An Invisible Path

there is no right future
or wrong past
or regrettable present

these paths we find ourselves on are translucent.
The molecules shifting in and out of physical realms
failing to maintain any kind of consistency we
can hold in our aching hands for
more than the fleeting moment it
takes to look over our shoulder, and
return our gaze to the front – only to find
the scenery has betrayed our memory.

I have decided not to look forward or
to dwell in my footsteps, but rather set my sights
inward where the path cannot dictate which direction
my life should take. Where there are no
shades of right or wrong or regrettable.
Only a moment.
Only me.
Something I can trust.

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Soaked in Sorrow

Moments encroach upon us in which the peace slips away. Just as swiftly as the quiet engulfed the senses – like a rush of fresh, crisp air – it escapes our consciousness, leaving behind the stale shadows that follow us around so adamantly.

These bouts of lament are not welcome, yet are ever so comfortable to sit with – like a loyal old friend. As if this is the state in which we were born; aching to the core, soaked in sorrow, drifting in and out of contentment like a dream we are unsure we have woken from.

Moments pass, and we are again consumed by a sense of serenity as the calm returns and the sorrow sleeps for a spell. We can only hope the darkness will keep away for just one moment more than it chose to stay. Standing still, we watch as the moments swirl around us, the coming and going of shadows and peace – passing before our sleepy eyes.

Snowflakes

My intentions
land softly upon
the top of your head –
like freshly fallen
snow, on a dark
December night.

They are for you.
Reach out your
palm and
catch them
before they melt away

like snowflakes,
each with a
unique identity
melting on the tip
of your nose.

Can you hear what
the cold air is saying?
Whispers, sharing
secrets carried down
from clouds we cannot
see.

Listen.

Do Not

You do not create art
for others.
You do not not create art
because others do not reciprocate your feelings about your art.

My art is mine to hold.
The world is welcome to participate at any time,
to hold it as their own.

I do not love
for others.
I do not not love
because others do not reciprocate my feelings about my love.

You love because it holds you.
I am not welcome to love at any time,
I do love, even when you do not.

Pieces

We create our worlds using tools acquired from past and recurring experiences. If only we could clearly deconstruct them – lay out our actions, behaviors and beliefs as tangible objects on the floor – examine for flaws, cracks, wear and tear so that we might attempt to repair the damage. Which is a distraction from reality – the damage having already made a home for itself. The desire is not to fix the moments that lay in our wake but rather prevent new ones from formulating from the same faculties that have alluded us. It’s less about change, more about uncovering the mystery; what keeps us at arm’s length from full awareness, hazy and all too trusting of what is?

The Ordinary

A Rekindled Movement

The way the breeze makes the willow dance fills me with a kind of peace I wish I could bottle up for a time I know I’ll need it – when the chaos consumes me and I can’t escape the panic. I don’t know how to hold onto these moments. Perhaps they are not meant to be captured or controlled; the beauty lingering no matter how evanescent.

Somewhere along my journey I misplaced my movement. It left me for a little while, went dormant because I stopped feeding it. I forgot how to care for it, that it needed to be nurtured. That was my fault. Nevertheless it came back to me, waking slowly the more that I took the time to sit down with it and ask what it desired. Are you ready to come out now?  Do you have what it is you once thrived on?  Can you forgive me for allowing you to drift so far away?

I am discovering that despite how much I have changed, the things that once moved me remain recognizable. There’s an uncomfortable adjustment to getting acquainted with yourself. I am reminded of the depth in which I love and feel affected by temporary happiness. I had forgotten how easily I get consumed by the euphoria, mania, fast climb to the top of paradise. I had forgotten this because each time I am met with the fall, spiraling to the bottom of a high, I go looking for it in other things, other people. In myself – in my movement. And so comes the necessity to seek balance – the tightrope widens to make room for exploration. Somewhere new, something unknown, someone magnificent.

In a time when I became settled; unaffected and unintended – my movement slept. I became even. No highs, no lows, no need to find balance or walk a fine line of uncertainty. Without the drive to venture into unchartered lands or weigh out emotions, my world flattened. One note. One tone. Even.

As my movement surfaces, I become aware of the things I know for certain; I want to always climb up, walk across, dive to the bottom and look for doors to new places. To be moved, to be fleeting, to be like a willow dancing in the breeze.