buried deep in the Scottish highlands. This “Well of Wisdom” as it was known was full of salmon who ate the nuts fallen from the trees. In mythology, Fionn MacColl, eventually one of the High Kings of Ireland, fell into the sacred pool and nearly drowned - but ate of the hazel filled salmon and found himself strong enough to swim. When he resurfaced, he returned the wisest man on Earth and became one of the famed heroes in Celtic legend. 

So revered are the hazels for their life-changing properties, to this day, you must have a permit to cut one down in Ireland. It isn't just the Irish either, in Norse mythology Thor himself protected them as the sacred trees of knowledge. 

Son of Zeus and Greek god of transitions and boundaries - Hermes is often depicted with his staff of hazel, said to be the source of his intelligence and wisdom.

Roman legend says the hazel tree is found at the border between worlds where the mystical and mysterious come to pass. In narratives passed down for generations, the Romans told stories of the ones who returned from the hazel tree at the edge of the world–stronger and more courageous than when they left. 

Like the lore that came before us, when we forsake the primary colors of life, we find wisdom in the hazel, enlightenment in the coalescent gray. Black-and-white is a perfectly good way to live an ordered life... but not a way to live a wise one.

Lean in and let the hazel spaces change you... for regardless of what you believe in this moment, beautiful and powerful things can happen in the margins. While it may feel lonely, you're not alone in the Celtic's sacred waters. Many before you have also found themselves between depression and joy, marriage and divorce, faith and doubt... who they are now and whom they're becoming. If the liminal has taught me anything it's that I'm so much stronger than I think...  and you are too. 

The next time you feel lost in all the ways you never wanted... look hazel in the eyes and ask him to make you brave again. 

Courage dear heart, 

- JohnMark 

hazel (part one)

not green nor brown

not black nor white

 

these gray spaces

appear hazel too

 

this liminal place,

this sweet in-between

 

would be a primary color

if i’d just chosen green

No, I'm Not Afraid of the Dark

9125 days. That’s how long I’ve been alive. 

It's 7:30 AM on a Wednesday morning and I'm curled up under a down comforter… I realize it’s my birthday, then wonder why the hell it’s so cold in the middle of March. 

My tabby, Caspian purrs softly beside me as the dusty fan whispers quietly overhead. 

From beyond the cardboard walls of my downtown apartment, I hear distant sirens echo against high rises like tenors inside a stone-walled cathedral. 

I’m groggy and hit snooze, rolling back onto my side. Within moments, the borders of my consciousness flutter away and, as often happens on birthdays, my mind recedes back into the past.

I’m gliding across a clear glass lake in Alaska April, our inflatable Zodiac boat drifting toward the remote, rocky shore. From nowhere, a Grizzly bear club leaps from the water and across the bow, a shiny silver salmon clasped within her teeth. I blink, and before I know it I’m 7,000 miles away. 

I find myself in the center of a narrow street in the dead of night, a sinister, sniper-topped wall to my back. A boy, not much younger than me describes his life on the wrong bank of Jerusalem, trapped in a prison without a roof. 

Tears sting my cheeks like nettles.

I fast forward, my mind blending memories like a river meeting the sea… 

Suddenly, I’m hiking 100 miles in the Rockies, stumbling over my feet as I learn to use my gangling legs and pubescent body. 

I trip on the rocky soil and I’m falling - but I’m not in New Mexico anymore, my legs are above my head and I’m bungee-jumping off a bridge. Screaming, petrified, falling across the Zambia / Zimbabwe border - the rushing Zambezi River below and crashing Victoria Falls behind. 

I hear the memory of my own profanities as I close my eyes tight, but when I open them I’m at peace, watching a rainbow of hot air balloons rise across a Turkish plateau from a sleeping bag inside an ancient cave.

Like the Soviet train that took me across Eastern Europe, my thoughts pick up steam, memories flying off the dusty shelves of an ethereal library in my mind… 

Falling asleep in a hammock on the side of a Nicaraguan volcano, struggling to breathe in an unpressurized Vietnam-era turboprop landing in a Sudanese desert, fishing a black mamba out of a latrine in Kenya, reef diving in Maui before four-wheeling across Kaui....

I feel the heavy rain assault my face, the roof of my Arctic fishing hut torn off in the throes of a Norwegian storm. 

The lyrics to “Wildest Dreams” play in the background as the storm dries up and I’m curled up on the floor of Taylor Swift’s home listening to her play an unreleased album. 

Forty countries. Five continents. Four businesses. One lifetime of adventure woven into less than three decades. 

Caspian paws at my face, clawing me from my thoughts, scowling in admonishment over her empty dish.

I roll out of bed to fill her ceramic bowl before padding to the bathroom. After brushing my teeth, I crack my black journal and flip back through the pages. 

The tattered Moleskine in my hands contrasts the narrative of grand adventure, my inky black handwriting paralleling the inky black places I once found myself. 

In spite of my achievements and laudable successes… for years when I tried to find dreams at night, I found myself instead swallowed up in nightmares; afraid if my demons left me, the angels would too. 

Silently, for many of my years, I struggled with self-doubt, depression, and anxiety. I’d spent so much of my life traveling the world, telling other people’s stories… but struggling in silence to believe in my own. 

In the last twelve months though, I’ve started sharing more-and-more of myself - slowly at first, and then all at once. Before I knew it, those monsters inside me turned out to be nothing more than trees. 

And so, as I reflect on the first quarter of my life - I remember my extraordinary adventures, but mostly I think about my shadowy canyons… and all they’ve taught me about the light. 

When I think of luminescence, I think about all of you: friends and family, counselors and coaches, mentors and advisors…  and the fleeting glimpses of eternity revealed to me in the courage, forgiveness, hope, and laughter you’ve offered so freely. 

I can say, for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of the dark anymore… because I’ve found, when you sit it long enough, your eyes adjust and you start to see all the people sitting around you, and realize they’ve been there all along. 

I can't tell you how grateful I am to know and be known by you. 

Courage dear heart, 

-JM

Psalm to Myself

My angry stomach rumbles as I snooze my way out of the cheap cotton sheets lining my tiny hostel bed. I stumble to the dirty shower; my Chardonnay mind pounding heavily as it resists the early start to the day. 

Dodging bikes and fighting cold, I find my way to the heart of Amsterdam to explore the Museumplatz - home of the remnants of Van Gogh, Warhol, Banksy, Rembrandt & others, scattered like ashes amongst numerous museums around a spacious courtyard. 

I wrote the following in the Rijksmuseum, the largest museum in the Netherlands and one of the largest in the world. I frankly didn’t plan to spend all day there - Amsterdam is full of galleries to explore. I certainly hadn’t anticipated finding a work so profound I couldn’t leave it. I fall to my knees and take an awkward stance, getting lost in the 15th Century ink, the brushstrokes and vivid colors. 

"Break of the Dike" Jan Asseljin 1510

"Break of the Dike" Jan Asseljin 1510

I'm only there a moment before a single tear rolls down my rosy cheek as I connect the dots five hundred years later. The billowing cloak of the man at the left shows that the storm is not yet over, however the squalls are already moving on at the right. The vivid red contrasts sharply with the bright blue of the parting clouds. 

I retrieve my Moleskine from my bag & pick up my fountain pen… this image, this painting, makes me think of Psalms. I’ve always been amazed by David - at his uncanny ability to express joy and anguish simultaneously. To describe in gruesome detail the painful situation he finds himself, yet proclaim the truth of who God is within the final lines. 

This is my story. This is my Psalm. 

______________________________

whimsy, hope, and kingdom

are what i hope to find -

yet why is all this darkness,

buried deep inside? 

 

i long to feel.

i long to heal.

free me from this place -

of sin, and woe, and angst.

free me from this melancholy,

free me from this brink.

 

am i going mental? 

have i lost my mind? 

where along the way,

did i find myself trapped inside?

the prison of this space -

the space behind my eyes -

an Alcatraz of my design;

an island, in my mind.

 

yet even in this place,

somewhere far at sea-

there is light in the distance;

illuminating You to me. 

 

i board the boat You designed,

to sail this stormy sea.

the winds are rough,

the sea is tough,

yet here You are with me. 

 

I feel the wind upon my face;

the sea salt stings my eyes.

 

i inhale all Your breath -

and move from life to death.

not death of You, but death of me;

for I am not my own.

 

Your breath brings life as my dark soul dies;

my black shirt changed to white.

Your breath has made me brave.

Your son has brought me life. 

 

the storm still rages 'round me -

my cloak billows in the wind.

rain may sting my face like pebbles,

but You've made me brave again. 

______________________________

I’m not sure I believe the end. I’m not sure David would either. Yet, he wrote his anyway. I can’t help but think that’s important. 

Choose courage. Choose hope. Choose truth. And, if nothing else, remember sometimes the wind we feel is nothing more than a storm’s final breaths.

Courage dear heart, 

-JM