The Wings

I was the little girl who used to fall and skin her knees

And then grew up and always seemed to skin her heart

“Don’t cry, doll.” My grandma’s words that I still hold to

As I’m drying my own tears

Time plays such soothing music while we dance to pass the years

The fleeting words like windblown sand across the page

We swim through echoes making peace with other loves

And broken dreams with shards of truth, while holding onto hopes

That hide like frightened children in the dark

You opened up the door that leads into your memories

Without a map you welcomed me inside

To wander through the narrow halls together

Some passions shared, some yet to be discovered

We looked behind the brick and mortar

Of these walls we’d built to shore up all the past

Illusions never vary - they are the things created

By a gentle hand that longs to hold the dream

I’ll let you in if you can promise you won’t see me

That you won’t notice all the dust

Or ask about the things that lurk in corners

Or that hide behind the drapes

Oh wait, I may still use that

What is that thing – the one beneath the sheet?

I’d forgotten all about it

But maybe it was really for the best

I can’t recall what I was thinking

When I offered you my wings

The rusty hinges atrophied and sore from lack of use

Or falling from the sky too many times

Perhaps I thought I’d never miss them

I half believe you may have thought the same

But nonetheless you took them

And up you flew while from the ground I watched

So glad for you but puzzled and bemused

Because somehow I’d always thought you’d take me with you 

Tempus Fugit

  Translucent wonder

Falling through

The turbulence and disregard

Amazing in the twilight

Of daydreams and of broken wings

And the splendor of a sigh

Become the sunlight

On the rain

A delicate serenity

That touches every petal

And transforms all the wilted days

To shadows that pass by

A token whisper

In the night

Borne swiftly on a butterfly

The little girl who once made

A promise to a wishing well

A heart that would not age

The breath of moments

Lingering

Held fast by threads of memory

And painted on the landscape

Of every dawn and sunset

The fading of the days

Epiphany - Part 2 - The Trampoline

Reflections. Shadows. Yellow flowers. Sunlight. Butterfly. Rustling leaves. The light, the dark. The light. The dark.

Brief moments of flight, then falling, landing, flying again.

A red bird has joined me here, perching momentarily atop a thorny bush. Somehow omnipotently knowing exactly where to place his tiny feet; how to best avoid the thorns. If only such rare knowledge could be mine.

I’m thinking of my childhood swing set. The soothing motion of the swing, the creaking voice inside the chain, always there, keeping me company, keeping pace with rise and fall.

I want to do a flip but I’m afraid. Always too afraid. What if I land wrong? What if I break something? What if-what if-what if?

I’m tired of myself today. Tired of being who I am. So tethered. So bound. So structured.

I land upon my hands and knees, then stretch out like a cat, my arms extended above my head, my stomach resting on the warm surface of the trampoline. I linger there above the ground, floating on a porous surface. I can see through to the dirt below me, dinted by the recent rain falling through the mesh it hides beneath. I’m thinking that it’s like the sea floor. Tiny heart-shaped leaves reside there—token residents from the vine that winds itself around the metal frame. I’m imagining a seahorse when the sun peeks out from his ethereal hiding place and blankets me with warming rays.

The outline of my shadow is now visible beneath me, and I think I am a shadow angel. A free form. So unfettered, unhindered, surreal. No features. Nothing marring the smooth, dark surface that is me. And only me. Only what could be within, nothing from without. Maybe this is who I am. Maybe this is all I’ll ever be. And would it matter?

My shadow moves when I move, perspectives shifting as my eyes adjust, focusing from dark to light, from shadow to its obverse. Now I feel like Peter Pan, and Wendy has sown fast my shadow. It will always follow, wherever I may go. Will always be a part of me.

And yet we’re always changing.

And so I wonder, what is me? Am I a whole or just a part? A whole made up of separate parts? Of flowing, changing matter I’ve restricted into…this?

As I ponder, the sun retires behind another cloud and my shadow self has vanished once again into the dirt. Hiding from me. Waiting for me. Never really there at all.

Perhaps like me; perhaps my restless counterpart. So very much like all we do in life. Like memories and laughter and the marks they’ve left behind. Faded scars, reluctant daydreams; souls flown free from earthly hope.

So very much like shadows. Falling once and then a ghost.

A moment in this lifetime.

A moment here…then gone.

 

 

 

Epiphany – Part 1 – The Coffee House

I spent yesterday with a perceptive and wonderful friend. We spoke of…well, just about everything, in the way you would with someone you seem to have known forever, even if reality assures you it hasn’t been that long at all. The walls of the coffee house were red, lined with books, eclectic works of art and collected things, and menus featuring an endless variety of coffee-based beverages. Guitars lounged expectantly, strategically reposing amongst the tables, chairs and booths, awaiting the wanton caress of restless, calloused fingers.

How was your morning? Well, I got lost, but then you know that. The coffee’s too sweet. Yeah, I noticed. Not a problem making conversation. Where’d the time go? I’m distracted. Been there, done that. I’m so sorry. What’s that phrase? Stream of consciousness. Exactly!

And so it went, and then I listened to a story; the story of a someone who had gone to see a guru, a monk, an oracle incarnate high atop a mountain. It was a search for meaning, something we all should go through, a journey every soul must undertake and in the end hope for the courage to view our lives, our selves, and find them either aggregate or wanting. Never fully consummate, let there be no doubt.

Playing against type, for he was flesh and blood, and not a stereotype within his given life, this wise man told this someone not to strive to find himself, but instead to accept the greater probability that he would, as most men do, spend a wasted life in the seeking. The point is not to find oneself, but to instead believe we were not meant to be found.

This point was illustrated by my friend, who recreated on a notebook page what his friend had drawn for him, itself a derivation of the drawing of the monk. Small circles formed another circle, and within them all, the center being, representative of our most inner selves. The first circles represented all the things we are, that we do, that we show to everyone, everything that makes the outward projection of us. But deep down inside them all rests our true self, the one that even we may never truly meet. And the freedom comes from understanding that in the end, no matter how hard we search, we may never fully get to know ourselves. But isn’t that what makes life interesting? How many times have we said, “I can’t believe I did that.” or “That just wasn’t like me.” Really? How do you know? You did it, didn’t you?

As someone who’s always wondered who I really am, what drives my heartbeat oh-so-deep down inside, what’s my motivation when it comes to living life, it struck me suddenly that if I never got to know, then I would be okay with that. Of course, somehow I’d have to be. But really, how exciting and exhilarating a thought that we can spend our entire lives getting to know others, and ourselves. And, in a sense, perhaps know someone better than we could ever know ourselves, and vice versa.

I kinda like that thought. Last night I went to sleep with a smile on my face thinking about it, and red walls, eclectic things, old guitars, friendships formed, and happenstance. And, of course, some other good advice: dream carefully.

 

 

For Joi: Left Upon the Mantle

Nestled in the shade, the red house stood. Small but vibrant, unadorned. A studio and storage hut the lone companions to the relic of a life that had been lived there. The laughter of six children must have echoed off the walls, and through the trees, and floated upon the breeze and the tide within the waters of the darkly wild lagoon. So fitting a home for an artist such as Joi.

 

Cautiously, I approached, feeling her spirit somewhere, everywhere nearby, for it had to be. A being so astoundingly eccentric would most certainly venture freely when set free of earthly bonds, and yet somehow not stray too far from the home she had so loved.

 Entering the small building that I knew had been her studio, I called out, my voice returning to me hollowed by the close walls and the heat. There was no answer, yet I spoke to her, calling her by name and asking her permission to visit, explaining that I had so much to tell her, wanting to share my thoughts and even more to be aware of hers. I told her that I knew she’d raised her children there, that I respected her for her decisions and the way she’d lived her life. I said I was a writer, not a famous one, but one who loved to listen and share stories, and I so wanted to share hers.

 I looked around the room and saw my own reflection in a mirror by the door. Oddly, I wasn’t very startled, perhaps though expecting to see Joi, not myself. I only know I wanted to, so very, very much. There was so much she could tell me, I was sure. So many things that she might know. Or then again, she may not have the answers that I sought. I somehow felt the answers may yet dwell inside her house, and so I journeyed on.

 Peering in the front windows, beside the locked door, I saw with my eyes a house in disrepair, but in my heart I pictured it as it may have been, so filled with light and laughter and eclectic things. Across the yard again, around the side, stepping carefully towards the back and the dock and the lagoon that lay beyond the overgrown yard. Rotting boards cushioned my footfalls while they creaked and sang out with a music all their own. My pounding heart accompanied their song as I realized the sliding glass door was unlocked and I felt the little red house welcome me inside with open arms.

 Tattered curtains waited, calmly patient, ever still. Not one ripple of movement, no sound, as the sun poured down upon the aging floor from a skylight in the middle of the room. I spoke to her again, hoping still to hear her voice, to sense her presence, to somehow know that she was there. Nothing. And so I asked her, if she’d be so kind, to please let me know if there was something, some remnant of herself left in this place that I could take, because I wanted so to know that I had been there, to remember the feeling of everything and nothing all at once. So encapsulating. So freeing. So alive but wanting more.

 

 

 I wandered through the broken rooms, spotting objects here and there still strewn about the vacant, lonely place. These were the things that had remained after the estate sale, after the pondering and the pillaging and the raping of this life no longer real. She’d had a collection of cassettes, her musical tastes as varied as I’m sure were the stories of her days. I almost hoped one would jump out of the wooden case upon the wall; would leap into my waiting hands. Then I would know. I would know that she was there.

 Still nothing stirred. No movement. No sound. Just my wild imagination prodding me onward, into other rooms, round in circles, all the while speaking, emoting, sharing all my thoughts with her, my secrets. I somehow felt I needed her to know, or maybe just because I knew she’d never tell.

 I asked again if she could give me anything, let me know somehow if there was something I could take. Finally, thinking that perhaps she’d gone away, I turned to go. Happy for the time I’d spent there, but lacking one more thing I couldn’t place.

 My gaze fell upon the mantle; an old fireplace I’d glanced at as I’d made my way inside. And there it was. A single die, red in color, like the house, lying there, so unassuming. Suddenly I knew, with everything inside me, that she wanted me to take it. I wondered who was crying, then I realized it was me. All the things I wanted her to tell me, everything I needed her to say; all of it was wrapped up neatly in one single, faded die. I picked it up and held it in my hand, thinking of how well she must have known me already. I would be the one to find this, and she’d known I’d understand.

 “It’s all about the chances that we take,” I heard her say, though not in spoken words; they were unnecessary now. “Go and live your life and take your chances. That’s what I did, girl. Give it time, take your time. It doesn’t matter when you get there, only that you do.”

 And so I thanked her, wiped my eyes and left that lovely place, so grateful for the chance that had been given me to learn about the woman who had lived and died there. Inspiration. Words to live by.

 And still, as I left, the silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Magic 8 Ball of Life

My feet carried me along Midnight Pass Road this morning as I marched to the tune of my thoughts, caught up in random, disassociated things, pondering life as I know it, and as I don’t, or just not yet. What should I do about this? How should I word that? Where is my life going? Am I on the right path? And how will I know if I am? I had meant this figuratively, of course, but suddenly in my literal path, leaf blower in hand, was a character straight out of my first novel: Mrs. Babcock, my imaginary (though inspired by real-life ladies I’ve known) older downstairs neighbor. In my book she’s in her sixties, keeps herself up nicely and has a mad love for gardening, which she does barefoot, showing off her painted toenails. I couldn’t help but notice that this lady, after I made the connection to Mrs. B in my mind, was barefoot, her toenails perfectly manicured and a sassy shade of silver-gray. We got to talking after I told her she had a lovely home and I also mentioned she reminded me of a character in a book I’d written. She smiled and asked me, “In what ways do I remind you of her?” So I told her, and she then said, “Well, since you’re a writer, I know you’d love to hear the story of how I got my beautiful home.” Of course, she was right; I did want to know.

 

Brenda (the real-life Mrs. B) told me she’d had a best friend for 50 years who had passed on about a year ago, very unexpectedly, from a brain aneurism. Throughout their years of friendship, they had traveled together and had many fabulous adventures and through them all they never spoke of money or material things. So Brenda was very surprised to learn, following her friend’s passing, that her friend had left her a substantial amount of money. Still in mourning, and having absolutely no idea what to do with the funds, she accompanied her son on a trip to Sarasota. Her son happened upon a house for sale and knew his mother would love it. The house was Mediterranean in style with a garden in the rear that opened up to a lagoon. He convinced Brenda to visit the house, and the moment she stepped inside, she knew the home was meant to be hers. This feeling was intensified when she walked out to the back patio area and spotted two statues of cranes. In her previous home, two cranes always visited her back yard. She’d named them Ralphie and Joycie after her brother and sister-in-law who had since passed away. She purchased the home, which the previous owners had called “Casa de Las Flores” and re-named it “Casa de mi Amiga” in honor of her friend.

 

She took me inside, gave me a Coke and a grand tour of her house, then told me a funny story about her two brothers. While in St. Thomas, they knew her husband had planned to buy her an expensive ring, but wanted her to pick it out for herself from a local jeweler. The brothers went on ahead and told the jeweler that a Portuguese princess would be stopping by soon. Brenda had no idea why, when she entered the store wearing sunglasses, dressed in a long white dress, her lips bright red, and with a large hat upon her head no less, everyone inside hurried to greet her, then took her to the back of the store and began pushing trays of jewelry towards her to try on. Once she heard them calling her “Princess” and saw her brothers doubled over in laughter, she realized what they’d done. Upon leaving the store, she walked down the street only to have the owner of the next store run out and greet her, saying, “Princess! Come in!” Apparently, the word had spread.

 

Next she asked if I’d noticed the old, red, dilapidated house down the street that was for sale. I told her I had. She went on to explain that she had known the owner, who had recently died. (Yes, I did realize at this point that Brenda had lost a substantial amount of people, but that’s to be expected at 67, I suppose.) The woman was very eccentric, having once been married, becoming a mother to six children, then deciding she wanted her freedom, left her husband and took all six children to live with her in the tiny red house. Her name was Joi (as she introduced herself, “Joey with an ‘i’”) and she was an artist. The property, which I prowled around on my way back (please don’t report me) and will write more about in another blog/poem/I’m not sure what yet, included not only the little house, but also a studio and tiny storage shed. She worked in the studio on various pieces of eclectic art, causing a neighbor’s husband to return to his wife following a visit to the studio exclaiming, “Remind me to never go over there again!” When his wife questioned him as to why, he replied, “Because she’s carving giant wooden penises! They’re everywhere!”

 

At this point I burst out laughing, as did Brenda as she told the story, and we leaned upon one another for support. (I love people who will laugh in a pile with you when they’ve only just met you – they’re quite special and rare and should be cherished like precious gems). Apparently the penises sold quite well. When Brenda went to see for herself, all of the pieces had been sold save one, which Brenda did not happen to purchase, unfortunately.

 

When Joi passed away, an estate sale was held at her property. Brenda went, as did the other neighbors, to see what parts of Joi’s life they might collect for themselves. Not actually planning to buy anything, Brenda was surprised to find herself drawn to a paint-splattered carved stone face of a woman. She didn’t realize until she got home that the face was Joi’s. No one else had even noticed. I got chills and we both began to cry together, after laughing together just moments before. (The only thing better than a new acquaintance who will fall upon you in fits of laughter is one who will then cry with you as cathartically as they have laughed.)

 

With each story that Brenda told, I began to feel lighter and more sure of where I’m going. My walk back was filled with inspirational thoughts, and thoughts of people I’d never even met, and would never have the chance to, but now felt as though I knew thanks to a woman who happened to be gardening when I walked by. She said she believed it was for a reason, and so do I. I won’t always know what’s going to happen, or if I’m making the right decisions, but I believe there will always be people who show up at the most appropriate times to shine a brief light for me to follow. Even if my destination isn’t always clear, I know that wherever it is, I’ll get there while enjoying the adventure along the way. And in the end, isn’t that the most important thing?