We look beyond what we think is the horizon never stopping dreaming among the realities of our existence The eye does not close even when the lids are shut For the eye is the answer when studied by another kindred spirit They see right through and into They peer out into the beyond too We stand apart yet side by side for no matter what lies between there are dreams there is hope And this keeps us from dying a little each day.
Monthly Archives: March 2014
When all is dark and silent I mean to say When the world is asleep I creak up stairs to peek out the window and view this which others are unaware The boats moored in a campsite of refuge Water Like glass enabling their peace The calm of night deep night not too far from sunrise All that is heard is the tweet of a distant bird Lights illuminate entryways but those beyond doorways slumber ignorant of my wandering I wonder what dreams flourish in those sleeping minds as my breathing falls muted and my eyes unable to close tight to stargaze against my tattered pillow.
Last night I did dinner and a movie with my kid. Despite last week’s report card being abhorrent, he came home yesterday with a citizenship award. I nearly dropped his ripped, crammed three-ring binder on my foot.
As we sat there at the pizzeria pre movie, picking and eating the bubbles off our slices, we stared at each other as if mere strangers. Or perhaps people who’ve come to know each other so well there was nothing left to say. His preteen aloofness was hanging over the mozzarella and gnawing at my cheerful disposition. Still I didn’t push too hard.
Eventually the conversation went from me going on about something I can’t even remember now to him slowly opening up to me the way he did just months ago. He revealed to me why he has been acting out recently, why he can’t make decisions, why he’s afraid. I can’t break his trust so I won’t go into details. But let’s just say it had to do with voices.
The voices we hear in our heads can sound like our own. They are the yin and yang of our existence and decision-making. They can sound like our parent’s, sometimes full of praise, sometimes belittling. They can sound like a voice we wish we had but were not born with.
After dinner we sat in the back row of the movie theatre and watched Lego 3D. I pride myself on recognizing the voices of the characters in animated flicks. Morgan Freeman was one of them. But pretty much everyone can recognize his strong, smooth, calming timbre. One of my friends told me she falls asleep to Through the Wormhole, narrated by the soother himself.
We plowed halfway through a medium bag (cause it’s just a dollar more than the small!) of popcorn as we donned our plastic 3D glasses and laughed at the witty dialogue. I laugh out loud. My kid doesn’t like this. Anyway, it was a pleasant and much-needed Mom and son date night.
This morning I was reading one of my poems to myself. And of course that parental voice chimed in. “Did you really do all the editing you can to make sure this is finished?”
Then the yin interrupted. “Ah, but it is finished when it is finished.”
Yang added “The end is the resolution and the beginning the question.”
I pondered these suggestions. Then I decided to reread the poem again. But this time with the voice of Morgan Freeman resonating through my brain. And it. Sounded. Magnificent.
Two ships were moored side by side. As the early moon began to brighten with the fading of the winter sun one ship said to the other "I am the luckiest ship because the moon casts its glow right above my mast." "That might be true. But from where I sit I can see the moon hanging in the distance." The first ship pondered this. "Yes that is true. I do have to tilt my bow to see its entirety. You can stay secured as you gaze at its beauty." The second ship replied "But I cannot see the sun from where I am anchored. It is hidden by the trees." The first ship responded "I see the golden sun setting every evening. But it has faded my canvas." Both ships sat in silence One wondering at the distant bright white full moon The other wondering at the silhouette of the closest star fading behind dancing branches. "I know who is the luckiest," the first ship said. "So do I," said the second. And there was no need to speak. Two ships were moored side by side.
I’ll be honest. I have no idea what to write. My writer’s guilt is trying to bury me in its heavy sand. I’m supposed to go out with the girls tonight but won’t feel I’m owed that unless I get something out there. To you. My dear readers.
My arm is sore from a beautiful tattoo I got yesterday. It’s a tatt of a quill pen. Now what kind of writer would I be if in the week I got this work of reflective art on my body I did not at least spend some time with my quill pen of 2014– my computer’s keyboard? All the crumbs from protein bars and peanuts have been wiped away from it. I know I shouldn’t eat at my desk but it has become a nice little habit. One more minute spent at the keyboard is one more possible word written, read, or commented on.
Why is it that some weeks the words flow like water coming out of the bathtub spout, while other weeks there isn’t an even annoying drip? Does my brain need rebooting? Am I too focused on life’s dramas? Some of both?
Busted Flip Flops. My solace. My respite. My breath of fresh air. My busted little home away from sometimes busted little home. I have to dust off the crabwebs. Shovel out the sand. Fill it with a sea of words to keep it alive and satiated. Keep me alive and satiated.
It is an ache yet a calmness all the same There is a difference in everything It's as if the universe has expanded into meaning above what it was just now A puddle of exhaust is a colorful palate lying on smooth asphalt A question of existence is no longer a question To feel this ache is to live and I know I must keep moving for what is to come will be the answer But for all that has been said and done although right and beautiful what lies ahead and is present has opened my heart to breathing beyond mountains beyond prairies beyond what I ever thought possible And it is not so magnificent without trials it just IS and I am exalted indefinitely.
Last night I dreamed I was in a pale white corridor. There was no one there except me and the lion. I heard voices in the distance but didn’t see who they belonged to. But I knew they were there, just ahead.
The lion and I were hungry. I had somehow found a rabbit and killed it as I held onto its cold, white fur. My waking self doesn’t eat rabbits, or any mammals for that matter. But I’m thinking this was pure survival.
I tossed the rabbit towards the lion. A grand, altruistic gesture. Just when I began to smile in self-gratification the lion leapt over the rabbit and lunged at me. His teeth dug instantly into my neck. I could feel his warm breath on my skin. His coat rubbed against me as if it were a soft, hairy blanket.
“This is it,” I thought. “This is the moment right before you die.”
I wanted to scream to the voices. But I knew there was no chance of me leaving the lion’s grip. There was nothing anyone could do even if they were to appear at that very moment. The moment that would be the end of my life.
I thought about the rabbit. And I wondered why the lion chose me instead. But in a flash I knew. The rabbit would be there after I was gone. And my being gone meant no competition for the lion. No threat.
In those final moments I was not angry at the lion. This was not personal. He was only following his instincts.
That is the nature of the beast.