Sunday, August 16, 2015


Stop living your days...weeks...months
every single tiny breath
trapped inside someone else's assumed assumptions
(or are they our own?)
Isn't life more than the "I wonder what he is thinking?"
and the
"I should have done it this way"?

Listen more deeply to the way the sun sets
after a sticky summer day.
Feel the weight of black dots on a ladybug's back
as it carefully crawls up the arm.
Watch the way a child gleefully discovers one leaf among many
stuck across the driveway.
As if last rainfall placed them there on purpose
to see how long it would take them to dry.

The laughter of life unfolds every day
Every sunrise.  Each sunset.
Even on the darkest of nights when the stars cannot be seen.
And the air is so thick you could drown in it.

When the brim of your cup overflows with gushes of goodness,
When your well is so dry you can taste the salt seeping from your skin,
or falling from your eyes....

Don't live your days as if each and every day does not matter.
Or isn't right.
Or holy.
Or meant to be good.

Enough with the voice that screams and kicks and hates.

It only takes a glimpse of sunlight to remind the rose or shimmer the sparkle in the eye.
Even in the rain.
And sometimes...especially.

Monday, August 3, 2015


She wakes up slowly.  The alarm on her phone buzzing louder the longer she takes to tap its screen.

She rubs her eyes and notices the time.  Yawning all the way out of bed to the bathroom...the living room...turning open the blinds to see it is still summer.

The first cup of coffee is a steamy, slow, comfortable ritual.  Another look out the window.  She wishes for the dewy haze of morning to last until noon.  But by then it's much too hot and the morning is already thought of as a long lost friend.

Wondering where the time has gone, she closes her email and exits out of Facebook.  What did we do before computers?  She taps a pen on the desk and twirls a strand of hair around her left pointer finger.

There is a Longing there.  It is close enough to tap her on the shoulder but quick enough to skirt away when she turns to look.  There is something deep within, closer than her breath, but hard to make out.  Like the direction of wind on a still summer day.

What is it that keeps us from doing what we were created to do?  Who tells us when and how to live our lives?

Well certainly that depends on who you ask and the circumstances of life, she is reminded.

And still.  It feels feels like something bigger than herself... But the finger cannot confidently place its source.  And then the head turns on 70 mph, and the heart tires with guilt and should's and ought to's.  She listens too obediently.

 So why can't she shake it off?  Why can't she go on with the daily routine, happy and carefree?

The Longing.  It is like walking through a spiderweb.  You cannot see it so you walk right through it and it sticks to you like glue.  And you carry it with you because it is too sticky to shake off.  It becomes your second skin.