she wasn’t there

yet, but

that she could even be on this

journey was a privilege

in and of itself, she wished

she could pull that

perspective out of her pocket

please for the times she just wanted

to sleep | in the forest | in the hellish dark

 

she knew where she wanted to go

now from a strong and quiet

lake in her heart it wasn’t

screaming

at her anymore because she

had cupped her ear to it, allowed it to exist in the

openness she let herself climb her own

steep

soul. it gave her stillness. she hoped for moonlight.

In Favor of Bravery

Bravery felt like…

agony, for the longest time.

like a jostling of waves in a water-balloon-of-a-heart,

holding a shipwreck, exploding, contained only by the pale pink latex of its walls.

It felt like spiraling into a bad dream you choose,

on a pillow case overstuffed with doubt,

and waking up to find like a cat,

it was sitting there — on your face — every morning,

for a year.

It felt like running to the window with stubborn persistence,

to find the sun –

perpetually dressed, in a black cloak.

“It was chic,” he said. “It was magic,”

he laughed.

It felt like opening the door to find that you’re not much starter than he,

you left the house in a scratchy thick sweater,

made of butter,

in July.

It honestly felt like…

everyone in the “world” was doing the “normal” thing,

except you.

I(t) felt like, giving up, like coming up short.

It was an argument. A fight.

It felt like this, in fact — until it didn’t.

When I realized “normal” was black and white,

and I wanted to go chase the rainbow.

And then. Ha. And then…

it felt like the breaking of dawn.

Like the fullest breath I’ve ever dared to take, again and again.

Like walking to the ocean. Like taking a hike.

And then… I felt like doing it again.

bag of broken glass

heart, body, mind, soul

become daylight stars, seaglass in the sea of the sky

whirligig constellations shown through by the sun, stained glass reflections

light rose petaled paths for the wayward wonderer, fallen soldier, weary worker

spring colored perfumes of pressed flowers, blue skies, translucent melodies, floating dandielion messengers of feathered friendships. weathered friendships.

bag of broken glass.

fish bowl passenger

blown glass figurine, translucent, pristine

chin perched on elbow perched on knee, subway car seat

blown glass figurine, filled with waves like saltwater tears

she lets the waves crash up inside of her, jolting train threatening to shatter her

she holds her ground, however fast it moves beneath her

saltwater tears threatening their way up out of her, passing eyelid, passing eyeball, big salty gumdrops tumbling, iron-fisted

her heart the only bouey out to sea

glass like ice, heart like sun

she melts and the whole ocean breaks open like yolk that’s lost its captor, like sunlight over mountains, like grace like rain

flooding waters cleanse heart mind and soul

currents carry her to snow capped mountains and hot spring wells

she is bird, she is fish, she is free

diary

Jan 8, 2014 (edited)

Nothing in life is a true failure, mistake, or disappointment.

Most are just moments unfolding into moments, unfolding into moments – a kaleidoscope of sorts – a beautiful pattern that fascinates, mystifies, and bewilders the soul. In the thick of it, it doesn’t make sense and you don’t understand it, but when you look back, you will see its merits.