Walk through a cemetery both in remembrance of the family, friends or even strangers who have gone before you and as a reminder that someday you will take your inevitable place with them, joining the ranks of the deceased.

Although the plot sizes may be uniform, there are various styles of grave markers. They range from minimalist, a rectangular piece of granite situated in such a way that the groundskeeper can pass over it with a lawn mower, to towering obelisks, drawing your attention towards the sky.

Some have been there so long that the exterior is weathered. The elements have compromised the inscription, making it difficult to read. Others are newer with the engraving still defined. Passing your hand over it, your fingers can differentiate each individual letter. You’ll see religious symbols glorifying a god or markings identifying a service to America. A few have squat, wrought iron fences along the perimeter, even though there’s no chance any neighboring souls will ever physically encroach on this plot of land.

Natural bouquets in store-bought vases or decorations are left by the tombstones. Over time, the ornaments become bleached by the sun. The fresh-cut flowers will wilt and decompose, like an analogy of the person they were for. Small tokens with hidden meanings are left behind as loved ones attempt to keep their family members connected to the physical world.

The four things all the markers have in common are a name, the date of birth, the date of death and a space (or hyphen) between the dates. Celebrating when a person was born and remembering when they died are important bookmarks. But the truly impactful area is the overlooked space separating the DOB and DOD. That unassuming blank area symbolizes the person’s life. Everything done and all the lives touched are hidden behind that space. The threads of experiences woven together to create the tapestry of the deceased’s life are summarized by a non-descript emptiness separating two specific dates.

Whoever knew that person is part of that barren surface. But who’s still alive that can recall the stories it holds? As acquaintances and generations fade away, memories will no longer be relived and shared with those who never knew this person. What impactful events in that person’s life are destined to be erased with time’s passage? What regrets were had? What opportunities were missed or plans never executed that could have added importance to that void? The smallest area on the tombstone represents the entirety of someone’s life. It will always occupy the same part on the marker but never outwardly reveal the complex story of the person it is a testimony to.

Cemeteries remind me not to substitute complacency for comfort. I strive to excel in my Comfort Zone. But I am aware my Comfort Zone is dynamic because it has and will continue changing over the years according to my needs, experiences or maturity. Not reexamining then redefining my Comfort Zone means it will become a Complacent Zone. Life is static in the Complacent Zone. Accepting complacency as the norm eliminates risk which increases the chance that I won’t even realize I’m slowly being smothered. I’ll end up neck deep, wallowing in Complacent Zone quicksand with no desire to free myself.

My plan is to be dynamic so that when I’m exiting this wild and precious life, I’ll be at peace knowing the gap on my tombstone between birth and death is not a wasted space.

This Arthritis

that we've Caught

in the Family Joints

is Psychosomatic

the Witch Doctor

in Chile told me

for Health

He said, Keith,

Heathcliff, Fred err,

Whatever:

Stop Drinking in

the Diluted Expectation

of Society Conventions!!

Stay inside a Few Nights

a Hundred let's Say

on Your Back

in this Arabesque Twig Hut

with Its Gap Tooth grin

where the Sky and

all Its Bugs

can Finally reach

to Your Innards

unburden Your Skeleton

So you can Walk,

Free with Conviction

a Living Red Line

to Flow from

Bones to Fingers

When You Rise

...has already arrived.

That is what it means to heal.

Rub sugar in my wounds.

It burns me raw, but at least I smell of sweetness this time.

Not rare meat- where a blood hound used to sniff all my despair to the surface.

And what is a surface without an "underneath"?

And I have so much underneath.

I don't need to be extraordinary to be important.

I can just be an ordinary woman.

Deep, blue eyes, a smile with crinkled eyes-

like tissue paper, a prelude to the present underneath.

A mind, wanting ordinary things.

Yes, I don't have to be amazing to be a part of this world.

I can just be be a woman,

with small gifts,

and a brave smile.

I can just be.

I think I might plan to sing.

Tunes, drawls, stories and all things sing-song.

My voice might be gruff,

unfeminine and crude.

But the joy isn't gone from me.

I am the very thing,

no butterfly,

but more like a soft moth delicate in the background of hues of green and pastels.

Let me be.

Great.

I might be large.

Larger than life.

A breath of fresh air,

or a terror that elicits screams from my surveyors.

I am a being of subjectivity.

I think you might think that one so precious as me,

ought to be alive longer than most.

Or dead, deader than dead for the deeds I hold no remorse.

That is fine.

All is fine.

For I am no pet of yours.

I am but a wild thing.

A primrose on fields of gold.

Like poppies that dance in the fields to be huffed and sold.

Take me apart, fed back to the masses.

Used on up until the machine finds new glasses, in which men of richer standing toast on my grave.

Happy I'm no longer a thorn in their endeavors.

No more brave.

In modern times

the call is "Stay wild,"

freedom is precious,

and planning is

planned with all

understanding

that the best

plan is razor thin

and we note the

precious

saying is "Stay..."

for the truly "wild"

are running

12.22.2024

"Tell me..." (Mary Oliver) challenge @dctezcan

The Sun asked of its child, what will you do

with your one wild and precious Life?

she moved slowly, around the thought,

another day, another year yawning at the girth.

Oh! to let it all hang, now, but she measured the waist,

Seems all the forms have spread, from the equator belt

Some sort of pull between North and South, perhaps

it is time for a corset and girdle, to hold it in, and

ready myself again for the annual Solar Ball, whence

the other planets line up, to dance amidst the stars...

Rumor has it, maybe it's someone else's turn to carry??

I will wade into morning like a man crossing rivers in flood time and the water will take what it needs and leave the rest and I will let it. Bones know their own way home.

Dark earth calls. Must answer. Will sink hands deep into loam and clay until worms thread between my fingers like ancient prayers and roots mistake me for their own kind.

Time flows and does not flow and a man can count heartbeats or stars or grains of sand but the counting changes nothing. Still. The measuring matters.

I will build with these hands what needs building and tear down what needs tearing and the dust of it will write stories on my skin that even God must bend low to read. Some words can only be written in sweat and splinters.

Dawn comes. Goes. Comes again. The spinning world asks nothing of us but everything. Must answer anyway.

So I will gather moments like a man gathering firewood before storm season knowing some will burn quick and hot and others will smolder until the coals birth diamonds and either way the gathering matters the carrying matters the weight of it all matters.

Truth is: we are all burning. Truth is: the light we make belongs to no one.

And when the last hour comes hunting like a lean wolf through long grass I will stand upright and empty-handed having spent everything given everything poured it all out like wine like blood like star-stuff until nothing remains but the shape of my giving.

That's the wild and precious part. The spending. The emptying. The holy wastefulness of being.

I plan to live each day

As if tomorrow didn't exist.

I plan to create a tomorrow

That doesn't include my fist.

I plan to make a name for myself

That can carry me a lifetime.

I plan to make sure that I'm

Heard within every lifeline.

I plan to treat myself with respect and dignity even when it's rough.

I plan to teach the laws of love

To my grands no matter how tough.

Because life shows no promises

Nor lead you to regrets.

Life is only what you make it,

you have to wing the rest.

I hope to enjoy it. The bad times will come, they always have, they always do, but there's too many prettier things to focus on. Rain never lasts forever, right?

Have you ever stared at the sky long enough that you start to smile and marvel at how wonderfully bizarre it looks? I feel a smile itching at my lips when birds pass me by, when I have to duck under a tree reaching out to pat me on the head, when I hear someone laughing themselves to exhaustion even in a video.

Speaking of videos, quite the cool, relatively new medium for art, isn't it? Films are so very pretty to watch at times. So devastating in good ways. They will break your heart and build it anew in two short hours. I've seen so many beautiful things made by beautiful people and I do feel blessed and grateful to be here with you once in a while.

I savour those moments. I could say there's a certain career I'm aiming for or a girl I hope to one day marry. Truth is, I'm not sure exactly what job I'll have or how long it'll last before I try something else entirely, nor am I sure if I'll have the chance to ever date a woman since I'm too scared to try in this homophobic little country of mine... 200 million little.

What I do know is that there are pretty little things. There are butterflies and the smell of baked goods and good cooking. There's all sorts of sensory experiences and haunting creative endeavors by the constantly-searching people of this strange world.

We scour the earth for what will consume us with joy and passion, forgetting that right here and now, there is beauty even then. It's so easy to forget. Tonight, I'm thankful for the feeling of my little brother's foot against my side and the fan saving me from sweating up buckets. I'm grateful for the breaths I can take with no harm or hassle and the way my phone shines at me though my loneliness, reminding me that even if the empty void that lives somewhere within me is aiming to consume me some days instead of staying peaceful and quiet, I can always find an alternative to fill my existence with colour, even for a little while. I have before.

Just got to look.