Honoring creation, realizing there are no mistakes. We are born whole, flung into the air, and immediately plopped into crisp blankets. Fresh fabric woven to caress our skin. The fortunate ones know love from the beginning.
The wailing ensues. Lost in the noise of moving parts. Who can understand the tragedy of dying?
I gather stones like bread crumbs. Each shape resembles a thought. Each thought encompasses a season. Each season of drought, famine, abundance, joy, grief, weighs heavy on the mind. Until. Until i lay my heart on the rock bed and weight the tears. I either sink or rise. And the vapor of breath becomes a fog. The inner vines of making meaning tangle up the process, and threaten my life.
One day at a time. Release the illness. Gather the rocks. Warm yourself with their captured sun. Notice the colors swirling within. Grays, blacks, oranges, blues, greens. Reds and whites too.
There is no where I feel as at home than by the ocean. The seaweed stretches to reach the foot that otherwise wobbles on land. Words fail to describe the ecstasy. If you could hold happiness, you could hold me. But sand slips through fingers and salt water breezes brush past man.
The tide heading towards the unknown carries me out to sea.
Once monthly i feel an urge to connect with others. And explore the foolish thoughts dancing in my head. Picking up rocks is a favorite past time and i miss this place dearly. I miss you too.
Its not quite May. So technically i am rushing this posting. But conventional wisdom alludes me. Ive been jumping off the railroad tracks the past six months. And diving into drained ponds. With summer months approaching, im praying for rain to refill these dry bones.
How else do i explain my temporary insanity? Other than my thoughts overflow into print. And then i run with them, as a flirt to power.
I study human behavior as a hobby. I honestly believe we all strive for attention. What is my excuse? We would all be far better off climbing back into our suitcases and traveling on to a promised land.
Am I beginning to make sense? Finally? I took an Advil Pm 30 minutes ago. And instead of falling asleep, my mind started racing towards the finish line. “Don’t die yet? The best is yet to come!” Oh, how i dearly want to believe.
So i write. A love letter. A flirtatious epic to myself. With all the obvious jargon of the day. And i secretly stash it into a back pocket, hoping someone would come along and steal all the selfish bull crap ive stored. The letter now written, better explained as love hoarded for myself.
Which brings me to my favorite life artist, Van Gogh. He was not part of polite society. Yet he loved the world more than those who bothered to say “Pardon me.” to fellow men waiting in line for their stab at being known. Ironic that the most evasive was the winner.
Aesop understood human behavior far better than i ever will. And i beg to differ with him as well. I dont really want to know much. Just warming myself by the fire and reading the smoke signals left to inform me, i am still alive.
If you make sense of this, you are far smarter than me. Please explain to me how you know!
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.
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.