Hi moon

Hi moon

Is it the change of the seasons

Or that my heart feels too unstable to move forward

Too shifty. Shifting. Unabashedly crying out that it would be different

That you would be

And that we can change

Like the moon,

All the time.

But constant too. 

Mawmaw

Walking through an antique mall is like spending time with my grandmother again. 

Smells that I attributed to her, warmth and dust and perfume. Old wood and dried book pages. 

Fake flowers and crystal stemware.

Walking from booth to booth, the air stifled and earthy,

I want to reach out and hold her hand. 

I can hear her laugh. I can see her face. 

I can turn and say hey Mawmaw,

What’s this really worth?

And with a turn of her heels and a twist of her head, she would respond,

I don’t know girl, let’s see what we can make them do. 

Living

We pass by

In the shadows

And as the day turns to night,

And the night again to day

Today, we say, we will be what we do.

And what will we do?

And what if, for even a breathe,

We could see ourselves as God does

Not built on our accomplishments

But in His image 

Beautiful by design

Broken by the world

Broken, beautiful, and just

Living. 

Illness

I am a live,

And for why?

For what minutes, seconds, days, of lives of trees are we here 

And if, knowing that we do not know,

Do we not just bend down.

Do we not throw our hands out and cry to the heavens and to the fields

That though we do not know, 

We are alive. A life, watching the water flow over the rocks

Watching the sun fold under the forest. 

Watching the seasons change. Feeling. 

Feeling God. Feeling everything.

Never knowing. But wanting to. 

Lost and found

Where do we find intention. And what does it mean to be intentional. To have good intentions. For me, it's no more than trying to get a few more ducks in the row, every day. Regardless of external expectation or judgment. Where I should be by now, or how far I have to go.

I try and breathe. I settle into the relativity of all things.

I thank God, no matter what.

And I check one more thing off the list.

Thank. Full.

I'm really proud of having a beautiful mother. And I tell anyone who will listen, how good my father is.

You know what I mean? That simple and old terminology.

He is good.

He's honorable, honest. A straight shooter. Talented, funny, and smooth.

But the two of them. My mother with her quick wit and infectious cackle.

And my dad. His handshake is so warm and his anecdotes roll off the tongue like a secret.

Like a secret you want to hold close to your chest.

You carry it with you.

And I carry them with me.

They don't always know it,

And what's worse-

I don't always show it.

But I am proud to be theirs.

And at Christmas,

Just,

Thankful

Mess

Sometimes when I stare out of the window, I watch how the power lines splice the sky into segments. The piercing blues and the crunchy orange shadows of November. I imagine each sample of the sky, a different place and time in my life. A different direction.

Though it may look erratic, the sky is no less beautiful, or orderly, from being sectioned in to  so many different images.

It's all just up there. The leaves and the clouds. The faint whites and giant blues. The occasional bird's nest.

I imagine cutting the pieces between the telephone wires out. Like puzzle pieces. Tossing them around, and putting the sky back together.

Perhaps different than we found it, but still perfect, in its differences.

I hope, very much, that my life is like these splices of the sky.

Out of order, and possibly a mess.

But very, very beautiful.