I don’t often think of the sand unless I’m at the beach And I dig my feet and toes into the fine warm grains. If I look close enough, each grain is not uniform. There are clear shiny pieces of tiny rocks, Some darker than others, that make up the whole. The tide goes in and out Crashing a million times onto the shore. The sand can mold and make a temporary shape Before the waves bear down And claim it back into the earth Back into the sea. The sand, made of earth, can handle the force And alchemize the pressure Over and over again To make smoother, finer grains of rock That I can scoop and grasp in my hand Before I let it slip through my fingers. My feet leave their imprint On the damp cool sand. Each individual toe down to the heel. I see a bird’s talons imprinted Beside some dog paw prints of varying shapes and sizes Evidence of who also enjoyed this spot of earth. The sun heats and beats onto the sand. It is bleach white from the constant rays. But if I look closely, I see the individually expressed grains That together make up the whole. The sand spreads out to the horizon As it bumps up against the shore Jutting up to sand dunes and tall grasses. Sea shrubbery and florals come into view. I dip my toes into the cool waters And run back to my spot in the sand. I relax while the wet clumps become dry And loose once again. It’s a never-ending dance.
THIS
This is what you’ve been waiting for. All that striving and attaining And you almost missed it. Head buried in books Or neck hung low to read the hand-held screen. THIS Not the agenda or self-imposed schedule Not the to-do's and have to’s Or social media frenzy. THIS MOMENT All that planning for a future not yet unfolded Lost in stories real or imagined Fantasies of what you should have or would have done. And you almost missed it. This moment is fleeting. This moment is precious. You cannot buy back, will it, or plan for it ever again. This moment is all you’ve got. Do not lose sight of THIS. Even if you have to be reminded Again and again, This is all that truly matters. Though it will be gone in a moment, It is yours to hold and embody. This is what you’ve been waiting for. This moment. This is your one precious life.
FUN
Fun is whimsical. Fun is carefree. Fun is joy and glee. I used to think fun was just a happy circumstance. I didn’t know I had to Actively seek it out. Excavating through the trudgery of adulthood, I discovered that life is not Just what I do. It’s how I want to be. Like a flame on a candle. Once the wick is lit, The fuming spark of Oxygen that created the flame. It ignites. The light of joy. The heat of glee. To feel carefree, Just being me.
GLASS
The clear, cool barrier Protects me from the outside world. It provides shelter with a view. The glass is hard on the knuckles. But like all things, It has a limit to what it can hold. The barrier can be broken With enough external force. The window will not crack on its own. Even a glass pan can withstand Hundreds of degrees of heat. Only when it contacts the opposite -- The abrupt and sudden cold -- will it shatter. Glass is an insulator. It holds heat and cold. It cannot exist in both extremes simultaneously. Yet, each day I find myself In a pendulum swing between the two. But I have not cracked. Through mindfulness and peaceful presence, I am aware of the extremes before I’m swept away. I find my footing and breathe. I am not as fragile as I used to be. I am not trapped by the glass. It is a tool at my disposal. I reflect on the lessons And remember I can open the window. I can open the door and let the heat escape Before it boils over. The window may be a barrier, But the view is all mine.
A Story
A single candle illuminates the window. The darkened pane dazzles in the light. What is behind the darkness? Ever mysterious and profound. I imagine what lies out of sight. Whose lives dream and weep Behind the darkened window? The truth does not matter. I am inspired for having dreamed a little. The imagined lives outside myself have lit an internal spark. An inspiration of what it means To live. And I reflect on my own full life.
Bloom into JOY
The succulent fruit hangs from the peach tree just waiting to be plucked. With just a small amount of force the branch gives way its bounty. A tight snag Then a snap with release. The shape is like a little sun A glowing orb cupped in my hand. The orchard is full of these golden jewels. A bounty of sweet joy. A little green leaf left its mark on the flesh with a little shade from the rays. The rays gave it nourishment And now I jubilantly hold It close to me. I smell its fuzzy soft skin and take a bite. Oh, succulent ripe peach! Its juices no longer contained and they release out with the scent of summer and promise. And the creative potential to alchemize into something more than a mere glowing orb on a tree just waiting for the right passerby to bring its gifts into fruition. What seemed impossible to the little blossom when the sun whispered, “You are more than what you seem. You just wait and have faith.” And I’m at awe to see It bloomed into joy.
Outside the Door
I cannot see what lies Outside the door When I am safe behind it. I hear voices Loud and bold. Are they broad and jubilant? Are they escalating to laughter or to an argument? A voice raises an octave. The speed of speech quickens. I am nervous and unsure. Do I look and see who is Outside the door? I work in a courthouse. It’s filled with lawyers, defendants and civilians. It’s a rotating door of comings and goings. The clicking of high heels Echo down the hall Until they disappear Around the corner. The walls in my office Are not as thick as One would think. Concrete is not a great insulator Against the reverberant noise. When all is quiet, I hear the tick-tock of the clock High up on the wall. It looks down A bird’s eye view. In the beginning, I had the best office with two huge windows overlooking College Hill. Always the sound of cars, of construction, of landscapers, Even voices of those below Peppered my days. Now I’ve been moved to a more active part of the courthouse. With a small window Overlooking the quad. It is grey no matter the season. The rays of sun Hardly get to seep down Into the square space. Noise permeates outside my door. It is a good thing. Quiet days tend to extend into A very long work day And I am counting the hours Until I can get outside. I crave solitude. At times, I crave The silence. The world is not A quiet place.
Seeds
The doorway opens. Heartbeat to heartbeat Seeds clutched in my hand Waiting to be sowed Not knowing what lies ahead. Seeds are like ideas and words. Some have a way of Flowing into the heart and mind. Germinating into core beliefs, A shared memory or story. Where it originated Sometimes a mystery. Seeds can root into an entire story whose words and thoughts can empower and create growth. Some stories have to be Pruned back to allow in more light And space for new growth to take shape, To embody and take root. It all starts with a little seed. A seed in my heart that germinates into thought, Speech and the written word. Those fruits can then be passed From me to you. An offering from the heart.
The Spring Crocus
The wild darling on the cusp of spring The crocus has found its way to the surface Having traveled over and over In the same track as its predecessors. The cold earth has found a softness, An opening. And the lush green breathes into me. The fragileness of new life. The sun breathes out energy. The seedlings desperately alchemize And rapidly transforms. Their ripe green petals mimicking grass Kiss and pepper the earth. I marvel at the emerald blades That try to camouflage into the lawn. They are hardy and make the perennial trip. They wake me from my winter slumber And remind me, even in the bitter harshness of cold and darkness, This too shall pass. And my heart leaps to join the beauty, To wear green and lie in the grass Warm to the touch from the golden sun. I touch the delicate petals And thank them for this yearly gentle reminder. A smile forms on my face. The mourning doves have returned this year. I wonder if the young couple will find a more hardier, sturdier nesting place. Nature is the greatest teacher.
The Imagination
The Imagination knows no limits. Sometimes it has a mind of its own. It takes me to unseen places and brings to life fantasies that have never seen the light of day. The Imagination is soft and wild. It comes from a place deep inside and longs to be expressed. It is unconcerned about money, chores, Earning a living or maintaining a home. It is desire even unknown to me Until it leaps out onto the page. My hands moving swiftly Making marks on the pristine paper. It is in my child’s mind As she creates stories, conflict, and magic Recreating a story or a movie to her understanding. The Imagination is not looking to adhere to standards of what is good or acceptable. There is no grade-point average to attain. The Imagination thrives on space to express and room to grow. To explore its edges unending and terrain always an adventure awaiting to be expressed.
Healing Insights 