Yet Another Morning

I think I’m always a bit surprised to still be here. In a time of earnest, jolting change, as new outer vibrations appear in the airwaves, some of us elect to slip away in the dark.

The cricket sings at my front door, his tiny serenade silencing as the light grows. In the backyard, the morning glory sends up heart-shaped green leaves, still low to the rocks on the ground, but ready to send a study little climber to support its opening – each flower as delicate as the vine will be tough.

Each year this morning glory returns, tenacious & lovely. In this dull corner of a stony yard, along an old cyclone fence, a wisp of brown-dry dessication renews utterly. How deep are these roots?

In my neighbor’s messy yard, slowly filling with real junk, a dead washer, a used-up barbecue or two, the above “volunteer” soared to stand in our bright sun after unusual rainfall. All over town, real sunflowers sun-worship. This year there are few bees to worship them in turn, no furry legs tickling their petals. Strange to think of a sunflower being lonely, isn’t it? Their periscope flowers search all day for sun-borne bees.

Whether we’re on a planet or a flatland, the Earth is an inescapable backdrop. Life is brought to bear & bear down hard at times. We make a mockery of it & a mercy to leave it. We live, we launch, we seek those horizons to peer beyond. We subside again to Earth & we grow.

I write. I cook. I love. I pray. Every season I come up with new thoughts even hanging onto an old yard fence, sending these ever upward to blossom as they will.

Rainy Sunday

I am just thinking how life changes happen. In my early years I didn’t much like the self I was. Now I make up for that by valuing myself & my decisions.

I only learned this through tolerance & learning to love others. There are so many experiences I have had & will have – each one a re-shaping as each added to the original clay or took a chunk out when even a fingernail’s worth is noticeable.

I want to share now, after years of holding close, but with this being such a habit, can I even do so? I have equal bouts of handing over & clutching to my chest. I think, tho, I am now more likely to give, because when I think I will & do not, I am unhappy with myself for missing the chance to have done.

This is an enormously healing observation. I know many whose generosity exceeds mine. For my thinking (which used to be more insular) tells me practical pointers. My impulse engine that fires up the jets; however, always tells me to lighten the load.

I have too much air element & not enough water right now. I fill up on tumbleweed thoughts. Even the jumble is a coded message. Don’t think it hasn’t taken years of training to leave the mess alone. You didn’t know that gawky little girl, that mis’able kid sister, that unhappy wife fighting 20th century war with paleolithic weapons.

Regardless, I’m still the outsider/observer. These are such simple interactions to take part in, not to take apart.

I allow my spirit to pause in the quest long enough for Divine to find it in the all-I-do.

Amen.

This Writer’s Writings

I get abstract poetry

Words as puzzle pieces,

Difficult to believe in

   As the sum or all its parts.

The words bully in, caring little for sense

Pushing only for placement & notice.

Blatant, this awareness of self

And the question will anyone else understand?

Yet even as it blinks on the mind-screen,

I peer around it to continue writing.

Writing as Root & Sustenance

It was instinctive, writing. I always had words lined up even as others chewed their erasers into the metal. Writing has been more in faith with my heart than I ever entrusted Love to be.

Writing holds my body, holds my hands, holds my heart & soul.

Unlike animals, it never passes away, tail waving in the distance. Unlike God & Man, writing always answers the phone. No cosmic hold; no options-by-number.

My life is forever in the distance itself. My tomorrows only arrive as todays. I am told it all will change tomorrow but without a tomorrow, really, the changes must be the ones I make today. That’s why I write them down. Or maybe I write them up. You decide.

Carol

7/15/21

Neap Tide

NEAP TIDE

The place where all is above-ground & visible. It’s a place in my soul now, too. Here is where it comes down to delivered wish – a Wish on Demand deal.

I’m striding two worlds, but okay with that.

Hey, when I came down this road, I realized the stars in my eyes were often going to be my only light. Well, with my horoscope, if you’re going for light, nothing less than a lighthouse will serve to start.

What did I expect, growing up at the sea edge? Roots?

I took a brainwash & started down so many abortive paths: [you don’t need to ever grow up, Baby. There’ll always be a man to take care of you. Happily ever after is all your fault.] These are all written off, accounted for, beyond retrieval. All are reminders to forget who you truly are & this pearl will gore you from the inside until it is manifested in lucent glory.

Am I right?

Life enters life slippery. For me, it’s been a prolonged state but one I’ve chosen for self. I rolled my lazy eyes & conformed – outwardly I was a cupcake. Inwardly, though, a hurricane brewed, a storm of motley proclivity & random impulse – inside I think I remember being a kid, but not a kid’s kid. I was a Wild Child with Roman Catholic Angels watching over.

There comes a time to each life where forward momentum diverts. Long ago I gave up the highway for the byway. I learned Gratitude. At that time, I had seasoned road veterans as angels & they rode with me, scouting out ahead.

I’m in a foxhole of 3D, submerged by what many out there prefer that I see. But I’m moving from particle to wave & nothing deters that.

All byways lead to the highway.

I’m treating myself lately to a minds-wide-open stance. Once I ally with Peace, I am no longer in the marketplace for swords.

Oh, I talk a feisty line – I only want my words to part the overgrowth so you can see there’s another Way.

Aloha.

Carol