Sunday, November 1, 2009

red deserts. red lights.

I've got a lot of things going through my mind and I feel that the time has been building up by days, by nights, by moments, and by connections made right that it's time for me to write about the things I've been thinking.

It's been a good blend of living as of late. True, there were times when a voice caught me and said, "You've got a lot of other things that you have to do," but I didn't let that stop me from enjoying my day, slowing down my pace, and being around people for three days straight in a row. Every night was filled with positive energy, and last night especially, I had thoughts popping up about truth and loyalty, then I remembered that all of the philosophy is in the service of a cause. So I breathed gratefully for a second, smiled inside, and continued to listen to the conversation around me, in the service of Life.

The lesson I've been relearning recently is that my stress can be debilitating and I'm the very first one to appreciate an hour in bed, air cooled by the night and filled with light of a new day, the calls and songs of one hundred birds hanging out in the trees, narrating my dreams until I decide I'm ready to transition into the next phase.

I'm remembering again that a good life is constituted by beautiful transitions.

Let me pray for grace.

And I don't know what to do about the 'problem of energy.' Again, two strangers in two days mentioned a glow of openness and vitality, and more people than that have tried to exploit me. But I got insight by being courageous. Life gives us gifts that we only need to see in order to take, like a line from an angel that went something like this, "Sometimes the things we try to fix are the very things that make us _______." significant. impactful. effective. pragmatic in consequence. inspiring. motivating.
feel like we should keep breathing.
happy. unique. authentic.

Sometimes the things we try to fix are the very things that make us art.

I'm a work in progress, always moving through transitions, every inhale is the insertion of a new page. I can't change the past, I don't know the end, but the story, that I intend to write beautifully.

This may sound strange, but there was a scene last night:

Red dirt, hotness, enemies, and a whole lot of hopelessness about how we were going to survive. Babies were dying from thirst, and some cold-hearts were so out of touch they were more concerned about putting their contacts in. They stopped our progress of trying merely to survive to put in lenses that still would not be enough for them to see the hardships around, the will to life manifested in death swinging in the sky from the claws of birds of prey, making their kill and waiting for the mothers to also die.

I, too, like someone else who has been reduced to silence multiple times, found my heart align with the animals. The cold-bloods and ignorant narcissists denied life, but with hopeful tears streaming I cried when the mothers and babies were found only to be collecting strength to battle the heat, forage for food, and survive against every pronouncement of finality. It was my head that gave them shade, my cool lips that kept them wet, my eyes that recognized the truth of the hardest night for the one's swinging in the sky, my patience that did not let even the blinded die, and my energy that afforded a morning of writing the realizations that come out of song and strangers. and dreams, stranger still.

I'm a work in progress.

Sometimes I cross out words I've written on lines, sometimes I let it all come out and it flows right. I'm working with a material that's more valuable than gold and whatever I sculpt, it's going to shine.

I've just got to adjust more for the light.


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