running / meditation

Mud on my shin, remnants of yesterday's rains. Sun on my shoulder, today's clearing. Sneakers skipping over fallen leaves, branches in angriest torment, left twisted on the side of the road. An acorn rolls beneath the sole of my foot, it's trickery meant to trip me up. I kick it down the hill, bend down to save myself from the fall. You always creep back in, as that autumn chill I can not seem to shake. I breath, I run, I listen......to the sound and feel of the beating beneath my breastbone, vibrations of my heart keeping pace with my laces. All I can do is let go......

meditation / raindrop / musings

 It is the spot where you ponder, as you watch the cars on the road drive by, watch the rain drip like tears down the window pane. It is where the awkward in life amuses you, as the time flies by, and the tomorrows turn into more of the yesterdays.This in between spot is the silver linings, and the gold, fused with the grey and the black. I have been here before, at this in between spot, never quite comfortable, as the sand begins to shift beneath my feet.........the shifting leaves me on edge, the rawness of life brings me to the cliff, the moment that breaks me........is always the same......

meditation / methology of running

It is an immutable fact that I am hitched elsewhere, to another time and place. The sultry sway of the trees this morning does not hold me back, as the rain is imminent and humid air hangs like a drape along my shoulders. My face partially concealed by a swaying curtain of darkness, in an obsessive need, I wipe a gleam of sweat. Sweat pulling my emotions into a melting on the ground, the furthering unraveling of my deepest layers.

meditation / rain / running / solitaire

Nature left its window open today, allowing the cold of the air to trap my lungs. A cold, damp sweat pervades any lingering thought the summers heat was here to stay. The door to Fall now flung wide open, as my flesh takes notice of the intrusion. My feet soaked, as the fragrance of the rain hangs at the tip of my nostril. Cliff hanging, tormented beads of sweat cling on the outset of every one of my pores.

Hurdling over a puddle, as my breasts keep pace with every step of my footing. Feeling the roundness of the beads escaping down the curvature of my body, my sneakers take up the drowning. Sneakers take up the soaking from my flesh...as my shins are splattered with speckled fragments of mud from each puddle. Sentinel, solitary , simplified , once again, I grieve for the summertime!

meditation / running /

My resolve crumbles just long enough to doubt my own perception, as I run through a spider web dangling in suspension. My face en-clothed in a white spiral diamond of veil as my breath announces itself under the tangled web of my flesh. Cupping palm against cheek, just long enough to catch the rolling bead of sweat from a torrid ride on the wave of my breast. Moving in and out of life like the changing of the seasons, a cord of connection between the web and my sneaker traps all of my discontent. Leaves it hanging on a broken tree branch, dangling, unattached, unnoticed...  

Meditation / Monday / art to eat from

the glassware I create which has kept me mighty busy these past few weeks and away from posting daily on this blog

Why for the entirety of my life have I always felt like this? The feeling that I need to cope, that I need to hang on, that this is what is expected of me, being the glue to hold all of the sum pieces of life together. There have been plenty of times where having to be the glue was my least favorite job.  

Here I am again, being the glue for one of my grown up children. The same glue that has disconnected me from my other two-grownup children, as they have tossed their need for glue to the side, and myself, the collateral damage along the way.  This one daughter though, I am not so much the glue for her life, but rather, the cement in her shoes that holds her firmly in place. I really wish to be the bird that simply flees overhead, watching, not the cement, or the glue, the mucky sticky mess that often wraps around my fingers like silly putty.

I want to fly above and simply watch life as a spectator, as part of the theatrical audience enjoying the show, not the one patching up the holes, sweeping the dirt under the carpet, molding perfection out of something that is anything but. I, for once, just this once, want my hands to be clean of the glue, as it is exhausting and weary. I have built foundations from nothing at all, resurrected full-scale models of life, from just ruble and debris. I have had to build castles from cardboard boxes. I have always had to be the glue in life. Just once, I wish to not feel the stickiness of life’s toils!