Riding the Light –

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  • The Fade

    The Fade

    There was a cleverer beginning to this, but it seems to have faded off in the time it took to boot up. I’m sure it will return & if it doesn’t, we’ll just make something up.

    I was never one to enter morning by way of staying up all night. There were a limited number of these, I can perceive now, from this farther-along-the-timeline-perspective.  To do this now – to have what my friend calls a “creative overnight” to stimulate talent… Well, for me, this would be one tired following day during which I had energy only enough for systems on low power. Why would I do that these days? These days, when I find myself cherishing every action I take, even the pads of my fingers skimming the keyboard.

    I tell people these are my last days, but I’ll tell you directly, that I am hoping they are. I will be here as long as agreed, but I was ever one to promise More. And grow restless at the end.

    First the days got long, being locked down, being forced to face a direction I could hardly believe was coming into view. The alt news hosed me down with bracing hope each day. It all is happening behind the scenes. While I am not thinking it has fractionated beyond recovery, I am putting a lot of Trust into the Hope bag – discordant as deflating bagpipes – yet this is something I wrote years ago:

    Faith is hope grown strong enough to hang your heart on.

    When I emerge from this mask-maze, I understand This was not necessarily About That. Does that make sense? I feel my entire life has been only the product of a “look over here” complex practiced by master illusionists. I am freer, now, of the Stereopticon Life. I choose now to participate from a molecular level. I understand molecular experience to be my building block to knowledge, for knowledge will be all that is left aside from a bit of DNA here & there. But believe me, World, “they” don’t want to clone me. I have that for a flat fact.

    I reside in the idea of now as it was made & meant to be lived; as I live it now, one pure moment at a time, attention to all, intention to some, joy like lights in a bottle, aglow around every detailed molecule.

    How long I’ve sat on side rails, watching the entrained, entertaining world! But why would I make that into a query when the answer I really want questioned is “How much longer now?”

  • Yet Another Morning

    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

    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

    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

    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

  • My Sports Bras Have Quit The Game.

    My Sports Bras Have Quit The Game.

    I saw this sign & entered the store, putting my hands knuckles down on the counter, leaning in. I asked the store guy about the sign & he said, warily, “Yes?”

    I said, “What if you only have sinkers?”

  • Human Kindness Undoes Old Woman

    Human Kindness Undoes Old Woman

    A man was tender with me today. He asked how I was with a tiny tilt to his head & intelligent eyes. I barked my usual, “Super!” & echoed the question.

    I barely know how to react to original kindness, authentic inquiry. My heart has set up ramparts of glass & settled in behind, keeping watch.

    That moment unlocked a faraway memory – holding hands. Which led to memories of sitting closely together, resting in each other. The love I have now is a pac-man thing…its jaws are always working, devouring any scrap of regard. These memories are in a tidal lock to my soul – they face one way, their dark side never revealed.

    I’ve become one of the guys for the most part, taking my turn at the end of the line after the alpha males.

    When I say something, everyone wants to resolve it for me. “Have you tried…?” is a favorite, or “You know what works for me is …”Sometimes I just want to say something & rest in another’s reply. I don’t want to be sent to the store or the website or the next room for panacea. How about you listen & nod instead? It’s not like I haven’t already researched what they are telling me as the ideas are seldom new. Perhaps simple communication is all that’s on the table, or across it.

    To be undone by simple regard makes me sad. There were those who fought for me, riding white horses into battle or placing a shield firmly between me & trouble. i would pull a handkerchief from my lacy sleeve & wave gratefully. Then the world changed; maybe I should say my world changed. I had to be ready at all times to thrust the masculine of me up front, take it on the chin, get another job, do it ALL which rapidly became metronomic & a condition to be borne rather than a defensive maneuver.

    I make only the smallest repairs; my skills with a tool kit amount to finding a place to hide it until I need to look for a connector. My finest hours have come with the Duct Tape Final Solution. I can’t drive a straight nail, hell, I can barely manage a pushpin.

    I wrote a poem called “At My Age” about falling in love. It’s buried deeply in the files. That says it all.

    I can peer over the walls, but won’t fit across the drawbridge.

    I need, perhaps, to tuck my heart into a Faraday Cage, forget unexpected kindness, rub my eyes & see what appears when I stop.

    How is it fashioned? Did I give up on dreaming or did dreams give up on me?

  • Ferals II

    I was in the yard early, eyeing the one-eyed cat I call Mike, while watching for black Tzusu of the green eyes who winds around my legs. She’s in a hurry for food, but slows me as I mince around her small, muscular body. She doesn’t like Mike, his sweet face partly caved on one side…she hisses & holds her place. She eats no food, leaping the concrete fence to stalk away. Mike settles in to chow.

    I hear a small noise, looking to the alley – is my neighbor out already? But no, he is not dumping trash, but a Hispanic couple roots for cans, tying & untying stinking bags. Dressed in ragged coats, in ill-made shoes, pulling a tiny cart lined in oily black plastic. They are hidden in their own world. Only the cart stands sentinel, hoping cargo.

    I fill the bird feeder tubes, I think hard about all my living of life for I have no insight into theirs. They are of an age where grandchildren should be bouncing at feet resting on a hassock. They should be smiling, holding bowls of cherries, laughing about how they used to contest the length of spitting pits.

    I come in the house to my tall desk, pulling out a wallet, removing two fives. I fold them & make my way to where they are, still in my bathrobe & slapping flipflops. I hold the money out to the man who takes it with no smile, but a murmured thank you, before bending back over the trash to help his wife.

    I notice in deep sorrow he has one working eye.

  • Ramparts

    Ramparts

    LEASHES

    Bringing self to heel

    binding the soul to flesh it fled many years ago,

    I cling to the surface

    where water tension only bears so much

    before I sink, one, two, three

    my hand breaks free, grasping air

    it cannot hold.

    I release this gasping grasp

    to wave at the sky I so loved instead.

    I sink, not so much as stone,

    but as an inchoate wish

    made equal of sun & stars.

    How did I come so far from shore?

    I, who dwelt in deserts

    seduced by moisture clean of sand.

    I clung so long to life that life itself forgot me.

    The letter never mailed

    Connections void of course.

    I will not surrender here to force, to gravity

    grown gravid with my weight.

    I will kick hard & hold my tongue

    till breath is no more an option than flight

    but still I will not yield!

    Instead I’ll yearn for waves to freshen

    for beaches to crawl out upon

    clutching only the heart I dove in for.

    NO STAMPS

    I left the love letter unsent

    Writing instead to the editor

    on trivial, thoughtless things

    unworried about a return address.

    I wrote love’s sealed secrets

    for none to see, for all to share…

    I’m out of stamps, regardless

    Paper on a desk

    not even made into a list:

    pickles, catfood, tea

    All blank

    A cause with not a reason

    A room of stars alone with no doors.

    I am concupiscent with endings

    this woman of long beginnings

    of arrogant centers

    of faded memoir.

    In the somewhere of time is the sometime of where

    I am a Beloved, an Abba

    with a family name I cannot pronounce.

    GOD

    He never signed the Permission Slip

    but watched me walk to the edge of heaven

    To dive headlong into its elusive counterpart

    it’s illusive counterpoint.

    I did not know I could not fly in return!

    Nor the gate would close behind me with a click

    Breaking my heart.

    Why didn’t I await the paperwork?

    Stretching the red tape of reincarnation

    unable to set my mind:

    A giraffe or a girl?

    I took my chances, ignoring every sign

    about standing near the edge

    until, seduced into falling,

    here I am, eyeing mountains

    Thinking climbing up is climbing back.

    Blear-eyed & trembling,

    Aged of thirst & heartbreak,

    Take me to home I so burned to leave –

    Screaming all the way down.

    IF LIFE MIRRORS DIVINITY

    I’ll take the one with the biggest crack

    the silvering resinous & stained,

    no true reflection to be had

    Tho I polish it with my soul.

    Working the salt mines of desire

    Ten inches a year’s yield

    I watch these flicker away

    Leaves fed to fire

    I fight the smoke

    I bring the rain

    I search for stones to pound it through

    And when it breaks – as mirrors always do –

    I heave up over the edges

    Bleeding out the names of God.

    STIFF WITH SORROW

    The words seep out, blue on white

    mounting speed, outstripping sad

    I scratch ink across the page

    I need answers to the questions no one asks!

    I left a rock atop my wings

    and walked into the sea.

    MOVE ALONG, SIRRAH!

    I am no longer “pretty”

    but old & bold, I have learned patience.

    It’s not final, nor the answer

    when life comes rooting in my dumpster

    where I’m looking for my heart…a hand to hold.

    I poured out love in roaring measures,

    I pressed out pain & rubbed out ruin

    Offering strangers that which calls for coin

    but buys no stock in who I have become.

    No matter. Were the choice to round my way again,

    I would choose the carousel with all-white horses

    Carpisoned in gold…not gathering the reins

    Nor stroking flame-red nostrils.

    I’d lay down my face on a fiberglass mane

    To ride the stars.

  • disintigrating with Distinction

    disintigrating with Distinction

    I used to go out in the world in the morning, braced, like Rocky Balboa on the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps… Chest heaving, head dripping, I was beyond ready for my world.

    Too bad I didn’t have this exact attitude at those times in my life. It’d been a lot more fun. But it was pretty good, as it was. Looking over my shoulder didn’t get me any real perspective. There is a Spiritual Review going on here & I’m not sure I remember signing up for it, but like some seminar you do not attend & then receive 68 emails about from every teacher who welcomed your attendance… Intent is the better part of something, but I’m not thinking valor these days.

    Again, with Time. I have been dying to use this analogy somewhere & this blog is it: when I was once in Rome, I went to a set of famed hanging gardens. I was wearing cute little comfy flats (nothing to stop the skid.) I set foot upon the charmingly indented steps, slippery with only age, worn smooth meeting smooth shoes & somehow I skied down those steps & remained upright & whole & cute. It’s like my new job.

    In my new job, I am required to track time once again after months of paying lip service to clocks & calendars & yet time is implied (get this done timely) instead of appointed (by 3 today.)

    After all, the lockdowns were my first time not tracking time & almost nuclear in effect on me. I have always accounted for my time. In return I asked a valuation for that, something with cost-of-living built in. This corporate structure has disappeared into a fluid connective made of cyber-interstitial tissue. That ‘We Are All Connected’ Coke’ commercial takes on a whole new dimension when cyber or meta is looped in to be employed as an end run. (By folks you thought were on your side.)

    Because time as I knew it lifelong – at the attention level it once demanded, is no more.

    We knew coming in it wasn’t going to be easy. When I’d get that lump in my throat in other times, I recognized it for Original Fear – my original sin. I used to say if I picked up every stone I tripped over, I’d soon be unable to even walk. Wisdom & optimism lurk in fortune cookies.

    I’m thinking now I got this. I’m thinking I’ve been doing it pretty well but nowhere else in this God’s Goddess-blessed world would be the place to emerge from whole except bearing truth or consequences equally cheerfully. Turns out life’s in Invitational. RSVP with love.