The Moment

The Moment

There’s a moment we all share. It’s eternal like a first step or last breath. It stays on the tip of our tongue with a shudder. And although we walk around the park smiling at the people and sunshine happily; just to the rear left of our brain we sense the moment hiding in the woods. 

It’s ever present. Like a shunt in our brain it’s there. Never growing or shrinking, not shining or dull, it’s just there as a reminder that the end of our tongue and tip of our fingers are placed to late. 

Taking back one moment in the infinite number of moments in our life seems futile. That one time you wish it was a dream instead of wishing a dream come to life. Is it really the moment we share?

Noise has defined my life. Sometimes the memories have voices forcing me to blurt out an utterance to make them go away. Sometimes their subtle, silent reflections of that moment I couldn’t take back. The walls only last in the moment and disappear in my open mind. 

I’ve collected these moments over years. The younger ones either don’t have voices, or hide behind a black sphere of what I assume is protection from the reality of trauma. Others are pictures decorating the space I live. At this point I live with them like the spider web in the corner I ignore for months until I deep clean, but the web returns over time capturing new memories of forgotten moments. 

The memories in the sphere of darkness are interesting. They don’t speak, nor do they have form. Just a feint feeling of a larger trauma I know is there, but fail to conjure words or pictures for. It feels as though it’s on the tip of consciousness and  on the other side is solution. It seems a forbidden space. 

At times it feels as though my world would be forever altered if I made it to the realization. I ask myself how this space could be worse than the memories I can’t take back from the tip of my fingers or utterances; then it occurs that maybe it’s the source of the moments and utterances I can’t take back. 

The familiar mantra of, “your grown now, you gotta just move on!” echoes eventually making the whole process seem futile. Am I hiding from myself or something looming larger. I still don’t know. 

I sometimes wonder if these moments get resolved in the last breath before death. Some moment of personal accounting where moments are resolved and my spirit rides free of moments. Maybe life is all about moments and striving for a balance. 

I’m sort of afraid of the moment those memories on the top of my brain get revealed. And what will I be without those memories I can’t take back or words that will echo in time. Will I find silence or is this part of being human. Even writing this is talking in my head. 

Higher Calling

Higher calling

Most folks think of religion when they hear the phrase “Higher Calling”! The phrase elicits some evangelical connotations for spiritual understanding from atop Maslow’s Hierarchy. Is it really spiritual, or is it personal, or both?

Everyone has a story. That story is a journey. We call this life, for want of a better term. At the core of the color of this journey are people. Family, friends, coworkers and acquaintances. Each of them with their own “story” intertwined with our own. So is it “our story”, or a collection of perceptions creating a landscape for our journey. 

As we move through the same spaces different worlds are created. We create these stories for celebration or dread, sympathy or empathy, identity or liberation. The latter being a defining moment. 

The danger is as we travel and “collect” experiences we run the risk of our path turning to concrete, leaving the fertile nature of life to stone, hence “being stuck”. 

Just walking a concrete trail littered with stone statues wearing the expressions of past triumphs and tragedies. 

Our story is more than a collection of static memories, and their purpose is not to stare back at us as markers towards an identity of power, or subjectivity. Here we run the risk of depression or narcissism, depending on the creator; you. 

What restores the path to light is consideration, communication, and understanding. Words bring the statues to life and crumble the concrete beneath our feet for the chance of one stalk of true understanding to rise towards the light. 

Facing adversity with grace is not just a Christian mantra, it’s more than a concept, it’s a “higher calling” to understanding that every story makes the journey complete. The ending can’t be found with part of the story. The journey to truth is incomplete, and therefore understanding becomes a false identity. 

The magic of the “story” is words can bring those concrete statues back to life. Words will bring color back to your path and create a pond for reflecting truth. 

As you stare into the glassy surface over time you see the trees behind you, the bank you stand on, and the nature of what’s behind you in a different light. 

As sound returns to this picturesque scene you begin to understand you were never alone. All of this beauty was around you waiting to be noticed. Now the statues you created come to life and you see that you didn’t struggle alone, you struggled separately. Unable to see that tragedy and triumph are moments, your life is not. 

A “Higher Calling” is a personal journey where others are understood and respected. Our story is only ever part of our journey. Along the path we must get to the reflective pool of understanding and see the world around us in other lights. Every step we take we must acknowledge the good and the bad, understand the good in the bad, and appreciate the bad in the good with equal reverence. 

Through our “higher calling” we can see humanity in everyone around us and understand that what we say and do, or chose not to say and do effects everyone along our path. Words are the key to the color of our path, as long as they’re shared, kept within and not shared they lose their color and crumble to dust.

So maybe our “Higher Calling” is outside the realm of us. Maybe we’ve forgotten that positive and negative are the origin of good and bad; and growing out of our realm opens up an horizon of possibilities to truly understand the world isn’t singular.   

Pandemic Positives

There have been numerous positive ideas to be revealed through this “Pandemic”. One glaring thought is divisive, but obvious, there’s a lot of drama wrapped up in the word “Pandemic” when it comes to Covid. Yeah, it’s wide spread, and yes many folks have died; but by and large folks with underlying conditions know and unknown are the victims. Healthy folks seem to move on as if it was an additional flu season. 
That last statement brings to light a great find in health. Vaccines, masks, or quarantines can’t really protect you from catching or treating covid like being healthy can. Your bodies immune system is the best defense against this virus. We are built to withstand these conditions, it’s in our biology. We’ve known this, but this virus has  highlighted the fact that a healthy person can come into contact with an infected person and their body will protect them.  
Being healthy will help someone deal with the symptoms if they are not a symptomatic   They will be affected, but not hospitalized, or when hospitalized they will be released sooner. Many folks have become aware of the value of being healthy, and more importantly that health doesn’t mean bodybuilders or bikini models. It simply means you can live a healthy life by balancing what you eat and do in your daily life. This generation growing up will certainly value health and will have longer lives  being active because of it. 
I’m going to steer clear of the government conspiracies except to say that; we are more aware of the medicine we take, it’s uses, and misuses. We were asked to take an experimental vaccine for a genetically altered flu before it was approved by our regulatory agency. Even worse, the regulatory agencies and politicians struggled to find political ways to coerce citizens to take a vaccine that was, and is experimental. There’s nothing wrong with not taking an experimental vaccine for an experimental flu. The distrust associated with this situation has lead many folks to question pharmaceutical science and the government. 
Which brings me to doctors. You can look anywhere on line and find credible doctors citing peer reviewed evidence for and against this whole pandemic issue. This reinforced a notion I’ve had for years. Searching for a doctor is no different than choosing a teacher or finding a mechanic. They’re all the “luck of the draw” if you don’t do your homework. Our older folks though/think differently about doctors. They followed doctors’ advice because what he or she said was law. Today we understand doctors are people to and need to be vetted, and questioned when discussing our personal health. 
As to our mental health, I think folks paying attention value relationships more. Having seen folks pass in the span of a day makes some folks evaluate the relationships they have and how authentic they are. This seems to create more dialog between folks that facilitates greater understandings. Our differences are our strength. We create a bigger world when we understand each other by considering others point of view. 
There are obvious divisions between us when it comes to this pandemic. There are political differences based on authority and freedom. There are scientific differences associated with trust. There are medical differences dealing with beliefs about treatment. By and large though, most of us get along everyday and endure the political and mental stresses associated with the so called “pandemic”.
Whether it’s closer families, engaging communities, or cultural harmony, most folks are appreciating life and the folks around them more authentically. We’re valuing relationships and their effects good and bad on our lives. Remembering that “our differences are our strength” creates a tolerance and respect that goes beyond the public spectrum and into our homes and hearts. 

It’s pulling into that gas station at 03.00am and inhaling that first breath of pine soaked air floating in the dim glow of that lone soda lamp flickering in the oil slicked puddle of rainwater. 
The hum of nature responding to the dull rhythm of the convenience store brings memories flashing with the intermittent fluorescent lamp behind the sweat soaked glass. 
I stand alone in the night shaking off the weight of miles nodding between mile markers. Home is so much more than buildings. Home is attached to your soul like the kudzu wrapped around the pine trees blanketing the forest. 
The bell jingles as I open the door to a blast of 60 degree air that leaves my mind back at the warmth of pumping gas in the memories of the night. I nod to the clerk drinking coffee and staring at the phone and glancing up at me occasionally with a weary smile. 
Back out in the warmth of the night I pour out part of the Coke to make room for my peanuts. It’s become a tribute of sorts to being back where I planted roots. As I start the truck the sound of mufflers booms through the din of memories and cicadas. Slowly I pull out on to a barbed wire lined back road simultaneously rolling down my windows drowning in yesterday hoping for tomorrow. 
I plan my trip to arrive in the early morning between dawn and sunrise. Quietly I sit outside the driveway looking at the house and the woods framed by the swamp with the bay in the background. The salt in the air is stronger than the truck fumes now and laughter rumbles in my memories as I notice the yellow glow lighting the worn out welcome mat that at one time was conditional, but times are good now. 
My que is the progression of lights going on. First the bedroom, then the bathroom, and finally the kitchen where I know the coffee pot is beginning to gurgle and the vacuum seal on the refrigerator if broken with a rubber snap. 
Slowly I turn into the driveway to be awaken to the sound of gravel on rubber. I can see my pops turn towards the driveway in the herb lined kitchen window. I think I see the faint smile of recognition as I wonder what memories take him through his day. I turn off the truck and grab my bag opening my door as he opens the front door in some sort of duel. 
Walking towards the door everything is mute till the hug brings back the feelings without memories that remind me why I left, and why I come back. I’m reminded that the kudzu covers up the forest and kills the weeds for a purpose and I’m suddenly grateful to be home. 

The listener

 Voices in my head mask the listener who sits silently amused. 

As she took a deep breath, I realized it was mine as my heart stopped

All I could see was the future as she whisked by me in a haze

Blind a breathless I felt numb, until her touch ignited my soul to rise 

I’m speechless for the first time, realizing I’ve never been more honest

This was the rest of my life, and I couldn’t see nothing but you

I love this space we share, no words, no touch, just our souls dancing in a gaze

And then the world rushes in reminding us what’s worth protecting, and what to ignore

Us

Gift of Silence

The gift is old,
No longer possible
Nor shines like gold

There were moments,
Passed or played,
Not well spent

For gifts are shared
Not held
Or compared

Some you can open,
Others create,
Others spoken

It’s not the words praised
Or or objects held
For spirits raised

It’s the thought
That feels
Emotions caught

The gift of silence,
We’re understood
In just a glance

Seasons of the Heart

I used to feel more than the wind
I could hear the echo of memories
Dancing through my life
Sometimes glory, other times strife

My scorched soul lies in wait
As the summer sun mercilessly shines
Down on flesh and sand equally
Burning memories in kind

An autumn breeze becomes a scent
More than a smell, it’s a place and time
Traveling in a retrospective glance
With no reason or rhyme

Then the cold winter wind blows
touching chilling moments of pain
Freezing scenes of hope
As memories and fears wane

Then springs hope with the sounds
Of yesterday and tomorrow
The youth of thought
And the melting of sorrow

These are the seasons of my heart
Colorful and tragic in the same
Displayed for all to see
Or feel as I became

Rhythm of the Storm

Thunder on a tin roof cancels out the patter of thick raindrops beating a content rhythm. The staccato roll of memories fill my heart with a thud. Memories of you reverberate with us.

Lightening strikes as a glimpse into yesterday through a half empty bourbon bottle. Smoke drifts lazily towards a creaking ceiling fan wobbling to it own rhythm. Tomorrow doesn’t exist and now fades with each flash of lightening, leaving darkness in its wake.

Lost, me and the world, just staring into the distance entranced in times long faded into the myst. Here becomes there and now becomes then as I drift to the rhythm of memories drumming to the beat of the storm.

Soon the rain stops and the winds carry us away to distant horizons. Drops of us break free and fall to the earth silently. We are no longer a force. The thunder rumbles in distant memories as the lightening exposes the horizon for glimpses of maybe.

Then silence screams and the bourbon swishes within the bottle bringing sleep, rest for the lonely. I drift in and out of consciousness like I did love. Then I realize I’ve nothing left to fear but dreams.

Clouded Mirror

I’ve gazed into the stream
Watched my reflection
Drift away unseen

I’ve stood in the winds of time
And watched the world pass by
Making no sense or rhyme

Ive stood in the rain
Flooded with emotion
Void of pain

I’ve see the darkness within
Through the cracks of lightening
Flashing across a soul too thin

I’ve felt the thunder in my bones
Bring back memories
Thrown like sticks or stones

I’ve become the storm to love
Riding swollen streams
Under dark skies above

Life is reciprocal in tone
Darkness for light, evil sees good
And yet I walk alone

Where is my reflection
What reveals me,
Suffers my intention

So I assimilate the sublime
Like a cloudy day
Brings memories of sunshine

To reflect is giving myself away
revealing so little
Of who I truly seek one day

Until then I’ll ride the storms
And show you who you are
Taking different paths and forms