Being easily pushed or pulled by the demands or expectations of others is much like a branch too easily swayed by the constantly shifting wind; it breaks. Snaps off from its source and dies. Be planted, rooted firmly, in love. Centered in His presence. Be peace and you will have peace.
When the solution is simple, God is answering.
If you could hold it in your hand
Like dust tied down in space
And time, paused for the occasion
The heart of your whole life,
The culmination of what truly mattered in the end
In the right now
If you could, would you?
Stop striving, leaning into the noise, pressing into the rush in that non-thinking way
And hold dearly whatever it is you hold dear?
Can you pinpoint it if you try?
And in the finding, could you revel in it deeply enough to feel alive?
We don’t, that’s my conclusion
Open-ended yet certain
I see a consortium of forests
With no trees
A pavilion of hearts
With no beat
An ocean of eyes
That can’t see
And nobody anywhere is dancing
I want to hold you in my hand
((Click on these words to find it.))
A holy grail, of sorts. Beauty and meaningfulness beyond words. If you know me, you’ll understand why. If you don’t, it’ll have its own reasons for you.
Be blessed, dear friends. I think of you.
My dad: my homeostasis. Gratitude.
Today I’m thirty years old. Yesterday, I wasn’t. I’ve taken it upon myself to organize a celebration in the form of pajamas all day. Holla! 🙂
The onset of middle age isn’t anything I expected. The deep pontifications of growth, time, and change haven’t hit me like I thought they would. I woke up in the same foggy-brained body in which I fell asleep and my coffee tasted no more bittersweet than usual.
So what makes these birthdays– the ones with a zero in them– such a big deal?
I’ve felt thirty since I was twelve. Maybe that’s why it feels so uneventful to turn thirty; maybe not. I’m an infant by comparison to almost all of the people I care about and it’s always been that way. My entire life I’ve stood on the outside of something greater than myself, stretching to see over some metaphorical fence to find a place I belong, a crowd that makes sense, some collective group of like-minded people who might provide my brain a reprieve from the monotonies of living. It’s why I started this blog, even.
And over the course of the past year since it began, I’ve certainly found my niche. Here in this space, I have an entire world of compassionate and intelligent people at my fingertips. I found a brother (Sprinklin Thoughts) and a few powerful people who I’ve come to consider friends (Wayward Spirit, Travis, Alarna Rose Gray, Jennifer Stuart, Sean Bidd, The Loon, Lucas A. Draeger, and many wonderful others). Not only have I found a place to build my bonfires, I’ve discovered company in which to stay warm and inspired beside them. The kind of kin that only the internet and a burning desire to be part of something could provide.
Thanks, WordPress. Happy birthday to me. 🙂
So while I’m playing in my flowerbeds and making dinner in pajamas, maybe someone can shed some light for me. What’s with all the fuss about “getting old”? Am I the only one who likes it?
It’s not what you look at that matters; it’s what you see. –Henry David Thoreau
I fully knew the probable outcome going into my situation. I forged ahead anyway.
I’m one of those people. I have to experience the truth for myself. If it isn’t firsthand knowledge it doesn’t feel like truth. It feels like secondary opinion.
Head knowledge is different than heart knowledge, and people like me will choose a broken-hearted wisdom over ignorant bliss every time. Without exception.
I’ve worked my way through the mine fields, planting a plant or two and singing my songs when I could. I came into things with a “can-do” attitude… I will leave humbled.
Willingness and ability are only divided by the variable of opportunity, of circumstance. I’ve at least learned that.
I wouldn’t do it again for any amount of money, or any promise of hope. Promises get broken. Money spends. There isn’t much worth gambling on or hoping for in this world anymore. I never really was the betting kind anyway. I simply took chances, and I took them not to succeed but to learn.
Succeeding in learning isn’t fun. For what it’s worth.
I’ve built a monument to tragedy in memory of innocence. I’m not sure which hurts worse: the memory or the tragedy.
Time measures our lives in units of sorrow, in incremental fractions of longing. In the moment, we only see what we can’t wait to have. Afterwards, we only see what we can’t get back. The “now” is a mistress of misery in this unseeing way, and the world –so madly– keeps spinning.