May I never lose my way to getting lost, may I never resist the urge to leave it all, may I never shelter my face from the storm, may I never let my arms fall in the downpour, may I never fully wash off the grit of the sand, and may I never be restrained by clock or human hand.
May I never negotiate with my soul: may I never let anyone close the window.
Sometimes the heavens seem to shout without a sound, send in golden tsunamis to knock us out of our sacrilegious head-bows, hunched over the false light, oblivious to whom is beside let alone above. Another tidal wave of wonder crashes against an overpopulated shore unheard and unseen despite its colossal reminder that we were not meant to be islands caught up in the streams on screens of mind-numbing nonsense when the caged spirits within continue their deafening pleases turned to pleas and silent screams to be released. Our souls see heaven’s reach, but our eyes and minds are locked in self-imposed escapism stagnancy. And another stair to heaven disappears, as the case little by little, shrinks.
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.
Raindrops cling to Japanese Maple; Time suspends them to give way to Stillness’s held breath… subtly exhaled as I pass, as if I were a royal angel.
Bare feet upon the cool, smooth stones, into another potential garden of myself, I enter alone, a blossoming bud incongruous with the shibui growth; humbly, I pause to reflect, but recognize this is also not my home.
Reinvention of the self, a mosaic, from pieces forged and discovered– some to be polished, painted, others best with the coatings of dust and dirt.
Have you found yourself?
I’ve been rethinking this concept lately. For me, I have never really been looking for myself but rather my home, that place where I feel completely welcome, where I am already accurately and wholly known, where I can be completely, freely me, where I’ve been missed, where it makes sense, where it feels just right. My soul has always been restless. As a girl and teen, I always felt different, in a sense, like I couldn’t really relate to others. I think because I was always thinking, philosophizing, dreaming. Feeling seemed to be my superpower–not in sensitivity but in depth. I have always thought and felt too deeply about things. I have always been an old soul, have always felt like I’m just not in the right time period or realm.
An example of this–well, I think I wrote a poem about it once. Let me grab it… Here it is:
This group of freckles on my forearm has me mooning, time-warping to childhood…
Funny how even then, felt like these freckles meant something, seemed like a constellation, a coding, a knowing, a piece of the puzzle of me.
Funny how even then when we would travel at night in the station wagon, I pondered if the street lights spelled out a message that you could only see from a distance…
Funny how even then I would get lost in my own philosophical thoughts, felt a bit out of sorts when others seemed so content splashing in shallow waters when I was so anxious to explore the depths of the sea.
Now at 44, I find myself mulling over those same mysteries, a calling to me, a profound knowing that there’s not only so much more, but somehow that so much more involves me, and not passively.
Do I believe in destiny? Perhaps partially.
I feel like I was born to love but also to defend, sword in hand…
I wonder how my story will end.
I look for clues in the freckle tattoo…
Yep, that definitely fits right in with my current contemplation… I think it’s a combination for me of looking for my place–my home–and also myself. For a while now, I’ve just assumed that I would not find this internal place and peace in this life, and that was okay with me; I have always intended to make the most of it. But lately, I am finding that I am actually getting very close. I am finding along the way pieces of myself. I just don’t know if it is a mosaicking process of creating myself or if it is a collection of clues that lead to myself. I like the idea of both.
This all came up this evening because I was looking at some pictures of wildflowers I recently took, lol (see what I mean about getting lost in thought?…) Wildflowers speak to my soul, plain and simple. The meeker, the smaller, the more tattered, the more beautiful to me, the stronger the pull, the more complex the silent stories… White/ivory flowers have the same kind of spiritual effect on me. Framing fragile, wild “weeds” in the first or last rays of the day… that is my soul in a photograph. Just something about it… a piece, a clue, for sure.
I have a very strong connection to nature. It’s where I prefer to be. It’s where I feel I belong. I would rather watch the clouds all day and all night than do any of those things others like to do. That makes me a freak to some, I suppose; my family makes fun of me for it. While most flocked to tourist attractions over spring break, I lived the dream: poetry, photography, and nature. At home. Lots of pajama time. Lots of coffee and tea. (Hence the abundance of posts on Sunday, my last day to indulge in my hobbies before work began again.) Although I am rather socially fearless and can easily be the life of a party, I would rather be home alone doing my own thing. I think I would be quite content as a hermit, preferably a writer in a small, cozy cottage amidst diverse nature.
So wildflowers are a clue along the trail of myself, or the trail home, or a piece I choose to include in my “me” mural.
past the flower beds I seek colors of the wild to appease my soul
I sit for a while let my inner light visit no place like this home
The morning after writing this post, I discovered my friend’s beautiful video capturing one of his “children’s” books (with his gorgeous artwork and inspired by his dear chickens). It made me cry. And the timing and relevance…so special. Please do take a moment to be moved. Please do yourself the favor of enjoying more of John’s work and soul: https://mylifewithgracie.com/2021/03/20/a-read-beside-me-book-video/