i write
. . .
. .
are the pillars
of this temple



another mindful serendipity...

the shine of polish
on a wood floor.

the ring of footsteps
from afar.

a hint of amber.
a breath of oud.

tender awakening
in tortuous core.



sunday morning. the air outside is soft and beautiful. the air inside is cool and delicious to breathe. my kitchen table is bare. only my journal. my pen. my hands. only paper. and ink. and sinew. and bone.

a dog delivers one solitary bark in the distance. i perk my ears for more. but there is only the dead silence, cut by the sound of the pendulum swinging compulsively inside the clock’s nave.

as i write, i observe my fingers. delicate. thin. but filled with purpose.

my husband comes into the kitchen to make his morning coffee, slicing through my reverie. he bends down to kiss me, sees that i’m writing in my journal, whispers, ‘oh,’ and glides out of the kitchen like a ghost.

my eyes fill with tears. are they tears of connection? or tears of loss? one tear falls on my right index finger, rolls over my flesh, and onto the page. the violet ink blurs. i try to flick the tear off the paper, but the ink smears like watercolors.

suddenly. my journal is a canvas.

i set down my pen. walk to my office. reach for my watercolors. and walk back toward the beatitude that is creative expression.

i am not an artist
but some days
i love to paint

empty page

awaiting the touch
of paintbrush


in violet
in cobalt
in crimson
in black


one stroke
and another
one dab
and another



not with beauty
not with artistry


with impulse
and whim
and authenticity



certain spectacles we witness
leave their mark on us.

certain events become
of subjective importance.

but, what do i do with the stories
you tell me?
how do i hold the weight
of your pain?

i will sit here forever
and be
the silent confidante
the speechless keeper
of your secrets
and mine.



she said,
a few weeks back,
three weeks to be precise,
i caught my best friend looking away,
losing eye contact... and yawning.

she said,
i felt abandoned.
i thought to myself,
if i can't talk to my best friend and
have her listen to me, who do i talk to? 

she said,
i felt angry, and hurt, and sad.

she said,
i don't want a friend.
and i don’t want a nodder.
do you know what i’m talking about?

she said,
i need someone to tell me,
how angry are you?
how happy? how sad?
show me!

she said,
i need someone to tell me,
what are you going to do about it?
show me. right now!

she said,
i need someone to tell me,
really? really?
you want to scream?
well then scream!

that's what i need,
she said.
can you oblige?


3 a.m.
i drift.

it is dark.
though not yet as dark
as it will be.

they say the darkest hour
is the one
just before the first light.

my eyes adjust.

i watch you sleep, my dream,
following the lines of your back
with eager eyes.

you awaken, like
you always do when
you know i’m watching you.

these are awakenings that surpass
the mere opening of eyes.

i want to speak, but…
the words cling to the roof
of my mouth.

i am filled with arrows, my dream,
questioning, which of us will quiet
the heaving flesh of this storm?