On my way today
I paused to watch others
who were on their way.
I wonder when any of us will
actually arrive,
and whether we will even realize it
once we do.
Weekly Photo Challenge: On the Way
On the Way
6
Category Archives: humanity
While Sitting on the Porch
While sitting on the porch
of the rustic cabin in the quiet pine forest,
I sense the faint beginnings
of the restoration of my soul.
I scan the wooded vistas,
seeing so much farther than
the usual confines of my restricted horizons,
seeing so much deeper into the reaches
of my self-forsaken heart.
Listening to the magpies
and the ospreys and jays, and
those pale green birds with the
beautiful songs that dance across the air,
I feel my inner voice begin to hum,
seeking out that melody that has for far too long
been scorned into silence.
I inhale deeply of the fresh forest air,
and I am finally able to exhale, long and slow,
releasing the toxic fear and tension
that I have been holding inside me
as if it were my last dying breath.
I can abide comfortably for once
among the trusted few that accompany me.
A light joke, a sweet hug…
fists and jaw and heart unclenching
like a leaf unfolding into new growth,
I open to the freedom that is offered
in the security of this sacred environment.
It is the quenching of a thirst long overdue.
Amidst the stillness of nature,
my own nature steps tentatively forward,
and I welcome my reawakening soul
as one would welcome the arrival of an old friend…
while sitting on the porch.
In Work
In Work I am co-creator with the One Creator, co-creator with all in the One Creation. In Work I sow seeds for the Harvest. A touch, a smile, a benevolent word… all are seed for Creation. Yet, what is the fruit of my work? When I dance on the shore and add my voice to the songs of the waves, can I know today that my song will touch a soul months, years, centuries from now? Can I know the steps of my dance will be remembered and retraced, long after their mark has been washed clear of the sandy beach? If this is so, shall I not rewrite the song? Make the tune more melodious, or the words more noble, perhaps? Add a swift spin or an elegant dip to the dance in vainglorious tribute to me… But then creation Work will have ceased and ego work commenced. And if my singing is lost to the uproar of the sea, if the imprint of my dance disappears with the sweep of the next tide, do I withhold the song, refrain from dancing? For Whom am I Working? If I cease the Work of sowing, I cease being a co-creator. And then what am I? In strained faith, I continue to sow. The harvest of my work I leave to the Harvester, Who knows when fruition is complete.
Mother’s Day
No need to honor my motherly love. Indeed, the honor is mine.
Pink
“Is he part Shar-Pei?” she asks. She hands my latte out the drive-through window. “All those wrinkles!”
Bella glares from the passenger seat, indignant at being mistaken for a male, let alone a Shar-Pei. Look at the pink collar, for Chrissake!
“No, she’s just a worrier, so her forehead wrinkles. Part boxer, part lab.” Part opportunist, waiting for me to set my drink in the cup holder between us.
A pink collar doesn’t necessarily indicate gender, I tell Bella as we drive away.
I know of a male dog named Pink. He’s black. He wears a pink collar. His owner, holding onto Pink’s pink leash, spoke of a prior pet dying of cancer. This is his tribute to the deceased pet. Pink doesn’t seem to care what color his collar and leash are. He’s comfortable in his masculinity. And he’s not a worrier like Bella.
I’m not going to worry either, I decide. I don’t want to get worry wrinkles on my forehead, lest someone mistakes me for a Shar-Pei and tries to collar me.
Bella is skeptical that that would ever happen. Her wrinkles unfold a bit as she stretches to lick the foam off the lid to my latte. You should worry, though, she tells me. After all, you think you’re conversing with a dog.
And next time? Ask for non-fat. My collar is getting a bit tight and I need to watch my figure.
Shar-Pei indeed!
If Only
If I only had wings, I tell myself longingly, I could explore so many new places, savor so many new sights, immerse myself in so many new adventures. Yes, I muse, sighing as I sink further into the soft cushions of the well-worn couch, propping my perfectly functional feet onto the matching well-worn ottoman. If I only had wings...
Weekly Photo Challenge: Motion
Mother Earth
She came into Being whole and flawless, yet we tried to perfect Perfection as if we somehow knew better than God. Sadly, we were mistaken.
Rain Falls
It’s two a.m. and the bars have evicted the last of the revelers. Rain falls onto the deserted street and rolls into the gutter. In a scant few hours, as passersby begin to stare, he will pick himself up and move on.
Zen Garden
Tall vertical stones with their leaning rock consorts float within a sea of white sand and gravel raked to perfection into rippling waves in a contrastingly calm, even plane. This little garden, an oasis of zen energy, unassuming and nonsanctimonious, helps keep me afloat when I find myself tossed by waves of undisciplined thought, reminding me that I - like the garden - am an amalgam, not of sand and gravel and rock, but of body, mind and spirit; and that I, too, am perfectly patterned for my own even plane of unassuming and nonsanctimonious existence.
Weekly Photo Challenge: Afloat
Haiku Five ~ Sentinel
trees stand sentinel safekeeping the barracks of soldiers long since gone
What Rhymes with Stanza? 