Breeze brushes crocus,
Celebrants raise powdered hands
Color blooms, heart fills
March 8th, 2012, 8:34 PM. Alone at the table. Night, window and breeze.
10 March 2012
09 March 2012
Making Omelets
Sitting down at the battered companion he called a dining table, fork in hand, slow tears seeped into his vision. He gulped another mouthful of tea and wept in thanks at the savor of the eggs.
Sunlight waned outside in the deepening evening. The lamp on the table flickered in argentine lambency. He watched the flame dance in conversation with a breeze slinking through the open window. The omelet disappeared under the insistent bulldozer of his appetite.
Wiping his face on the linen napkin he had carefully placed on the scarred wood, the old man finished the dinner. His breath scraped over his teeth to fill his lungs. Holding it, he counted ten slow exhales and grieved over the inescapable violence of needing to live.
Sunlight waned outside in the deepening evening. The lamp on the table flickered in argentine lambency. He watched the flame dance in conversation with a breeze slinking through the open window. The omelet disappeared under the insistent bulldozer of his appetite.
Wiping his face on the linen napkin he had carefully placed on the scarred wood, the old man finished the dinner. His breath scraped over his teeth to fill his lungs. Holding it, he counted ten slow exhales and grieved over the inescapable violence of needing to live.
06 March 2012
Road Along The Sea
This life can be as a road along the sea, hugging the cliffs like curves hug a snake. The drive can be anything you want it to be, if only you know what you want and what you need. Driving with the top down at high speed when you feel confident, or maybe when you forgot where are the brakes, you round a curve at the bottom of the hill with the hood of the car pointing up and out over infinity.
You don't know what to do. You can't see a guard rail, or feel the wheels on the pavement. It gets quiet there, and slow. For a slice of infinity you ponder the Was, Now and What May Be. What is it you have done with this life, and what will you do should you find the road again? What can bring you back?
Take a deep breath. Let go of the steering wheel. On this road, there is love, if you care to look. Better yet, if you care to feel.
Love will bring you back. Love will put up the rail, stop the fall, get the wheels back on the pavement.
Love will do these things, if we let it. We just need to let it take over and drive.
You don't know what to do. You can't see a guard rail, or feel the wheels on the pavement. It gets quiet there, and slow. For a slice of infinity you ponder the Was, Now and What May Be. What is it you have done with this life, and what will you do should you find the road again? What can bring you back?
Take a deep breath. Let go of the steering wheel. On this road, there is love, if you care to look. Better yet, if you care to feel.
Love will bring you back. Love will put up the rail, stop the fall, get the wheels back on the pavement.
Love will do these things, if we let it. We just need to let it take over and drive.
01 March 2012
Shelter for the Traveler
The tick of the clock overlays the bacon-frying-sizzle of wheels over wet pavement. Train horn sounding in the distance as I sit alone in the living room of my parent's house, gazing at the Saint Christopher medal hanging on a chain around my neck. I am not Catholic or Eastern Orthodox, nor am I devout of any persuasion, so the medal seems incongruous. It is a gift from someone very close to my heart, and thereby has become something sacred in its own quiet way. I treasure it for that, knowing this gift was given out of love.
It is late evening. I have returned from a day at the hospital where I was helping tend to my ailing mother. My father is staying at the hospital with her overnight. She should be home tomorrow, if things continue their positive course. It is my wish, my hope, that she also receive blessings on her journey.
I have to pause a moment, listening to the clock and the train. My right hand steals to the medal. I run my fingers over it, the golden metal of it feeling warm and slightly slick. Closing my eyes, I hear rain falling on the roof to add its own counterpoint to the rest.
My head rests on my left hand, the medal clasped in my right. It warms to blood temperature, almost as a living thing. I breathe, I rest, and my heart grows light and warm to know that someone watches over me on this road I am traveling.
It is late evening. I have returned from a day at the hospital where I was helping tend to my ailing mother. My father is staying at the hospital with her overnight. She should be home tomorrow, if things continue their positive course. It is my wish, my hope, that she also receive blessings on her journey.
I have to pause a moment, listening to the clock and the train. My right hand steals to the medal. I run my fingers over it, the golden metal of it feeling warm and slightly slick. Closing my eyes, I hear rain falling on the roof to add its own counterpoint to the rest.
My head rests on my left hand, the medal clasped in my right. It warms to blood temperature, almost as a living thing. I breathe, I rest, and my heart grows light and warm to know that someone watches over me on this road I am traveling.
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