I live my life through the words I write
Back home
to reality
of the daily routine
mundane in comparison
to protected time in a bubble, for sport.
Back to the dishes piled high in the sink,
dust settled on the furniture,
the pen and paper on the kitchen counter
picked up every now and then
to note another to-do
not to be forgotten.
Back to the commitment
of, every day,
working to better myself,
carving away more marble from the sculpture
of the life I want to live,
bringing it into the light.
I don’t need to ask for permission
to try something new,
to experiment,
to try surfing a new wave
despite never stepping on a surfboard.
What am I here for in this life
if not to change, to flow,
to find myself over and over again
as she evolves from minute to minute.
I will follow her everywhere.
What worked for me then
was what I needed then.
What I need now
may look wildly different
and that’s OK.
My needs evolve with me
as I do.
Flowers cannot bloom all at the same time.
Even on the same plant
with multiple buds,
some bloom while others shrivel.
Each grows through its own ebbs and flows,
ever changing.
To draw inferences on a flower’s capabilities
based on one moment of observation
creates extreme expectations and judgements.
To observe over days, weeks, seasons,
creates a grounded reality, an understanding.
One method quick and easy,
the other long and patient.
We can find the beautiful magic to witness
in patience
if we choose.
Leaves remaining from last year,
maybe longer,
collect and accumulate in a pile
littering the ground with browns and dull greys.
How many layers are there?
All I see are the new ones on top,
hiding the older ones underneath
likely in varying stages of decomposition.
There they lie.
Rustling ever so slightly in the breeze
are the light, new ones,
settling motionless, heavy with age and water
are the the old ones,
the foundation.
Up through the middle though
lives a tree
growing new bright and green leaves
and blossoms of dark fuschia and cotton white.
So odd it seems
how life can flourish from the base
of death, of decay,
but my eyes do not deceive me.
Perhaps, the leaves offer comfort.
Perhaps, the leaves provide warmth.
Perhaps, the leaves supply nourishment.
But perhaps, the leaves are a hindrance,
keeping the tree in the past,
preventing growth.
Despite the offered comfort,
go the leaves must.
I gathered mine,
will keep gathering as new ones fall,
growing through and beyond
the past.
Dawning Words 