Believe

She told me to wish on a star because it will make your wish come true. Somewhere between stardust and sunbeams when dreams feel so real you can smell the rain in the air, I almost believe. Then the sleep falls from my eyes and I’m hit with the starkness of reality.

She said that grown-ups can’t be happy because they’ve forgotten how to dream. In the fervor of her argument when her tiny hands fly up in exasperation and conviction invades every word, I want to believe. Then it’s time to come in from the chill and I’m hit with the emptiness of silence.

She gave up on the little lost boy in the green hat when she turned seven. When I watch her scan the twinkling horizon for a hint of fairy dust in hopes that some dreams are worth holding on to, I begin to believe. Then her head drops along with those beautiful blue eyes and I’m hit by tiny fragments of shattered hope.

She’ll tell you the greatest gift I ever gave her was that of life. Between the smiles and tears, hopes and fears, lost dreams and found things when I’m sure all strength is gone, I do believe.

I believe in her…and that is enough to make me believe in love again.

Brushing Keys & Building Dreams

It took a flash brighter than lightning on a starless night for me to see. If not for the scream of a handful of words, I might still be blind. I won’t admit to the tears, because I’m too stubborn to let them fall. I won’t admit to the twist in my stomach, because I’m too thick skinned to let it bubble past the surface. I won’t admit defeat, because I don’t really know the meaning. Instead, I’ll let them scrub the insides clean.

~   ~   ~

Will you know when your paradigm shifts? Will anyone be there to care? I ask these questions often, and then I wonder if they matter. Mine shifted tonight and when I saw the stars again, my three were right where I left them. The comfort of the familiar steadied me. I let the gathered expectations of the last nine months blow away. They piled up when I wasn’t looking, but then I guess we miss the dust bunnies until we’re stepping on them.

Here’s the hardest part of revelation: when it finally happens no one may be there to share it and no matter how loud you scream no one will hear it.

Instead, I’ll leave it here. Though you won’t understand every word you’ll feel it with me; the excitement that borderlines mania, the fear that borderlines terror, the hope that borderlines faith. When the sharp breath hits like that wall you didn’t see coming you’ll know. You’ll see it’s all part of who I was, who I am, and who I hope to be. Seek me out to hear the smile in my voice or walk by with a quick uneasy glance; either way I’ll be here brushing keys and building dreams in cloud shaped castles.



Life Well-Lived

Silence is our gift. We knew that once when the earth was still young enough to hold wonder. In the darkness of night, the crickets chirped and leaves rustled to make us aware of the quiet. When the chimes ring, I remember for a moment what newness feels like. The stars shine bright against a moonless sky. I sense life ancient and unnamable in their twinkle. It is then I know without doubt I am connected to what came before and what will be after.

So often we talk about living in the now. While such thoughts carry merit, I wonder how often we’re disconnected from our past and future. Life is a cycle of movement. At the second you finish reading this sentence the words will join the past. Does that mean they are no longer worthy of your interest?

My point here is simple. Each moment connects to another to create a stream….in it we laugh or cry or live. Because it ends or has yet to happen doesn’t mean that the value is lost. If we are to be the sum of our parts then every experience, past-present-future, collide to become who we are. In a universe of change it’s vital to know where you’ve been, to understand where you are, and prepare for where you’ve yet to venture.

Every experience will shape you whether you’ve had a chance to live it or not. We all know this life leads to one place. It is the same destination for every person no matter his or her rank. So in the end it isn’t some glorious race to finish first, but to finish well. A life well-lived will be remembered if only by a single person. Can any of us say that isn’t worth it?

Turning Time

My @indieink challenge comes from Disease (@ChamindraH / www.chamindra.blogspot.com): If You Could Turn Back Time.. What Would You Do to Make Things Right?

            I have to admit I wasn’t jazzed to get this prompt. The possibilities seemed pretty limited, given my philosophies on the subject; but the struggles of someone close made me take a second look. This is my response:

            The bigger picture is never clear. We often focus on the details thinking we might find control, but the illusion is no one can halt the progress of time. It’s a tapestry woven with joy and pain. Each event has a place, some threads shine brighter than others. If you take one out, the entire picture begins to unravel, because they interlock to create a life. With every choice, a new thread forms to expand the edges.

Still we grasp the frays tucking them away from memory or dying them in less painful hues; mentally rewriting our history, editing out the parts of the tapestry we don’t want to face. A single thought hits: If we could go back to the beginning, it might be possible to remove the frays altogether. While this may be true have you ever considered the consequences? I have…

I married at a young age to a man I didn’t really love. It’s not that I had to marry him; I could have gone back to school and raised my daughter as a single mother or accepted the proposal of the man I did love. For many years after I left him, I considered what might have happened if I chose a different path. Each time the thought hit me my son would be there, in my arms, telling me about his day. I would smile and nod, and then hug him until I couldn’t breathe.

You see, if I had chosen the other path this amazing child would not be here today. Sure, I would have other children, but not this one or the beautiful little redhead that makes my heart smile. Every event exists for a reason. We can never see the purpose until we live the result. If we change a single thing in our history, it creates entirely different threads. Some may be better, but I believe the better is lived in the now and is based on choices.

Change doesn’t exist in the past, only lessons. We learn and grow from them to make the now right or we repeat the mistakes of our past. Either way, it will only get there when we stop looking over the fence at greener grasses and tend our own.

*   *   *   *   *

I sent my challenge out to Melissa (@rockdrool). Find her here http://www.rockanddrool.com/

Interested in joining the challenge? Check @indieink out today  http://www.indieink.org/writing-challenges/

A Love Story

           I’m done. Maybe you missed the cue or you just don’t care to hear, but believe me there won’t be any doubt after today. This woman is no longer going to kneel before your doctrine and quietly assimilate. I don’t need anyone’s help finding what already lives inside me. So stop knocking, because my door is closed.

Unless—wait, were you here to say something important? Is there some divine message I missed in all those long drawn out lectures you gave? The ones where you mentioned that people who don’t share your beliefs are wrong.

Judgment seems to be the norm. It’s sold on street corners by Religions all over the world like counterfeit Rolexes'; their sales pitch colored by fear, anger, and hate. Salvation is optional in their world; and no one can guarantee if you do it right, if you follow the rules, it will find you in this life or the next.

God isn’t someone you have to seek out or accept. So stop telling me how and where to find him. No building or book carries all the answers, because He exists in each of us as light and love. If no one ever stepped into a church, it would be just another empty building. It’s only when people come to fellowship, share common beliefs, that He can be found walking the edges smiling. Not because you came to pray; it’s the gathering and sharing that’s important.

If you think sharing the love is about opening a book and knocking on doors then you’re missing the point. It’s not about telling me anything; because we’ve all listened to your messages until our ears bleed. You’ve had the same song on repeat for last few centuries and it’s getting old. The notes are no longer in tune and the melody skips every time you point your finger. So close your mouth and show me something.

Show me how you’re going to make the world better. Help that lady down the street with three kids who’s about to lose her house or the guy sleeping on the street because it’s easier for people to walk around than stop and ask why. Don’t sell me salvation from a pamphlet or in a sermon, show me how your actions of love and light will lead you there. Maybe then, I’ll stop and listen to what you have to say.

Show, Don't Tell

            You’ll find the new trend stalking every street corner. Most people walk past, eyes glued to the pavement, hoping they find someone else’s ear. If I weren’t such a believer in the base philosophy, I might stand in a corner out of sight hiding from them myself. I can’t do that anymore. (So, for better or worse, here I go opening my big mouth.)

I’m over the long speeches and quick jabs about how we’re all lost people. The self-proclaimed spiritual leaders can take their mantras and sell them on a different corner, because love and light wasn’t meant to be a commodity. I live by the same philosophy in life as I do in my writing: Show, Don’t Tell. Yeah, I could tell you how meditation brings peace, the way a hug and an ear sooths the soul, or how God’s love (yes, I used the G word) heals a heart, but how does that really help? Isn’t better to show you how these things work in my life?

There are many people in the world throwing out clichés about living in spirit and light, but how many listen? The first reaction I see from those scrolling their timelines is the classic eye roll followed by a quick click of the refresh button. That is, if they stop at all. Because no one really wants to be told how to do something or, and I really don’t like when spiritualists do this, told that they are broken.

This journey is personal and custom crafted to fit each one of us. No one has the formula. So stop acting like you do. This isn’t a club people join. If you want to reach the masses, show them how your personal spirituality has transformed the way you love people and see life. Be there when they stumble and fall, and then hope they are there to do the same for you. Because no matter how evolved we become, everyone stumbles eventually.

Light, love, and spirit aren’t exclusive; everyone carries a piece with them. So next time someone shows up on your step, stop and repeat this 10 times or 100 times or 1000 times until it sticks: Show, Don’t Tell.

Amber Ribbons

             Light pierced the clouds like ribbons of ambered glass. I watched from a distance as it cut the billowing sheets into feathered shapes. They reached out across eternity in quick leaps while words appeared briefly before the wind came to scramble the letters.  I listened to the message form, break apart, and reform in a melody only time knew.

            The drops on the windshield hinted at the rainbow hidden in the sky. And the light danced between the streaks traveling along the glass. It heard the music captured in the tiny prisms.

I’m sure something was tucked in the hues for me, but the humming of tires against the pavement masked the sound. If I had stopped along the road, perhaps my heart could have taken a better hold.

Hidden away in each creek I passed, the frogs croaked the songs of summer, mirroring the skies message. The urge to get lost along their banks grew stronger as I drove by.

Thoughts of old country roads removed from time flooded my mind; and still they chirped through the wind and rain. Calling me to join in; reaching into my heart to pull apart misconceptions.

It was a day to get lost in nothing and everything; a moment to hold tight to amber ribbons and let the song carry me back to connection.

Beneath the Flesh



            It will bubble beneath the skin. You scratch at the sores hoping to release the pain, but escape wasn’t meant for you. They’ll taunt with a line, maybe even a stanza; never truly giving relief. The clichés will pour across white like blood at a crime scene. You’ll look at the evidence, each clue as though it was gold, but the answers you find are screens. They fog over truth with an elegance and conviction that keeps you spellbound.

            There’s a song hidden somewhere in the break. Something lonely and soulful, but it’s not yours. Just another clue holding you or that you hold too tightly. If you were willing to look beyond, gather them all to make a whole, perhaps sense could be made. But the details captivate and the bigger picture was never of interest. So you’ll listen to the song again, hoping to pull from beneath the flesh those things that haunt; like victims of a crime they’ll whisper from the beyond. Still, the fog jumbles all the words and you aren’t in the mood to hear.

            Though this is a journey, have you considered not all is meant for the page? Sometimes we must stand back, allow the mind to reform and recharge. Inspiration is fickle; there’s a time when talent isn’t enough. The universe needs a moment to move forward as do the words. If you take a breath, if you let the Muse run through fields of pleasure and pain; she’ll return to you with stories that will give thoughts to the pen and peace to the flesh. And you’ll once again make sense of this thing we call life for all of us. Because in the end, you are the Muse we seek out.

Eternal Fires

"A firecracker snaps behind your ear, shattering the senses. As your brain begins to liquefy, a hand reaches out to catch the drips..."

Turning Points

            I remember sitting there, in the middle of my room, curled on the floor. It was last time I really cried. Everything seemed broken and hopeless, I’m sure the memory of their laughter played a part as did the silence. Both were so loud my ears started ringing. If the moment wasn’t so empty, if the echo of my sobs hadn’t ripped the silence in burst, I might have forgotten. It may have faded into to just another day, but I think days like that stick with you like warm gum on your shoe.

            They were only gone for the weekend, but it was long enough for my mask to crack and then shatter. You’d think the life growing inside me would be reason for hope. The amazing little freckled faced redhead just beginning to form would have been cause to count blessings, but not in that moment. Had I the glimmer of hope that she carries in every breath then the world may have seemed brighter. But the rain fell and clouds hid the moon, I stretched across the floor counting the drops as they hit the carpet, trying to keep time with the ones hitting the window. Maybe if I found a rhythm, something would make sense.

            He gave me a choice. I’m sure to him it seemed perfectly reasonable, but I couldn’t reconcile it. I still remember his expression, the words rolled off his tongue so matter of fact they caught me off guard. “I already have a son. I don’t want any more children, but I still want to get married.” I didn’t understand at first, searched his eyes for a clue, and looked at the ring on my finger hoping it would answer the riddle. It only took a moment for the horror to set, a glance at the pamphlet he handed me. Then he grabbed my hand, “It doesn’t take long. I’ll be with you the entire time.”

            Looking at her now, watching her red hair glisten in the sun, feeling the warmth of her hug, I think back to those moments when life seemed hopeless; when I was given a choice between two futures. I never wonder what life would be like without her, because she was always meant to be here, sitting on my lap, watching the clouds pass through a crystal blue sky. For all the pain and tears, I’m thankful I met him, because here she sits, watching the lizards crawl across the deck, listening to wind chime melodies. But when the house is dark and everyone is dreaming my mind wanders back and….

            ….I remember sitting there, in the middle of my room, curled on the floor. It was last time I really cried.

She'll Write for You

The first petal fades as she hands over the rose. Its knowledge of the goodbye steals a bit of life. Pink and perfect, the rumor of a forever bloom isn’t in the box; only a token of the heart, the remembrance of long nights and soft sighs. If you listen, the words I love you escape when you open it. As the moonlight dwindles, the last kiss lingers. They’ll fall into slumber wrapped in love and wake to a morning of touch…of taste.

You’ll scan the radio looking for a song to break the mood. The notes string down the road as the hawks fly above the fields. They’re flowing today, touched by sunlight and the tears rolling down her cheeks. But keep your eyes forward, glue them to the road. If you break now there’s no hope of turning back or, maybe, that’s the only hope. Another flight waits, just a call away. Still you know she must go. Their hearts call to her and half the tears she cries are for them.

One bag, a quick hug before sorrow takes hold. If you leave fast enough she’ll never see you cry, but did you consider that may be exactly what she needs? So easy to hide behind the words written on the screen. That’s why you’ll forget to call, because you know she feels the pain in every beat; a burden you keep, because it would only make it more difficult. And the last thing you want is add another string. One more and she may break.

She’ll write for you a thousand sunsets. The colors will dance from her fingertips in fevered waves, because it’s the only way she can cope with a heart divided. When you read this, take in each drip, you’ll see how her heart belongs to you…or maybe you won’t. It will never stop the flow, she’ll write about gardens and train tracks and long walks by the river – she’ll write about love, because that’s what you are…to her.

Love Me Tomorrow

Love me tomorrow; when the wind shifts and the stench of past romances no longer follows us as we walk. They haunt in gusts, forcing the memories back; each smell, every touch assaulting the senses. Its grasp so tight I struggle to pull in breaths that sting with loss. The pain real to the taste, it sits bittered on my tongue, rooted so deep I’ve yet to remove them all.

So, love me tomorrow; let time lift the scars scratched across the soil by sharp careless words whispered by pained hearts. Though I step with care, they reach up to grab the hem. You’ll see the trip just ahead, but let me fall, because this is not tomorrow and I still fight the loss. The scratches and scrapes won’t linger. They heal as my heart starts to let go. Listen to these words and…

Please, love me tomorrow; but not today, oh no, don’t love me on this day. I still need time to catch my breath and I’m waiting for the wind to shift and spinning from the last fall. There’s still so much to do. The places I meant to visit are calling and I’m desperately reaching out to find them – and you. But love…

When you see me, smile and keep walking. When you wake to a new day, thinking tomorrow has come, read these words again and you’ll know – that it is today…

…and tomorrow still waits for love.

Juliet Notions

            They say it’s out there. They tell me to keep looking or to stop and let it come to me, but the lack of agreement confuses my heart. I feel the strings of logic and love wrap around me. The twist strains the beating making it jump and shudder. When I cut one, the pressure lifts for a moment. The message clears, and then clouds when the next word is uttered causing the cycle to begin once more.

 I’m not held in Juliet notions. A love to die for is a step past the forever I desire, but there’s a touch of whimsy in this dream. One that sparkles the edges enough to hold my attention in short breaths. Don’t confuse this with all-consuming passion. It lies far from the abyss created by those fires. This love is the spark; the one that lives bound in soulful whispers and sits on silver lined fancies.

It was once written in a screened memory best. When I heard the words leave her lips I felt them resonate; a dream of love that will still time. Those are the sentiments that echo in me. I go back from time to time to hear them again, because, even though the box is empty, those words still hold power over me. As does the moonlit warnings woven in her tale.

It’s possible that chance passed me somewhere in the turmoil. The forever love set beside the road was missed while my mind wandered in moonlight and waves. I’d go back to search the gravel, but I’ve traveled so far for so long that I’m sure it’s moved on to another heart.

I could let the regret swallow me, I could let the pain overwhelm, but I haven’t reached the end yet. And I desperately want to see where the road leads, if it truly leads anywhere. Right now there’s no light on the horizon, only that moon…echoing her warning.

Puddle Splashers

            It’s one of those days when the seams don’t fit. Maybe the rain shrunk the edges or they’re filled past flowing; either way the alignment is off. I’ll push and pull for a little while, and then turn back to the page. No matter the words, I’ll write each down with a little clickity-clack, because in the end they’ll make sense to someone.

            I remember the day we were lost in a rose garden dream. Though nothing was in bloom, we could still smell the sweet scent. We watched the other patrons run, glancing briefly in our direction. The question in their eyes: why aren't you moving? But we sat in the raspberry rain, drinking sangria and lattes laughing about the panic. And when the thunder rolled, we exchanged a knowing look; the power of the rumble flowing down to our toes while the rain tapped out a message on our backs.

            We giggled at the sweet dedicated hostess braving the weather to reach our lone table. And then, at the busboy who asked half a dozen times if we wanted a seat inside; but we let the drips soak in, past the doubts, beyond the fear and sighed a little inside. We were mysterious and movie stars and those people who braved the lightening. In a garden of light, we counted each drop and when they stopped, we stood glancing at the stairs before turning to splash in puddles forming on the sidewalk; because that’s who we are: the puddle splashers, the rain dancers, the writers of life with a touch of love.

And if they could see, if they only knew…they would have stayed. Just for a moment, to find a puddle of their own to splash in.

The Next Step

There were no ribbons or bows laced through my happily ever-after’s. Very rarely did they manage to fall into happy and ever-after were never words we used, because most loves are not crafted to withstand forever. Most are based on expectation and judgment; brittle foundations that begin to crumble with each shake. He didn’t call me yesterday, shake ~ crumble; she’s always late, shake ~ crumble. Until they’re merely footprints left in dust; chalk outlines of what might have been.

Even now, as I write, I’ve yet to see the light of forever in a smile. Truthfully, I’ve stopped looking, because I only carry one expectation with me now. Partially because, love held without exception is so much more fulfilling; and, I’ve learned over time, when you confine people to an image, they aren’t able to grow through your love. There’s a freedom and security in being loved for the simple act of existence. In that, growth is possible.

The one remaining expectation? Eventually, without exception, everyone will leave. It’s not that we stop loving, but sometimes life pulls at the seams; the threads closing the gap begin to fray and break, causing two hearts to drift. One steps into a golden laced sunrise, the other turns towards the lavender brushed sunset; each finding new purpose and passion in the colors.

Seem hopeless to love someone who is destined to leave? It isn’t, because they always leave behind a part of themselves. The gentle moments sitting by the fire, music and a graveled road with no particular destination, long nights lost in wine and the wink of starlight.

Though memories rarely carry the same weight as a touch, they are still precious reminders of connection, purpose, and hope. Connection to another soul in love and light; Purpose of the heart to love without expectation; Hope that love will find you once more. In the end, I choose to hold tight to hope, because it’s always worth the next look, the next touch, the next step.

Remnants

Behind an old iron gate, in a field now holding the blush of spring, lie the remnants of happily ever after.  The story trapped in the crumbling brick and weathered wood is easily missed.  Most people drive down the road, eyes faithfully tied to the graveled asphalt.  If they took a moment to glance past the worn metal cage, the little picket fence hiding among the vines would catch the eye; but they turn the music up to hasten the journey, drowning out the murmurs of love.

            Within the trees you’ll find it; a lifetime of laughter and a touch of something you can only feel.  They hold the images close to bark, captured in ringed memories.  Each new bud releases a giggle in jeweled tones and flowery fragrances.  Close your eyes; inhale the bits of joy they send as whispers on the breeze.  As one eye opens, and then the other, notice the way the light dances off the emerald foliage. Can you see the way each branch reaches out to carefully lay the tale in your upturned palm?

*   *   *   *   *

Behind the vines,

laughter echoes past the gate.

In the clearing,

we watch the gentle touch of fate.

Tear it down; the foundation

of love , built over lifetimes.

In our minds,

images of children run.

Past the light,

ghosts of yesterday catch the sun;

reminders; their lives still echo

in the heart, while tears begin the fall.

Time holds to memories,

left to wind and dust;

Captured in eternal light,

glimmers of love and trust.

It will stick,

on the edge of salt and water;

In the ripple,

the heart begins to falter;

It’s the love,

fallen back from memory,

that will pull; beyond the ache that binds you.

With all the pain,

you will find a hand to guide you.

Four Dollars and a Parking Pass

                The symbol for this place isn’t on any map. You won’t find it on the page, a post, or written in the stars, because those places require perfection that rips at the foundation. Here the branches twist and leaves are mixed hues of emerald. The woodpecker taps a rhythm that bounces unevenly against the ear. Babbling, the brook carries on a conversation with the daffodils as trees lean close to catch each secret it spills along the shore.

            A graveled path crunches underfoot as they walk hand-in-hand up a muddied path. Across the stair and up a hill, they journey to the place where a counsel of trees gathers. Worn by the winds and time, their leaves no longer bud, but much like old men sitting around a small town barbershop, they argue and laugh about moments long since gone. On occasion, branches reach up in silent prayer. The birds quiet to a hum in reverence, but not the people. They continue past, unaware of the appeals, disconnected from the divinity of this moment.

            On an old bench, scarred by love letters, they watch the world pass. In the distance, fruits of the land are gathered by laborers of soil and sunlight. A hawk plays on the current. Its wings dip and turn with each gust as it searches the grasses for movement. Nearby, the bushes rustle as the wind whispers. She turns to gaze at the imperfection of each leaf, the twist of vined stems, the asymmetry of petals, and wonders if anyone else can see the perfection of it.

            She walks, barefoot and connected, through the grasses. The mud oozes between each toe; cool and moist, it grabs and roots her to the land. One last glance back to the hill, she closes her eyes to listen as life continues the flutter. The woodpecker taps, a bee buzzes past, the wind picks up a couple clouds looking to hitch a ride, and the gravel crunches. Four dollars and a parking pass was all it took. She can’t be certain, but she’s pretty sure God lives somewhere on that hill.

           

 *   *   *   *   *

If it isn’t spoken or written, if it’s held in whispers, does it then become a figment of the heart?

The Fallen

            There’s a sound traveling along the silken strands of sunlight peeking through the panes.  It might start as a faint ringing in the ear; sometimes it falls upon the heart in barely audible whispers, but the one thing you know for sure is that it’s meant for you.  A message of purpose, passion wrapped and soul spun. 

            Hidden behind the hue you’ll find it.  There’s something about the way the light shines that calls to mind a connection both ancient and ethereal.  At first glance, your mind will dismiss the thought.  The images are blurred; clouded with years of encoding and slightly concealed behind the walls you’ve spent countless hours constructing.  But the message grows beyond whispers; ever faithful, it calls in rhythmic tones reminding the mind of facts the eyes refuse to perceive.

            From the moment you were pulled from flight, it chased you through the stars attempting to soften the landing; but cloud laced fingertips scatter with the breeze and no amount of bracing will stop the shatter.  So you pull in one last starlit breath before the fleshed prison takes hold; knowing this choice you made has purpose past simply want or desire.

            In the fall, you see their pain.  Blades sharpened by prejudice, anger, and love lost, cut deep into the soul.  It’s not that they choose to live in this hell.  The book was written long before anyone arrived.  They’re enslaved by nurture and the brutalities of nature, but past the agony is touch of something held heart deep.  It’s a hope that sticks to the walls pumping darkness through without letting it take hold.

            When they trip, a hand flies skyward searching for one to grasp.  The cries will echo in your heart; it’s the call of purpose returned by the voice of a stranger.  As the need becomes clear, you’ll feel the pull.  It brings back faint memories of tumbling clouds wrapped in a feathered resolution.  Instinct compels your hand to reach out and soul guided compassion carefully constructs the words that will strengthen the light of hope fighting to keep hold. 

            It’s a smile, captured somewhere in the heart, that will shine through their eyes.  This isn't about changing or fixing; the purpose is to be there when the hand is up.  Because sometimes they just need a shoulder; being open for the lean can mean the difference between staying in the mud and standing back up to put the next foot down.

One Sigh, One Step

            The first step seemed solid. You checked the footing before making the second, but something catches the edge as you lift. Glancing down, the thought is there hanging to your leg like a lost child. It takes a moment for the eyes to focus; clear the fog long enough for the idea to take hold.

            Turning towards the street, you wave at the car already gone from sight. The emptiness glares back as reality sinks in: He’s gone. One sigh, one step and you’re in the door, but tied to the hem are the memories and the words; the ones you didn’t have time to let slip. They nag in whispers, but your heart swats at them watching each scatter down the hall.

            Relief sets in, allowing for the next step; but the buzzing cloud reforms. Somehow it grew in the dispersal, choking every breath as your lungs fight against the drowning. Assaulted by images, your mind staggers towards the wall; reaching out to stop the spinning, but the railing gives way causing you to tumble.

            Still, the tears won’t come. The strength of will that pushed you forward keeps a tight hold; forcing the next step, because it has to. Even as sorrow washes, you are unable to release the emotion. Although his face is square in the eye and his voice lingers in the ear, you manage to crawl under the covers with the hope that sleep will bring relief; but the cold descends. You reach over to tuck under his arm only to find the emptiness glaring once more.

            One sigh, one step; because moving forward seems to be the only way to keep going. Never stopping to realize that if you wait a moment, the car will drive past for one more wave, the phone will ring to let the words slip, and his arms will be there ready to catch you before the fall.

* * * *

             I never told…it took everything ounce of my strength to leave. When we’re not together a piece of my heart is missing. Loving you has been the hardest and easiest thing I’ve ever done, but I wouldn’t trade a single moment for anything in the world. I love you now…I’ll love you always.

A Glimpse of Perspective

            Today was a time to search for the flutter.  I let the ringing in my ear lead the way back to connection. The message isn’t always clear, but it’s the feeling that matters.  It’s my way of catching a glimpse of perspective.

            Today was a time to search the sky.  I gazed at the clouds looking for that hint of wing-tipped salvation, but they sat peacefully in powered perfection.   So I let the feeling, they passed on the breeze, wash across my chest to saturate; to rejuvenate the dimmed light fighting to hold on.

            Today was a time to search for Angel’s whispers.  I turned to the water, watching it roll down a concrete river.  It carried the last remnants of darkness that was clouding my vision down swiftly moving currents.  I released a sigh, allowing the emotional rollercoaster I’ve been on the last few days to slow to a halt.

            Today was a time to be thankful for a solid hold on the path before me.  Even when the ground is rocky and the weeds pull, my feet stay firm.  I know my purpose in life, the places that bring enlightenment, and how to keep my eye on perspective.  I used that perspective today to reconnect to the love and hope that has blessed my life; and to marvel at the hearts ability to grow.

            Today…was good day to let life find its way back into my heart.

…because life is persistent

You think it’s an illusion; that the glimmered mirage reflected in watery eyes doesn’t dip past the surface, but the rocks you skip aren’t meant to sink.  They skim in rippled jumps each barely tapping the water as it reaches for the other shore. Exhausted from the journey, they succumb to the pull and sink. Before you watch them disappear beneath the waves, another rock is hand ready and held tight. 

            The breeze carries a message through a flowing curtain of willows. They weep for a world-weary heart hardened by time and a touch of life. Desperate to catch your eye, the branches wave frantically, whipping just above your head. When the rustle grows, you glance in annoyance cursing the disruption. The branches, drained from the effort, release the call to let it settle back along the wind.  But life is persistent; it turns to the nightingale, hoping that the sun-brushed melody melts past the iced prison walls surrounding your heart.

            There he sings, on the water’s edge, fighting past cellophane wings to catch your ear.  His little heart beats a foreign rhythm of love.  The song drifts past an unwilling soul wrapped comfortably in its loneliness.  As he prepares to expend his final breath, you turn to throw another stone and stir the water with a splash.  Off he flies in search of new ears to capture.  If you were to pause, the absence would be glaring, but the urge to continue skipping overwhelms the senses. So you throw another stone, hoping this one will make it to the other side.

The frustration builds as each one falls faster beneath the deep cerulean waters than the last.  Realization has yet to take hold, but life is persistent. It compels the lazy clouds to gather. As the sky woven blanket begins to cry, you feel the first drop roll across your cheek. You brush it away without a thought. The first drip safely in hand, you return to task; scowling at the heavens, you warn them in brief sharp glances.

A laugh rumbles across the hills. It grows to a deafening echo in your ears.  Undeterred, the sky opens; in typed drips on the water’s surface, it faithfully sends the message of love. As it soaks, you feel the warmth dip past the skin. Your face turns skyward letting each word roll down rose touched cheeks. It continues to flow as your hands release the stones into the moss covered soil below; finally the words pool right below the neck, through brittled walls, into that space emptied by loneliness.

…because life is persistent and all it needs is time.

The Fall

It’s a thought hanging on the edge, your first inclination is to reach out and grab it before the fall. The bright colors and sparkles are enough to compel a heart to action, but what if the thought isn’t for you. A trick of the eye, the light can rearrange the image to fit. And a soul desperate for the comfort of inspiration will latch.

As it begins to pull you, vision clears to authenticity. The edges solidify; that’s when you realize the passing glance wasn’t yours. The smile, a play on the strings, captured the wrong soul. Two pieces push and press finding a way to fit, discovering in the frustration, the ends are off. The heartache is inevitable. Where the glimpse of love once stood, the truth of lust shines with such a glare it leaves you wondering how the mistake was made.

The almost and what could have been cross your lips in sighs. You ponder the purpose of moments woven with self-destruction, laying the fault in fate. Some loves have no destiny, the lies roll so easily from souls seeking survival. And there is a whisper of truth in self-soothing mantras.

Wisdom may not sit for any length, but love isn’t tainted with conventions of reality. It floats on the cliff waiting for the next longing. Knowing the soul’s desire to be tethered, its unparalleled patience is tipped with just enough whimsy to enrapture the mind past caution. You may not feel the poke, but the next time you see the sparkle about to tumble, take a moment to consider the fall.

Together

            It almost seems as if the world shifted when I wasn’t paying attention, but that has never been my strength. I often miss the changes in the tide. That’s when the waves start pulling the sand from under my feet; causing me to sink past the point of balance. I flounder, looking around for something to stop the fall, but the scenery is barren. So I scan the beach for another soul to extend a hand, finding that I am alone. I could blame this unusual tide on the moon, but experience has shown that the truth typically lies right below the surface; in the depths of water I often avoid, because the darker waters hold mysteries I’ve yet to comprehend.

When the universe speaks, my first inclination is to run. Today the tide came in throwing me back into the sand. Now I could have stood up, making a fast break for the hills, but when I looked back at the imprint there were two sets. This alone would have made me uncomfortable. However, I wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw next; a heart, perfectly formed in the drop, neatly placed between the prints.

                I’ve tried to write about this love many times. The urge to express it is bursting from every pore, but the words always leave me wanting. It doesn’t get much better when we speak. I find my heart dripping straight out of my chest into his eyes. Some invisible force sews my lips together. I resort to a look, a touch, a soft sigh that embodies the essence of the emotional rollercoaster my soul is on.

                With the ability to express such emotions removed, I turn to moments. You see, that is all we really have together; a day at the beach, when the horses grazed on winter dried grasses, hiding in his arms from the chilled ocean breeze; driving down a moonlit road listening to rosy tunes, finding solace in the click-clack of the train tracks; a night of love drunk bliss, watching foreign films and falling into soft kisses, hoping to God that time stops.

                If this were just a romanticized view of what we are together, I could disconnect my soul and write an epic anthology of love poetry. The fact is, the ease of this love sits outside of conflict. There is no jealousy, anger, finger pointing, questioning of motive or action, because none of these things exist between us. It’s simply a heart in the sand, surrounded by the imprint of two souls without expectation.

There are times when you have to live something. Not every experience lends itself to the page. I find more often than not the backstory, although interesting, isn’t given much weight by the reader. So I’ll leave out the how’s and why’s to relate what we are now. We are love, we are touch, we are talk, and we are that simple everyday something that everybody is looking for, and we are all this….together.

Cracks

Some cracks take much longer than a minute to heal. We try to skip past them, hoping that time fills the break. That’s when the weeds move in pushing the edges past the mind. As the crack expands, we gain momentum, but they grow so much faster than a heart can run.

These cracks started when youth was still fresh in my eyes. For all my skipping and whistling, I could not find a way to fill them. No amount of love can kill the weeds, but even at that tender age, I knew that love could fill the holes. Still, there were the weeds which grew beyond the confines of my soul.  

If you gaze long enough at my fingertips, you can see the scars left from years of pulling. See I decided several years ago to begin the journey of removal; to cleanse my soul of the poisoned plants infecting the cracks. It occurred to me that you can’t fill something until it’s empty. Seem like a simple concept? Perhaps, but most people don’t see the weeds; so they continue to attempt filling something that is already full.

It’s a journey of will. You’ll find that some things are very comfortable. Well fed by doubts and insecurities, kept warm by fleeting desires, they can grow beyond your control. Patience is the key; touched with a bit of understanding and the love of self. Of course, you must be willing to take a hard look at choices. My suggestion is to wear lenses that feather the edges, because not every choice we make is a good one; and then exercise a little forgiveness.

In the end, pain is the most difficult weed to remove. Here forgiveness is key. You must be able to forgive yourself for taking that left turn instead of the right; and then extend those arms to include the people who added to that pain. It didn’t occur to me, until recently, that people can be forgiven for most anything. It’s a matter of stepping back and taking a good look at what drives them to action. Sometimes we need to put ourselves in Their place to see the why’s.

After all this work I still find cracks, but the fact that I see the new ones is a step towards healing. Now, when the pain comes to fill them, I remove it quickly. There’s no point in letting something so empty, something simply intent on feeding off my energy, to consume me. In its place I add love. The love I have for the starlit souls in my life fills the breaks past flowing. For that, I am forever grateful.

White Knights & Picket Fences

                The ending is supposed to be happy. At least, that’s the way the fairytales say; though I’ve never been one to read the entire book. Maybe I missed something in the skimming. I should have taken a second look, but the details just didn’t seem important at the time. I think back to the white knights and picket fences wondering why it became the standard. Of course, it’s easy for the sparkle to capture your imagination when youth still has you tightly spun.

                I could say that I’m wiser now, but there’s no point holding onto such lies. Especially when the brights are still on. The truth blinds past the glittered dresses and fairy godmothers now. My time of living in youthful fantasies ended when the lights dimmed. Two failed marriages revealed the kinked metal and crooked slats; a dreamed perfection that’s quickly gathering dust on my shelves.

                It’s time to let the dust settle across the pages. Step back from the obsessive need to keep the shelves clear and simply breathe. Not something I manage with any skill, but I wasn’t given the manual; so I’ll stumble on the frays and find a way to move forward, because there’s no point in going back. The charred bridge lies at the bottom of a river I will not cross again and I’m done mourning the loss of those dreams.

                Lessons learned, we glance back at the good with smiles and let the bad fade past memory. It’s time to pull up the straps, putting one foot down, because that’s the only way to get through the day to day. In place of progress, movement brings us toward the green of spring with some hope that it is fashioned for happiness. And the search for hope, happiness, and new love is always worth the next step.