Found: Me

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There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. There’s a woman at the end of her rope. There’s strength in the making of moments; the times we all treasure the most.

There’s a girl at the beginning of every mother. There’s a boy tugging at heart strings of each dad. We live for the making of children; the sins of our parents are lost.

We try to make every failure into a sliver of learning and hope. We make babies, build swing sets,  hug often; but we fail, find we are human, drink oft.

It’s a whirlwind of life ’til we turn 50 then we let our truest truth unfold. We have lived life thinking there are answers in tomorrows; and find that all that we needed, we host.

Give the day to the tomorrows and the past. Learn to feel before the emotion has passed. Bring your heart to center of the table, pinch yourself, scream for more. There’s another 50 years in the waiting. What will you do with the plans you have made? Throw them all to the wind as foolish endeavors or embrace them and make them your slave?

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She took on the aura of learning and in the darkness experienced all the limits she sought. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

 

 

Make Way

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If I wake up tomorrow and am nowhere, does that mean I haven’t been heading somewhere? The map unfolds itself in the signs of the day to day. While making a dinner for two, I am led to a cooking class. While cutting the mango I long for a return to Hawaii.  At karaoke night, the sounds of Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the soles of her shoes,” adds adds a ticket on my living list, resigning myself to get there to hear him before he is gone.

Before we are gone.

Resisting the label of journey, it keeps finding me. I shove it out  of mind along with the self-help aisle and the therapy couch; I’d rather rely on horoscopes and palm readers.

I spin my wheels in the daily carpool, in the grocery trip, again! I spin resolutions from New Years to the time when the leaves fall but aren’t measured by fractions of inches. How many  inches of dead leaves does it take to predict long winters of delusions about meeting someone’s eyes across the table, the stories of my heart and head locked away behind them for safer keeping than the present season affords?

There’s a time for content leisure, a time for acceptance and grace. And there’s a time for growing older with the smug smile and declarations of no regrets.

Meanwhile, there’s reflection and challenges to grow, in some way, any way that defies the restrictions of discontent bred by unknown details that escape understanding. Too close to the cause, habits fed by old comforts and limitations, I stretch arms overhead,my back arches, my legs reach long, my toes point, then curl toward the end of the bed, sheets askew.

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“You look good in bedsheets, love,” he says. She wonders why anyone dresses at all. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

Shut it

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Is this all it is?

Is this all it is?

Is this all it is?

She’s asked the question in the silence of the night, in the dew touched mornings while looking out at all she acquired-  sliced orange, bagel and tea, little birds taking the nectar from the blossoms of the porch. She has everything we aspire to create- home, hearth, health.

Not enough, the languorous moments, times of celebration, family who loves, sometimes with envy all that has been birthed in this princess fashion of a life.

Starter lives grown inside white picket fences, dragonflies fly, hummingbird hum, chrysalis shines. See her mouth open to the sky, she dances only when she’s alone.

Little time invested in the calendar of living, she’s  counted the hours, the minutes, the turns of the earth. Shameless and ungrateful, still stubborn-ugly, seeking something to tell her she’s arrived.

Cries, ceaselessly wanted –until she’s craving escape.

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Feed my mind. Feed my mind. Feed my mind. Before I eat up your heart and spit out your years. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. September 27, 2016.

 

Tell yourself it is someone else’s story

RMPwritingtypewriterThink we are  the only ones out there who feel the need to reshape our worlds and realign our dreams?

There comes a day, a day when we wake up to find ourselves trudging along in the exact spot we always planned to be, but now, find lacking. We can’t understand the words to any of the songs and we sometimes turn off the radio because it causes background noise.  We watch everyone dancing and we remember agreeing to this deal, but, yah, we forgot to read the fine print.

And then we choose.

We choose to write our own story, again.  Yes, we’ve been writing one all these years, a chapter a day. Sometimes, a chapter a year.

The first drafts are rife with missteps and character flaws.  The hero is not cleverly disguised, typically hasn’t saved anyone and at first, is selfish and at last,  is still selfish.  In other words:  Egotistical humanoid.

In the second draft, the hero is complacent, unaware of potential, coasting, taking the easy way. The perks are good. The views acceptable. The room service is timely and the opportunity for advancement is shrouded by moral standards and chest thumping ownership of valuable bennies.  The theme of the week is driving hard and fast, but for short distances and only while wearing clothing and in the glow of the television.   In other words:  Narcolepsy invasion.

One day, we let someone read our story and they pat us on the head and admire us but also ask if we are where we thought we’d be at this time in our life plan?   And then another one mentions a walk on the Appalachian Trail and how idiotic it is when the lead character prepares little for bad weather and safety, but packs a lot of condoms.  And in the middle of a long January winter, we realize we have been smothered by our own comfort. In other words: Painfully aware.

We either go back to sleep or we stretch, breathe, maybe begin to sway, a soothing rock from stable hips.

And then we write.

#for Reticent Mental Property.