Im not much with words lately. So this post remains brief. Praying for peace to prevail in the world. My faith has staggered for so long. My feet wobbly, my heart faint. I hope you are well. As well as you possibly can be in the midst of what our eyes see. And our ears hear the words so freely flow…. What do any of those words even mean anymore?
Im really looking forward to 2022. Wow! Can you believe how far we have come?
Wind swept my hair in a bun half-naked neck exposed getting cold perturbed by my lack of sense holding onto a love having been long dead
The chief beauty about time is that you cannot waste it in advance. The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you, as perfect, as unspoiled, as if you had never wasted or misapplied a single moment in all your life. You can turn over a new leaf every hour if you choose.
golden leaf dangles the dulled scissors make a way potent thoughts preserved
The wonderment of stored thoughts written on that lone leaf left; collected nutrients to carry my body through the winter months.
This picture was taken over a month ago, from my writing room, as electric company trucks rolled down our street, trimming lofty branches. This process of trimming secures our light for when snowfall or winds threaten to leave us in the dark.
I was working indoors, on my vision board, cutting out images. This process of scissoring magazines is a muse to a dormant mind. Freedom stands out as the most impactful map Ive drawn. To follow the freedom trail, entails not second-guessing any element of this vision. But rather flowing with the river’s current.
At the same time as my vision board, I put together a gratitude collage, on the other side. It feels wonderful to know where Ive been. It helps me realize that despite bad feelings, there exists hope.
And since I am superstitious, I won’t be posting any pictures of the boards. Lest my prayers fall short of the outcome.
Connecting with others here on WordPress saved me from utter destruction. And for that i am grateful. And in the process, i have returned to my first love. Creating is my lifeline and my grace to get me through to the other side.
Growing up i was denied every aspect of self for the greater good. And as much as i love my family, to neglect myself was detrimental in the long run. I lost my brother to suicide. And i still have trouble understanding that relationship. We were very close growing up. Until we drifted apart. Friends until high school, when his sudden budding interest in girls, sparked a fissure.
I will never fully understand suicide. The thoughts of doing away with self, once gripped me too. For thirty some years i thought it through. Jumping from second-story windows, holding my breath under pillows, imaging myself driving the car off a bridge, and holding a knife to my neck while talking to my therapist. I had my ideas. Pills and razors, ropes hanging from rafters. They all presented peace of mind.
I have wandered through the ensuing fog. I have spent countless nights in tears. I sacrificed myself for the greater good all while dying a slow death.
I started practicing art in recent years. Whether photography, watercolor, acrylics, textiles, or garden seeds, i have found my inner sense of life. In my poetic words i have tried to let you see a bit more of what stirs inside. And even though i am unable to practice my first love, dance, i found a place to move internally.
So take your bow. See me stand before light. You saved a life.
Please do not use any of my photos without my permission. Thank you.
Go. Get some color on paper. What color am I feeling? It feels like no color could capture the past hours. The colors all appear so dull, uninviting, wordless. With no message whatsoever to speak with. No map to direct feet. No clouds or forests to hide fears.
What color appreciates mystery? Do you know?
The ribbon of blue strikes the sky boundless energy disperses the crowd hangs low and into eternity i ride.
Lay my heart down and weep what little time remains I give it all to you the gift of all beauty hidden from human eyes. You are only fed to eager souls.
I won’t be gone long. How can I keep myself from being amongst all this grandeur?
I did a little beach cleanup. I hiked miles. I painted. I wrote. Nothing here keeps me from living. Everything here pushes me to go further. The seals and loons. The cawing of crow friends. A shy heron perched as if wind was nonexistent.
The waves rush in with new gifts of sea glass. The waves recede into the greater good. The flow of sea amends all the broken pieces of life.
The world is cold and selfish. It barely bats an eye at our grieving. It spends so much time grieving its own demise.
On the way to rest in solitude, I listened to an audible book where another person told of their adventure into being with only self. Except she barely was alone. Day after day, visitors and visiting. The only time spent in solitude was when she was writing poems or finding sleep, alone, in the darkest hours of the day.
So what part of this life is best lived alone?
Looking into a mirrored reflection I beg, “Please let me find myself.” Slowly, I slip into a rhythm created by the sun, moon, and tide. In silence, one finds a way to revolt against the engulfing madness.
In trying to grasp the unevenness of life, I plan to make fear abide my courage. To wake another day unknowing. To wonder how I make my life worth living. To make a way in the wilderness.