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.