“Life is like getting dropped off in the middle of the woods, and then year by year, gradually walking home.” April Foiles
Whether positive or negative both images have their own beauty. Such is true of us, as well. If we let go of the concepts of good and bad, and embrace whether the moment we are in has something to offer us, in terms of growth, we would know true freedom. Look closely. Inside your darkest moments, worst behaviors, and sickening fears is a treasure of such beauty it could change your life forever.
My heart, my mother’s lake. Long and slim. Fresh and dark. Bass and sunnies and tadpoles becoming frogs. She gardened here, but I dug in clay and looked for salamanders and toads. Piles of last year’s tomato plants now plowed under with muck from the lake. Good fertilizer she’d say. Full of leeches and fish poop I’d call back, tossing grasshoppers into the water that snap when the fish catch them. Honeysuckle dangled from my mouth that grows thick as thieves in the field. She chased the Canadian geese while I crawfished the stream feeders, my hand still, my breath held. Her death was like that, too. Me standing ankle deep in her sickness trying to catch her spirit as it leaped into the Great Lake. Now there is only the sunset shimmer on the water rippling in the summer breeze. Geese are gone and grass grows tall. The garden is dead but the fish still leap for water bugs that want for dragonfly wings. Iridescent blues that snap my attention from grave dirt. No lake clay here and I miss it’s pliability and the way that it shaped to my touch. Growing warmer the longer I held it. That is love. Warm the longer you hold it, which is why death beds are so cold. So I let the sun warm me before I dive deep into the murky water, letting the cold spot rack my bones.
Work in progress from the Front Range Writer’s Group: hosted. By Marj Hahne
I woke to new snow
A slivered moon
And a low sun
Breathing in mountain pose
The gift of life
Fills my lungs
Maybe the reason trolls lived under bridges is the world looks magical when light is glimpsed from the dark.
Large and wide as the Indian Ocean. Breaching this now moment with the grandness of orchids wild along the road to Bangkok from Phuket. Growing in vision that trips over the expected and launches the blind traveler on paths forgotten, but laden with the smell of spice lands and dark forest loam. Fuller still with promises of sparkly bangles and tea cakes and rich dark coffee. Exploding on the senses with a lover’s kiss and the freshness of new snow. A wilderness of the heart that leaps from a backyard to the Russian Steps flowing in winter wheat and endless horizons. Unstable with its possibilities of more and more and more. Chemical interactions that leave you spinning in a world of spiritual alchemy. Expansion. The hunger of the human spirit and the seed that births Universes.
“Spirituality is… the awareness that survival is the savage fight between you and yourself.” -Anonymous
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the music. I didn’t tell the others either. I like music, right? It was easy to capitulate to endless KBCO. I’d make it okay because there is no music I won’t listen to, but here we are. You looking at me and me looking at you across the therapist couch and all I can say is I’m sorry. I’m leaving you, not because of the music, but in a way it is about that, isn’t it? I’d be pissed, too that there wasn’t a chance to show me you could do Lavay Smith and the Red Hot Skillet Lickers. Except we both know you couldn’t. I’ve got that bad habit of picking men that only do their thing – and I follow. It’s not their fault as it isn’t yours. You didn’t tell me to be putty picking up your patterns. I just did it. I should’ve made you listen to Buckwheat Zydeco and Willie Nelson or told you folk music sort of sucks when I’m happy. I want KC and the Sunshine band or maybe some Barry White. Or forget all that 70’s shit and let’s just fire up the Awolnation or Atlas Genius. But that look would come over your face and you’d wander off to a bookstore or coffee shop or down to the basement. So I never turned it on. Stupid really, you were gone anyway. Don’t you see? You were never there. I was afraid you’d leave. You wouldn’t love me, so we stayed with endless REM and Fleetwood Mac until I was ready to chew off my own self-imposed chains. It wasn’t intentional that I had no faith in your ability to hear my tunes. It just became obvious that whenever I sang my own song, it seemed to be a tune you didn’t want to hear.
Work in progress from the Front Range Writer’s Group, Marj Hahne host
May this day be a day of love, beauty, joy and grace for you, whether alone or with someone or many. May you know that you are love today.