From an ancient pyramid of faraway dreams, a river of gold rises, seeps into the leaves, feeding the season to believe. I lift my heart again to reach…
To survive is to fight, to split open, to cry, to persevere into the next season of a dream’s life, to detach from the root, the branch, before hope dies, to fall or fly not knowing the outcome until free, that air before the landing or opening of wings…
A sojourn among the wildflowers is what my soul needs in regular doses, down low among the “weeds”
where time does not stand still, but the world does, for nothing exists in the moment except for us,
and no greater beauty can there be than in the nonmanhandled, outside-the-garden-lines seed that blooms so gracefully, silently defying, yet exuding pure peace;
that peace transfers into my essence as I listen with my soul to the whispered sapience,
no lesson or story captivates my interest more than what the petals transmit,
and to think how often it goes unnoticed – underfoot, sole-crushed, disregarded – the natural therapy for inner balance.
If you happen to have the interest, I’ll share with you what was imparted on this Tuesday morning in my own backyard during my daily sojourn
among the wildflowers….
I wish to simply be the color in your gray, to open your heart to seeing every season has new days, and there always exists little blessings sent personally your way…
We all at times lose focus as the world becomes tear-blurred; that’s why we were given each other to lean on, lend strength, stay near.
When we get closer through the growing trust, we become less guarded and show the rest of us, the complexities, the other ways through the protective shield, the scars, the webs, the truths,
and we find, though all unique, we are the same in our sufferings,
made so we take turns with it, return to the circle of falls and lifts.
I am here to share my hues, overflowing now, but once like you.
And when you come into fuller bloom, pay it forward so others may too become imbued.
We all fall. Sometimes. It’s inevitable. Natural. Stumbles and knockouts along the way. Bumps and potholes, from obstacles and pitfalls, All paved roads, manmade.
No wonder we get lost. We make through-streets when we are meant to meander on foot, following brooks and the day-star beacon through the trees.
I believe it lights a different direction for each.
Newton’s laws are really a Universe thing, term ego-coined by humanity, but even that which has no momentum to soar, has never been granted the boost or breeze, seems to fall with a harder thud from crawling.
Perhaps the greatest and most needed fall is the one to our knees, when we give it all up and let Him take the lead.
Perhaps in that moment we are granted our wings.
But in that excitement, will we remember to fall silent and still enough to feel our soul’s gravitational pull?
We can now go anywhere the heart leads. This time I will stay away from the paved and listen to the whispers of the wildflowers and leaves.
I feel your heart out there gravitating toward me.
amidst the fallen sacrificial death of green a seedshell opens
Against a hurricane-weathered fence held up by a deeply-rooted meek tree, as the southern seasons strive to change, a branch extends a unique offering,
and in it, I naturally see…
the inspirational bravery of opening up so vulnerably, for beneath the protective shell lies for another’s winter the hope-story for spring.