newness

This snow is ethereal.

It is so light. Lighter than salt. Or flour. Almost like flower petals.

Layer after layer of patient powder drifting down in silence.

And after a few hours, this whole world covered in a dense, soft blanket of purity. Even the garbage. And the silt. Even the dirt and the mud. All of the stuff piled up next to the house, every day a somber reminder of the ominous clean up to come, here it is now under a downy quilt of virgin ivory. Sinless. Forgiving. Pure, like thick, syrupy water. Like a protective cloak. Or a wedding gown. Or a baby's fleecy sleeper.

It falls as only a cover up. It doesn't solve the grey, the mirk or the unkempt. It solves nothing but the dilemma of the moment, replacing all of the intentions with a uniformed feeling of clean.

And that is good enough for me today, to think a little bit better about who I am where I'm at.

Cover me in your wedding gown. Clothe me in white. Cleanse me with hope, because even the temporal, fleeting notion of purity is breathtaking. 

And healing.

:)

There is no feeling like separation.

There is nothing quite so resilient as the loss of being totally separated from what you've known.

My mind is in constant turmoil with the world and the very limited realities that make the plane of my existence. I am visitor to a strange place. Where everything is rugged and vague, but there are things that are smooth and detailed.

The touch of her hand lingers like a whisper in a desperate place. Like a very still and quiet well that is very rarely drawn from.

Her voice like a distant breath of wind on the ripple-less ocean that surrounds. And in that, the distant crash of a wave, gasped from a pure release of ecstacy.

Hers is my ever failing horizon.

And the mountain of my insecurities.

Hers is the heart-breaking dial tone, at the beginning of the most important message I ever felt I needed to leave.

Hers is the gong ever ringing deep in the forest of dank intentions.

And hers is the warm milk of all that is good and nurturing, bubbling up from a peaceful place I visit when I am dreaming of flight and fancy.

And there is nothing, not even close, to the deepest sense of peace I could feel in one nanosecond brush of two short keys. When, at the end of my 24 hours of isolated turmoil she texts me the simplest thing and I am totally set free of this cage of anguish:

:)

.

(wow).

The Void

What creates the void??

I was helping my son brush his teeth and he confessed to me what happened the night before when he and his sister were trying to pick a movie to watch before going to bed.

I guess his movie pick was vetoed by the older sister and Mommy, who were both going to participate in the watching. He protested, and then got upset. His Mommy had to put her foot down as his frantic imploring turned to tantrum. Finally, in screams and tears, he was bundled up and sent to bed without a movie, no snack, almost an hour before his scheduled bed time.

There is an emotion so real and raw in having your freedom of choice stripped of you. It is a force so volatile it can cause a reaction like flame to a streak of gasoline. It is that reaction that determines your behavior and your overall contribution to your community. It determines your rewards and your disciplines.

As I delved further into my son's side of the tale, I heard his hurt as he let me know what fueled his frustration, and his loss of security, his feeling of being utterly misunderstood, his innocent reaction -- and the final confirmation of this feeling -- confirmed with a whelming tide of empathy-lack, and further aggravated by anger and dictation. His tears began spilling again, down his cheeks, interrupting his story as he got caught up again in what he was feeling, again.

Interesting how simple misunderstanding can spark the kind of behavior that labels us "unapproachable", "angry", "selfish", "unreasonable". Behavior almost entirely instigated by someone else's lack of patience or agenda.

I saw the pattern beginning in my 5 year old.

Patterns still pumping through my own veins, as I daily become less and less desirable to the wife who kicked me out of the house, as my behavior becomes increasingly poor, as my hurt deepens. The cyclical spiral of this reality increases the temper of my fear, and the fear is the catalyst for the survival, which fights nasty to protect the heart. Which destroys whatever chance I ever had of getting what I want....

A void created out of nothing, but reaction to reaction. A void ever slipping into the unknown, never resolved, and never understood. A black hole, a vacuum.

Case of the Mondays?

"There is a feeling like the clenching of the fist. There is a hunger in the center of the chest."

All of James Taylor and his oil and honey imagery wind slowly down my aching frame, filling my joints with a hearth-like warmth, as simple and as satisfying as cream in my steaming mug.

Today is not like yesterday. And this year is not like the last. My heart feels older and scabbed from the abuses, self-inflicted and otherwise, and yet the distance between what I know and where I am pointing the helm of this ruddy schooner seems to grow every day. The grand canyon I hide inside my little heart, waiting for the ocean of light to fill it with some profound sense of purpose. All at once it's there and hugely detailed, like a vision, and then -- also like a vision -- I wake up to clenched fists and labored tears.

WHO AM I? This idea of a being a treasure is an irrelevant idea without some kind of monetary reward to cushion the harsh edge of my social position. Or is it? If for a few actions, emulating emotion and delivering in its belly some procreated kind of true love, birthed in an honest moment and (gasp!) spoken without words. It is the image of true love I felt yesterday when the profile of the mountain poured gold down my throat and tickled my spine with faintest chill of grandeur, augmented by the glint and smoky breath of frost. Because I am at play in the fields of the Lord! Two strong hands before me. Horses hooves inside my heart chambers. Words from an old script, burning like dry paper in the peat fire of my soul. Warm bread, broken open and pouring heat upwards to the gathering cloud of new thoughts.

Knowing what I know right now is ground that I've gained. It is a mended sail, and a steady, directional wind. It is meat and potatoes warming the pot. It is the hunger in the center of my chest. Being shaken forward and shaken free. Free -- if nothing else -- to know the warmth of the hearth and sigh a contented song of satisfaction. This song will sound like breathing.

(there it is.... I just felt it....o, and then I sang it......ah, and then I heard it!!!)