10302012

i write

because

. . .

. .

.

words

are the pillars

of this temple

10272012

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.

10212012

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

open

stark

empty page

awaiting the touch

of paintbrush

dipped

in violet

in cobalt

in crimson

in black

smeared

one stroke

and another

one dab

and another

expression

saturated

not with beauty

not with artistry

but

with impulse

and whim

and authenticity

10172012

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.