Through my grasp it slips, the grip’s loosening over the gap of gasps as it becomes a familiar feeling, the reeling in of what’s real, what’s really happening, the fastening of the winds whipping the sounds of silence violently through my soul, now on the cusp of cold, screaming silently into a sound chamber where only I remember your name forever and when to honor… except for, I dismayed, could say nothing, except for the engrained tear exchange for the DNA’s reframe of the refrain through my brains terrain of dry docks and torrential rain.
I can’t feel it. I’ve looked perhaps in the wrong places. How can I believe. It’s always changing faces.
Facing my fear. My face is the reflection. Reflecting a yearning of a unified connection.
Connecting the dots dotted by the trail of teardrops dripping down to the path compacted by my travel.
The road is of gravel. Always shifting underneath my step. It’s a wonder I’m here based on the ever changing quest.
I keep questioning. Redefining. Reminding. Minding my mindfulness and losing my cheer.
Chin up. Closer. The clearing is nearer.
The irony is it’s been present all the time. The love that shows up over and over is mine.
From me. Let me be clearer. I’ve been denying the dying for myself. I’ve been shattering my mirror.
The endlessness must come from in here. In my soul and out to top tier.
Can you hear? Can you see the connectivity is me to myself and myself to me?
The only love that is greater than this is still out of reach. Love me maybe.
But it is me I want love to see. Ultimately and passionately, for me, does your soul scream..
unseen be revealed.
Heart be healed.
Let me look into me, let me love me, let me feel love, let love be.
I stand along the flowing waters like you. I stand along the rivers edge and watch the foundations erode away like you. I stand in the rain, I stand in the snow, in the blistering sun, and in the dewy morning relief, like you. I stand stripped of my original casing, i stand exposing my inner self, I stand without the security of limbs laden with leaves for promise of production. None of this is like you, but still I stand. And I continue to stand majestically open and casualty to all infliction. I stand with you still. I can be seen with the gray of my roots telling of my time. But still I stand. And as the eyes gaze upon all of us, casually loving and observing the fullness of us all, I stand alone in the capture. The eyes stop, the heart relates, and for this moment in time, the wear of existence is wondrous, and I stand in that beauty of the chaos and calm. The whole scene is taken in, and walking away, the image retained is that of me, still standing.
And as I tried to wane this morning, the feeling came over me again. I could feel it in my bones, in my veins, in my muscles, in my brains..
I wept silently while his arms were wrapped around me. He didn’t notice. Just like no one else would know. Not unless i said something. Not unless I spoke, but who would care. I could hope.
My tears dropped off my cheeks like the shuddering of my body. I again, wept silently. I again was held, alone.
And what words do I say? As we’re laying there in the space of death and the space of life. And again, it shudders through my veins. Through my muscles, through my body.
I could feel the moment of the death. Not knowing then how I knew it would feel now. I could feel the memory of our dna coursing through me. I didn’t know then it would be the end , but I know now.
I didn’t want to share the thoughts. Didn’t want to impede my depression on you or any argument of why I feel the way I feel. I didn’t want to have to feel what you don’t feel, you’ll never feel. I didn’t want to be disappointed that you don’t feel.
The love I give has continued to pour … fill full and pour more. The source of this love has been questionable for an unknown amount of time now. I can’t say when it refills or how. I can’t say why it keeps giving or what it’s motive has become. For it has been a wounded well since our time has begun. Before my bucket was used to fill your cup, before I knew you had needed more than me to fill it up, I had to re-mortar the bricks that contains the courage, just enough. The job was done in haste and maybe some despair, but I knew would hold with gentle care. If gentle hands pulled my rope, centered it with purpose and I’d bring up the liquid hope. My plan was to pour into you with all I could hold and refill so quickly that the exchange of warmth from my source to your vessel would never go cold. To keep releasing all into your hands for you to drink me, take in my delivery. To just empty over and over again… and then… I realized I was over pouring. Your hands were always open, to receive from any duct that gave attention. They always stayed ajar and your mind took note to the sources that weren’t too far. And in the brief moments when my pouring slowed down to a drip, so I could take a moment to evaluate the dripping in which I’ve been slipping, created by the spill over from the tipping over of other pitchers into your serving cup, you keep putting at my table to serve you up, and in those brief moments of when I drip, you sip from another drip line filling you up and clog up mine. Then you hold up your hands and all the love pours out. Every drop and drip from my heart spout and it stutters at its source, and I have to realign my lines, my strings, my handle, my encasing. I have to retrace the rebuilding of my walls and all my compartments, are they intact, where do I lack? What’s wrong with my pouring? How is my all not enough? Then I see that a segment of my wall has been sloughed. Etched with drills of a version of love that made my exterior soft, while my love just kept pouring right past this love blinding blind spot. Picked at quietly as I kept flowing on by, wondering about the little streams that kept seeping awry. Thought the loss was from the tears that I cried. But it was lack of care that degraded my interior. Pulling and releasing my rope at commanding positions creating tensions unexpectedly and force back of slack, slapping into my mortar. Close by are your hands prying down my border. Close are your hands being filled by others, allowed to slip in to where my everflow never stops it’s flow. And leaves me to wonder where my love is to go. Leaves me to wonder will your hands ever close? Will you ever be able to wrap them around my well, only open for pour, from my lovings course, only embrace and drink from my love source?
Can you look in the mirror honestly? Does it tell you the truth of who you are? Does it show you in bold all the little secrets you hold?
Can you look in the mirror with pleasure? Are you able to observe the crease of time on your brow? Do you see the lines you’ve said displayed on your head?
Can you look in the mirror with trust? Has your reflection morphed too? Do your eyes look at you with pride or is it behind the lids you still hide?
Can you look in the mirror with dignity? Did the ego wash away in the shower? Are you seeing yourself as well and taking that nakedness into the words you tell?
Can you look into the mirror for long? Is it a gentle and confident exchange of sight? Do you see a human with intentions pure or a facade to procure?
Can you look into the mirror and see truth? Do your eyes relay back to you reality? Do your lips form the way they appear as you speak or are they cracked and breaking speech?
Can you look into the mirror and rely on it to be accurate? Does it show you who you really are? Will your reflection last to be who they see you as or will you be a reflection of your past?
Can you look into the mirror and smile? Are you the same in both dimensions? Are you honorable in the eyes of those that seek you to be reliable?
Can you look in the mirror? Can you stare at yourself long enough to see your soul? Can you keep seeing yourself the same or will the mirror shatter under your shame?
Can you look in the mirror? Can you be present enough to see who you really are? Will you be able to be whole and clear and good away from the mirror?
Where do I stand when I look in the mirror? My feet lost in the abyss and my mind in space. What part of me should I be looking at? I’m not sure what part to observe.
Do I start with my hair? The mane of a lioness that flows into the ethereal and sheds its warnings to poachers that I, have been here, this Space I claim, and I will return. The nest of knots that have interlocked and woven together with little outside assistance and certainly less time in process of realignment of strands to be side by side. The firey and wirey reachings of keratin and pigment that swirl and stretch, break snap , and grab onto the fury of expressions through the crown. Tendrils swaying lower and peering over my back and softly teasing my bosom.
Do I then follow the lingering locks? Loaded and unloaded, lifted and left empty breasts of past time beauty that will never have the lust again. Mounds of nutrient and nourishment now perused over like leftovers and cold storage. The swaying between sensual and supplementation has ceased yet the sloping has increased. Drippings of sustenance silenced and the yearning for connection screams. Etchings of years of experiences fall off the front lines and lean into a flattening scape of exiting excitement, lowering the gaze to the maze of the puddling of passions passed.
Do I pass through the ridges, over my roughened experiences of readiness? Rafting beyond the wild and untamed rivers that flowed out of the canal of my womanhood, where woman meets child and child becomes woman. The carvings in the rites of passage as the pathway was stumbled upon and often into. Paddling with fervor and full force embracing the waves and then, knocked out of the steady ship. Sinking deep into the plundering of what treasures would later surface to prove the journey is a darker blue than previously mapped. Out of the womb and wondering, now with proof of the seekers and the seers which now navigate the tides of life.
Should I lead with the lead that is in my step? Prying up the anchor of taking a stance and stabilizing with air underfoot I could focus on the pose of disposition. Repositioning the weight of wavering from flying and being pinned down my peddlers wane. Wanting to dance on the light of the angels flight but find the fight bringing the soul back to earth with the soles planted. En route, I am rooted and often rootbound, washing the soil off the arches where it still aches to curve in deeper from all the eggshells found in the gardeners path of composted dreams.
Ah, the dreamer of the dreams. The constant streaming of the “whats and what ifs.” Housed in a hard casing of in cases and protective barriers and screams in the middle of space. Pacing back and forth in the grey matter walking back and forth to the “what matters,” the equilibrium tipping the scale of reality and imaginary. The creasings, within ceasing to end the firing of thoughts full of delusion and fulfilling the illusion that the reflection of which the synapses connect recreate a connection. Direction of the waves dependent upon what is decides to replay. The brain, the sane, the same, the endless game of what is next and how to recollect what was witnessed as life.
Don’t let me forget, there is the life giver. The holder of golden slivers that are made with the dreams and stored as hope in the beating heart. Pulsing with the vibrations from the messages of purpose, proposing a rhythm to play to, sing to, dance with. Its warmth reaching through the entirety and simultaneously halting the course. Coursing with crumbles of ice cubing the cells intended to carry liquid thicker than water and bursting through barriers of self inflicted boundaries. It could be bound by the constrictions or confines of the coldness’ shiver. Yet, still it shimmers the prayers lining of reflections and silver.
And here I stand, in the reflection. The beginning and the end of what end to discover first. Which part interlaced within is the best and which is fraying at the ends as the worst? Through only the gaze of my view can I be observed. The iris interpreting what is pure and intentional or what is purely absurd. Refocusing and closing the lids of reality leads the creation of what could be seen upon the opening of the scope, my self microscope. Wipe the lense from the condensing vision of pleasing all other visions and watching as the singular is perceived as divisions. Left and right and pleading to combine the idea that the ideas are one. The view is changing, and as it is rising the veil too lifts to reveal the gaze back is mine. This is where from all time it ends and begins in self reflection.
Reality depends a great deal upon one believing what he sees—or seeing what he believes. Either way.
Richelle E. Goodrich
This is Casino, a pup that belongs to a man I met in the park today. Halfway from my work to my car this man sat at a bench. He looked up from his occupying moment and said “hello beautiful.” As I approached his direction he had at this point told me I was beautiful and pretty about 5 times. I smiled and made slight conversation with him and offered him a piece of chocolate. He told me his wife had died. My heart sank and I instantly thought of my loss. He again told me I was beautiful. I asked him the name of his pup and said to him he has his own little piece of luck. He agreed and giggled. He was playing ufc on his phone and I chatted with him about kicking ass in the game. As I thanked him for his kindness and was about to leave to continue to my vehicle, he asked me if I was an angel. I smiled and said no, but he told me again that I was beautiful. He had at this point also said several things about his life and invited me to visit, coffee, breakfast, etc. I now know where this man lives. I realized this man had a different brain than I, and it functions in a different aspect than my own. Developmentally delayed is how we’d modernize it. But somethings struck me as more like, life had happened to this man. And perhaps stunted him in a way that deferred him from fear, given him a more innocent and childlike approach and expression of his thought. Unhindered. Unfiltered. And then I realized that maybe he was an angel. Maybe he was sent to me to help me feel like I actually was seen, and actually maybe I am beautiful. And maybe my worth was seen through the eyes of this man who couldn’t help but share his luck of insight with me.
Heavy on my heart is this…
Who we are.
I think about as a parent, how often I get angry with my kids, and the tone i take, and the lack of patience or listening or showing of care to what they are showing. Yes I fail and slack. I lack the ability to give them all that I want to give and in turn get angry and behave against them.
I think about as a daughter, the many many times I feel like a burden, or i take and take, and religiously fail to give back.
I think about as a friend how I am not accessible to those that want to spend their blessed time with me because I am preoccupied with my stress, or my life, or trust reciprocates.
I think about as a lover, how I lack faith or trust or have high expectations. I’m difficult to love and put stress on relationships due to previous experiences that have proven me to be an idiot and leave me in doubt or constant questioning. Half truths and double standards.
I think about as a teacher, how I slack on preparation sometimes because I don’t have the energy to get it all together and give full attention to some lessons or self requirements I want to do for my class. How I am sometimes in my brain and less engaged with their precious minds helping them to my full capacity to reach their potential at the time given.
I think about as a community member how much I wish I could give more to the people who are around me, but find myself feeling like a self-hermitting outcast and pulling away from further communication or involvement.
And then.. in think about how I want to believe I am…
I think about much I love my children. How I would literally give my last breath to give them life. How much I support their wants and dreams and encourage them to be themselves in their fullest desire. I work hard to be there for them during all their times they need me or want me. I put time with them over working more hours and give as much as i humanly can to show them how to be a decent human being.
I think about how much I try to show gratitude to my parents. Being aware that they give so much to keep myself and my children cared for. Telling them I love them and raising their grandchildren to honor their lineage with respect and love.
I think about how as a friend I don’t judge anything they do. I am frank and honest but I always support their decisions in life and let them know they are amazing. I tell my friends what Blessings they are to me and how I am truly grateful they give me the time in their lives to help each other grow. And if someone really needs me, like I’m called upon, I’m trying my best to be there for them, or at least I hope I am.
I think about how as a lover, I love hard. I am honest, transparent and loyal to a fault. I give and give of myself to show how much I love. I don’t cheat and I don’t lie to my lover. I am willing to go be where I am wanted and extend inclusion wholeheartedly.
I think about as a teacher how I go into it with the heart to help our humanity. Molding minds. Showing them that there are people in this world who love them endlessly and want to see them grow and succeed. Giving thought and care into what I show them and how I treat them so that they too, can be a loving individual as they live.
I think about as a community member how much I enjoy knowing the people around me. I greet them and wave and hug as often as I can. I give much time to our youth and support as often as I can. I involve myself into our town and participate where I’m needed or wanted. Most of the kids know they are in a safe place here.
My point is this…
You literally never know when the last time you might see someone or speak to someone is. This is in a lot of hearts. Particularly for me, since I lost a daughter that never got the chance to live the life we all take for granted.
How we treat people. How we love people. How we act when we are hurt, sad, angry, joyful, happy, loved…
so, accept where you fall short and then push on to be the better you. Be the person in private people think you are in public. Be who you want people to believe you are. Because the reality is, I’d rather be the person that when someone last saw them or spoke to them, they knew I was being honest. They knew I was grateful. They knew I loved them. And there was no doubt that I was anyone other than who they thought I was and who I believe I should be to them.
Love hard and live honestly.
Graphed out. Exposure of pointed frames. Framed by the idea of what is translated as the same. The axis of x is different than the axis of y and why Is what I ask.
Graphed out. Exposures of the brain. Powered by the motivation of what is played as a game. The dice rolled as the movement some times the move comes too fast.
Graphed out. Saturation of emotion. Hues of intention pixelate in their space. The rise and fall of painted expectation is a selfish race.
Graphed out. Representing the vision. Giving a shutter to shudder from the incision. Pushing the speed of rejected or accepted implication.
Graphed out. Transparent with force. Presenting an expression of stifled composure. Giving the inside a chance for its external exposure.