Poignant Signs of Life

this picture, just because I love stemware & old china 

****I hope you think of me every time you feel air brush up against your skin, that moment of denial when you think I have gone, that it did not matter, because it did matter, it will always matter.


***I was sitting on a beach, when first struck by a flash of genius. Journal and pen in hand, scratching out raw pain, sadness, hope, joy, a plan, a path, an execution for that plan, guided by a seagull purging on lunch droppings, as he eyed me in puzzled stare. Legitimizing my hope that I might someday, actually, reach my destination, through the dark storm clouds which gathered like an angry mob, the clouds which reminded me of how long I had stayed in the weeds before being pelted by hail and delivered into a landscape that grew green and lush again, until it opened the door to a broad expanse of writing for me. 

     Writing is what happened when I was trying to escape from something else, taking me far away from any point in my life, transporting me into a farthest place than where I started. Every road that led me to detour, a dead end, (and in my life, turns out, there where a lot of those roads,) became compiled into a series of journal books. As opposed to the writer who sits steeped in stare, lost without words, I have endless dialogue, the story, my story, hasn't always been an easy one.

      I run to taste my sweat, practice yoga to harness my breath, write so words stay still and silent, these are the benefits to being on the front lines of soul searching, as each pivotal point in my life finds its way to a tag line for a journal, a book, a story, a blog, an essay, a repetitive motion. Small steps have seemed to legitimize my journey, to a final peaceful destination. I have approached people I might never have approached before, some remain, some I've since let go of. There is a sweet awkwardness to the moment you find a parachute for your feelings, and then you take the leap. (that long, close your eyes tight leap, where you are hanging onto a bungy cord for dear live)

My next life, well, I am hoping it will be minus the bounce of a bungy cord, riddled with romance, conjecture, and a life properly fitting of a Queen or Matriarch.

What one can decipher from the nude canvas of my face, is beauty, sudden sadness, gratitude, pain, forbearance, solitude, destiny, awkwardness, calm, panic, love, loss, strength, weakness, emptiness, fulfillment, passion, empathy, discernment. What one can see are the aches of life worn on my sleeve, as my fingers run themselves along the rim of my coffee cup, thoughts glowing through the early darkness of dawn, poignant, sharp, and repetitive. 

Turning the page, getting on with life, as my words pull together in paragraphs, strength narrates the darkest corners making them less intrusive, less harsh. Softness of the sun now breaking through on my doorstep, as New Year resolutions babble from my soul. Think I will head out the door,

running as if I am leaping for the moon.

 Winter is so theatrical as it throws back nine-degree temperatures today in absence of yesterday's negative numbers and nonbearing forceful gusts of wind. My teeth, a bit more unclenched today, my fingers, a bit more undrawn into the sleeves of my shirt, as warm blood surges through my body. The goose bumps on my legs are still there though, enough of a sacrifice to the gods of winter, my legs, so far from the life of summer that it's hardly even recognizable in the rear view mirror.