The place where I started can be found among chewed pencil stubs marking the moment between moments marked by pencil scribbles noting the time when boring entered my lexicon. I first said boring the time when I was born, apologetically to my mother as she screamed. I have since apologized to my mother for all the times when I made her cry. Secular folks are not the only ones to cry, begging for a sign that reads, Smile, Sinner. There are signs smiling all across this Land around which we circle seeking our home. Sometimes going around in circles I never find the place where I started.
loneliness speaks to loneliness unable to move open the curtains that hands so carefully closed the night before to remove the light from outside that spoke of a quality of abundance found in glass jars holding small treasures
The girls hold a breakfast picnic of chocolate chip muffins and orange juice on the sidewalk, recently covered with chalk rainbows, stars, suns, flowers and creatures which mirror the peace of a summer's Saturday morning.
The Golden Rule presents itself first followed by all those things, yes, things, that create human division between sects and castes and classes and circles. Discourses on inequality and the tricks played by those who attempt to make us believe in the banality of wealth divert those already ignorant of Divine ways. Everyone searches for their hidden motives of sacrifice preparing for a moving day to Easy Street which never arrives on individual demand. Legends fall into trouble once again barely able to keep us awake through the drip of words leaking from books read in one sitting of possibility madness. Peaceful creation waits for the hubbub to waste away into convention and tradition before appearing and glowing like the sliver of the month's new moon.
I said, "I spent the day upstairs practicing the art of pure escapism from life's leftovers." She said, "A noble thing to do when many spend so much time making their selves the center of the universe." I asked, "Do you think it is because stories of wonder never received encouragement in each family of origin?" She answered, "Or, maybe there was no tree of life living in the middle of abandoned gardens behind their houses." I said, "As they say, Life requires mercy not sacrifice, in order for the self and others to thrive." She added, "Nothing like encouraging a bit of anthropological thinking to de-center us from ourselves."
This life is our first draft and only one. How many great evenings will be included with shouts of joy at completion of its most difficult impromptu challenges?
Between hope and sorrow found in spirituals played in minor keys dwells a note releasing the captives into a sweet place of freedom. The doe keeps her head down eating the sweet and desired delicacies from neighborhood flower beds while the owners sleep the sleep of the dead. A return to correct ways of living postponed by a prodigal display of fragile members demanding an accounting of the lost ages lives only in the dreams of beggars.
most chanting stops when bombs fall on the roof incarnatio continua each fall the prairie medley of goldenrod and purple aster dazzles me incarnatio continua it is impossible not to notice the almost imperceptible debasement of falling mortals incarnatio continua gusts of wind carry falling leaves higher than treetops incarnatio continua how many times has the youngest daughter fallen to rise with bleeding knees incarnatio continua
take a breath and write a list where nobody is at risk be thankful for not all are ready for change wait until disappointment sheds itself of unused furniture create dissonance so comfort gives way to safety
It is possible to be ordinary and alive. Indeed, that is my wish. "May you be ordinary. And alive."