Sometimes, the kindest thing to do is allow someone to complain.
Accept the lack of perfection.
Say “yes, me, too.”
Growth happens even under the weight of survival.
Our scars become armor, our hearts become bloom.
Eventually, the mountain will melt from your shoulders.
You will find your way to the sun.
.
Your strength never came from your flower,
but from roots that refuse to stay dormant.
.
Your struggle will always eclipse your surrender.
.
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.
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we’re all the same
we’re all different
the earth has birthed us
the sky keeps us whole
we sing the same song
and tomorrow forgives us
forgets us
protects us
from the wind
that genuflects us
heads bowed
shoulder to shoulder
in the choir
of existence
.
.
.
Because I keep getting lost in the Land of Busy, and this place, this space, keeps waiting, ever so patiently, for me to offer it a bit of attention. And each day I tell myself that this will be the day I get caught up, or get that thing accomplished, or this other thing started. And then it is bedtime and reading is my solace, and even that can’t keep my eyes open as long as I would hope.
The lawn (read: weeds) is slowly turning green and I feel myself slipping into spring clothes and bare feet, even though it’s still too early. Naughty kitten is in the same mode: deceived by the sunshine, he steps outside, but wants back in just minutes later when he realizes it’s not as warm as it looks.
A robin lands on the hydrangea bush outside my window that’s still dry and bare and brittle, and we stare at each other for a moment before she flies off with a bit of stem or grass for her nest, and I want to fly with her.
My gypsy spirit is tired of being shackled to a desk, a room, a ceiling. I want to run, to dance, catch fireflies at dusk. And then I remind myself to be grateful for the roof over my head, the nest I have, the garden I’ve grown. And of course, I am. Grateful.
But a gypsy spirit cares nothing for the rules of reputation, social graces, polite custom. She cares only for her freedom, and she fights me for it, daily. Mostly, I prevail. Only because necessity makes me stronger. But some days, no matter how hard I try, she wrestles my arm down until my wrist hits the table.
And then she dances, already on her way out the door.
I never tell her that every so often, I let her win.
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.
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you have to love a flower
that lets its hair down
bedhead blowing in the wind style
without even taking time
to get dressed
naked wild unabashed bearer of spring
riding into town on flailing branches
all spurs a-jangling and arms akimbo
because you just know
she’s having fun
and lately, i am drawn to beauty in the quietest of places
waiting for something, though i know not what
this year unfolds around me like a mystery
up ahead, around that corner, destiny is waiting
i walk slowly
making tracks in the snow
evidence and pattern
to lead me home
.
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So many thing in this life to let go of. So many things in this life to cling to.
It’s such a long process to sort them all out. Mostly, possessions are easy. What we need, what we love, what has meaning. The rest is just stuff. Stuff that gets in our way and will swallow us whole if we let it.
Emotions are harder. Goals are tough. Dreams are excruciating. People are impossible.
And yet, we do it. We survive. We thrive. We look around us and marvel at the beauty of life. We enjoy the view even as it changes. We feel small and helpless, and then large and on top of the world, in the single span of one day. We breathe it all in, and we cough it back out.
We hang on to this rollercoaster ride of a life, gasping for air and letting out screams and laughing like crazy. We bump against each other and realize that we’re all in the same amusement park. Some of us prefer the ferris wheel to the haunted house, and some of us just like to stroll around, nibbling on cotton candy.
There are nights filled with fireworks, and other nights filled with whispering moons.
Innocence and wisdom are all part of the same tree.
Each year brings deeper roots and fresh buds. New growth and fresh scars. A new chance to fly, floating gently down to earth or being carried away on a strong, cold wind.
And there’s always that barker, drawing us in once again.
Offering a seat on the merry-go-round.
Just listen to that music.
It’s that time of year to settle in, snuggle up, batten down the hatches. The birds are loving my garden just now, mainly because I have yet to cut anything down, so there are plenty of seedheads for them to snack on.
I’ve been working hard inside, a new kitchen floor, fresh paint, washing windows and putting up storms.
Very soon it will be time to get ready for our two November shows, and then the year will simply fly until Christmas. I’d like to say I will find a way to make it not be so, but I know it will.
The children are coming to visit this weekend. There will be golf and wine tasting and snuggling up by the fire. And apple crisp.
I look outside my window and wonder where the days have gone this fall, it got cold very early and between being sick and being busy, so little time has been spent outside.
I need to bundle up and venture out, soak up some of those last rays of sun.
Even so, we have yet to have a hard frost, and I can never bring myself to cut down the garden before then, but I know it is just a matter of time.
The tall grasses are still green, though fully tasseled. They are shorter this year than usual, thanks to the drought.
And still, I miss the geese.
Soon, I will be missing my garden and dreaming of Spring.
But then, of course, there will be glittering snow and cozy fires, and lots and lots of reading.
A hibernation of the body, perhaps, but not the mind.
And I sit here with life at my side.
light. dark.
and ten million shades in between.
just like life.
these days, i find myself drawn to both ends of the spectrum.
it’s all beautiful. all of it.
even the chill of the darkest shadow.
the light shows best when darkness stands beside it,
making that glow all the more precious.
light. dark.
and back again.
