Pictureless again (removed from the album) but not for long, as my steps again lose their wobble, back to the cobblestone toward where I belong, away from this time and into nature, nearing the lit cottage I will soon remember.
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
Walt Whitman
I spend time and thread reaching out for places to land, and sometimes I do, but then I feel the wind signaling again that the respite is but transitory, and I am not even the spider but a phoenix whose wings have singed over centuries beyond this dimension as I eternally morph evanescently, reaching out for a home for me.
I am fueled by storms and coastal wind as I raise my arms to each and channel them until empowerment rises boldly from within…
But it is in the still and minute, in the soft scent of beautiful, in the trust of subtle, the barely discernible, that I feel the forgotten soothed, those buried-alive non-truths; the golden elixir single ray finding the torn petal coats in those places I am not able to ever reach on my own.
Up close and personal is the only way I know to heal my heart, to feed my soul, and that, I believe, is the path that leads home.
A detour, soulful tugging, I find myself impulsively knelt again on the white sands before the altar at an end of the earth, surf symphony rising predictably to greet me, but I casually look about for the signs He wanted me to again come ’round… between my toes ancient mountains ground to grains, quartz granules, sugar-soft, appropriate backdrop for the hieroglyph written for me: it freezes me.
So easily, I succumb to the enchantment of silence, save for those waves and occasional sea birds with personal messages calling. (It always baffles me how I can so often have this parcel of paradise to myself…) I stay a long, unhurried while just trying to feel what this enigmatic swirl of sea oat in the sand is all about… Something about curves is always so sensuous, aesthetically strokes my soul… I don’t need a translation; in fact, I prefer this sacredly-carved symbol. I make it my own and add it to my collection of clues leading me leisurely home. It is the journey after all, and I have nowhere else to go.
shifting sands grains unable to be grasped slipping through fingers sieve of my existence footprints vanishing in vain trying to leave an imprint, fingerprints fossilizing
as I watch sea drops dry on shells shells of mankind displayed non-selves on shelves
shifting painted shapes offer to take me away only to lead to the next drifting cumulous cloud lateral when I need to be higher homeward bound
shifting sands I open my hand spread my fingers wider I know what the answers are not to feel the silk is to feel nothing caught but sensory strokes the void in the curve of my palm no trail found to my entrance into the sea
saltwater can’t sting when the wounds are too far beneath the body’s surface
arms open I invite the above in home- sick let me know I am not
Internal disposition of slipping into loss of direction, contingent upon situation, origin, intention, catalyst participation, leisurely initiated or punitively inflicted, meditation or conviction. Usually welcome as an introverted creative, this episodic disillusion stripping me of all pulls keeping me rooted to anything…
The void.
Loss of hearing among the noise.
Galaxies inside.
Gravity denied.
Lifetimes paused, unable to decide
anything at all. Desirous of a
f a l l,
anything to move the air to revivify my trackable pulse, the beat of my heart back on the radar to be found again, though I am not