Hold the Patty.
Oh my friend, it’s the ides, when everything is vernal green
Can you see the head of a crocus, or two,
emerging from the fading ash of the winter ground?
We do not need to slog, for a new spring comes in our step.
It’s time to find ourselves a patty melt with cheese, but for me hold the patty please,
drizzle the gooey cheese with caramelized onions
slipped between two slices of bread grilled gold.
Let’s not forget Her winds, the lion and the lamb.
For it is March, I bet!
Linden! Linden! Enduring magnetism. Like a ship in the night, sailing into the moonlight. I am drawn to your whisper. The elixir of life. The days grow long. The sun is high, and temperatures rise. The trace beneath my feet causes me to wince, to cringe. I exhale to repel the urban stench. Our meeting is timely, however fleeting. When we are apart, your essence dwells in my heart. Your gift of fragrance floats gently by, like a feather falling. Raptured into your presence, I seek your physicality. Scanning the landscape of the urban jungle, I espy your tall symmetrical canopy amongst the monolithic superstructures. From you dear Linden, the elixir of life envelops me completely, even if for a moment. Linden! Oh my dear Linden! Until we meet again!
Ok to pass.
When there's nothing to my left,
nothing to my right,
it's ok to pass, alright.
The lost way.
Never before shall it be,
Everyone given many a chance to see
Written as four digits, one interrupted by the whole, then to begin again twice more
Yet a pattern of operation
Evades the eyes of many,
And into the fog we fade
Realizing late, perhaps at a year's end, a way had been made.
Well, I’d have to say the first time I started writing was when I picked up a pencil or crayon to start scribbling out letters and short words back in nursery school, age 4. After that, I have a clear memory of writing a short story for a second grade class, maybe third grade. The story was about me in a shopping cart that I could drive around wherever and whenever I wanted. At this age, I may have based this story on driving around because I had to walk to and from the elementary school that was about one mile each way every day. I walked to and from school up to the fifth grade. Anyway, I had enough time and plenty of footsteps to walk and imagine wonderful delights and freedoms in my young child brain.
I wrote essays throughout high school and sought extra English classes in my first and second year of college that contained writing. About eleven years later I took a trip to India and came home with the impulsivity to pound away at the keys on a laptop dated circa 1990s wherever I was, including a client’s reception area. I also have memories of stealing away to a vacant cubicle in one particular client’s office that had a bright red carpet and a shiny midnight blue almost black painted ceiling throughout the office. That writing connection lasted for about a year. Many years later I volunteered to begin a store newsletter full of fun and quips of merchandise for the employees to help rally the team concept. Fast forward to 2014, when I experienced a major loss after a several year period of undoings, lost dreams, profound changes and descending into a state of despair I was guided to an author and writing for healing. I began journaling everyday in the early morning hours. I’ve journaled every day for seven years.
Writing has given me back my life. I do not tell of this lightly. The habit of coming to the desk in the deep quiet of early morning hours took hold like a strongly connected line on a bow cleat holding me as I watched dreams wash away and losing any answers to my life. Anchoring into my morning writing practice became secured, stronger and stronger with the gift of willingness every day to show up at my desk no matter what. For this gift I am grateful. With each change I was encountering I thought it would be the last round of disruptions. Changes abound resulting in a stage of transformation. There is a significant difference between changes and transition vs. transformation. I was unaware of the value of the gift of willingness at the start of my practice which anchored me into an inner self groundedness as things around me and within me began to dismantle. The effects of such changes have left me only with my pen, paper and my thoughts. This is all that is left. Just like harm can be done to the physical body, but the spirit is never destroyed. The changes I have experienced have brought me to the viewing point of how I relate to the world, and again, I am left with my pen, paper and thoughts. This is where I find I am connected, just as is my connection to breathing. It has come to this simplicity, yet vital.
Do I dare say “dream”? Because I’ve witnessed so many dreams unwind and come undone right before my very eyes. So, if I answer to the “writing goal”, will the idea of a goal be held in some protected space never to be pierced, dismantled and shattered? I will risk to respond right here and now before the many unseen eyes that will peek at these words whether by choice or by accident. It is my goal to be a published writer earning a decent living in which I can easily and joyfully support myself, bringing me happiness and helping at least one person. This deep and very private reveal has only been shared with one person in my life. Until now.
Must be the full moon in Gemini.
Must be the full moon in Gemini.
Thank you @Finder
The want of change.
So often I resorted to judgement and criticism of him and his disinterest. Almost everyday my eyes found him in that familiar angle of repose on a mattress on the hard wood floor. Later I learned it was the place he retreated to for extended periods of time. It was in a holy book, The Magnificat, that opened to a page "languor of the soul". I was naive to the soul's ailment when it has immeasurably suffered. I was naive to my urgent response to judge and criticize another when in truth my own soul suffers in some way.
In no way is this the Christmas season.
There it was! I could not believe what I was seeing before my eyes - my friend was as nutty as that good old fashioned fruitcake with legs, arms and a talking head, perfectly packaged and visible to anyone’s naked eye but rancid on the inside. I’d seen these behaviors before but this time it was crystal clear and physically painful. I was telling of the difficulty I’m having adjusting to a new location and she chose to politicize my reason for being in this new location that is steeped in early American history. Her reply, “You simply may have moved those 285 miles to contribute to the vote!” Those words that just rolled out of her mouth were as sharp as thorns on a honey locust tree! Sharp enough to keep any compassionate human being away, including me! I forget the awareness of the truth to not get close in conversation with her because I most likely will bump into a sharp pointed spoken thorn of words pinching deeply beneath the skin and right to my heart! Immediately I’m in a turbulent sea of adversity and a storm of feelings of sacrifice imposed upon me. Before I chat with her I need to root myself into the present moment like the north star anchored deep in the northern sky so I can birth a new pattern of behavior. On my journey I must imbibe the awareness that thorns exist, tread lightly and turn within myself for compassion and understanding.
Highly Sensitive & Unfamiliar Territory.
Have you every observed a cat in a room fixated on something that YOU cannot see? Many days I am the cat sensing so much around, AND I am me, who can't see what the cat sees but feels much of the invisible world. Everyday I feel as if there is a part of me that is wandering in the dark, the invisible that surrounds everything. Let me say I've never been one to wander in any sort of dark whether it be a basement in my childhood home, a dark haunted house, blackened woods outside - none of it. I prefer the light or any tool that will offer me a spec of light.
I wish I could walk about freely in my days. At some point in the day, the place of unfamiliarity will arise, as it often does. It could be anywhere, anytime. My mornings will begin with familiarity of opening my eyes just as the stars fade into dawn. In this moment of stillness, before everything begins to stir, is comforting and I rise. I head to the kitchen where I make the coffee under a very dim light. The moment of comfort is that brief. As the day rises in momentum so does the sensitivity to my surroundings. At anytime during the day the surprise of unfamiliar territory can happen - just like a cat suddenly fixated on the invisible at any undetermined moment. I'm unlike a cat in regards to a conscious awareness of such moments, however, it's a feeling. Inside myself begins a vibration of some sort. The stillness has left. I'm not exercising, singing, jogging, or working hard to increase the energy within me. It's almost like suddenly I have tentacles and that are reaching out into the ethers, like fishing in the dark. It's unfamiliar and I don't know how to relate to part of being.
This brings the element of surprise into my everyday. Living with such an element is unnerving especially since I crave peace, trust, stability. Eventually in my every day, there is the moment of awareness through feeling that something has shown up but I can't see it. I realize this is not the typical everyday I've read about here in this challenge but I am sharing with you what it's like to be me.
"You didn't expect to come here and stay. You came to help your mother with long-term care and extended recovery."
"I know, but I still don't have an answer. I don't have any options after all this time. I suck as a human being! Why is it still like this for me? Why am I not able to figure this out?"
"Look, back in June, you boarded a train to be with your mother for a limited period of time. God led you here under false pretenses."
"Why did you say that?"
"'God led me here under false pretenses.' I can't bear those words. That is so painful and I don't need that added pain right now. Those words make it seem as if God is mean and cruel and doesn't care about anyone or anything. That makes me hate myself even more!"
"Well...? False pretenses means deceit, trickery. I'm in so much emotional pain from this entire year of struggle. To hear that God is cruel and tricks people is cruelty I cannot bear! Why would you say that?"
"Listen, you got on a train thinking you'd be doing one thing, only to find your mother would die. You have to play the cards your dealt."
"Why did you say God led me here under false pretenses? That is harsh and I can't get past those words. I'm hearing you say God acts in sinister ways. Your attitude of belief is bull----!"
"Well, like I said, you have to play the ca...."
"If one thinks God leads people under false pretenses, then love cannot be found!"