as dark as it gets

It’s been more than 50 days since my last post about waiting and I’m still —

Waiting. 

Waiting through the last leaf and the first snow fall, the seconds of day light fading gradually into darkness as I finally let go —

Begin to fall and then try to stop myself.  Grasp at anything.  At nothing.  Until I let go again.  And again.

Accepting, out of desperation, this state of groundlessness.  No floor.  No ceiling.  No point of reference.  Or context.

Oh god, a writer without context.  A strategist without a plan. 

I think —

I am nothing. 

And at the same time — I think —

I could be —

Everything.

On the longest night of the year —

I am —

Expectant.

waiting

How long?

How long will it take?  How long before it’s complete?  Over and done?  Good and ready?  Time?

How will I know when it’s been long enough?   What should I do while I —

Wait?

Is there anything I can do?  Will it matter?  Should I go or should I —

Stay?  And —

Wait.

Wait.  Oh —

The weight —

Of the word. 

Wait.

Hate it.

aspen glow

A photographer, I am —

Extremely aware of light.

Aware —

Of the way light enters a scene and mixes with the shapes in the shot to create a statement in that moment.  A mood perhaps.  Maybe even a feeling.

If I am lucky.

And I know I am —

But a careful observer in the process.  Know that my power lies, not in controlling the light —

But in collaborating with it.

The light is the source.   The leader.  The creator.

I pay attention and —

I follow.

(I write today at 10,000 feet:   I write in the spaces between the rivers of gold reflecting the September light.)

empty and beautiful

I have some of my own thoughts on this, but feel too full to speak today —

So —

“In life, we end up having to empty ourselves to achieve that which is beautiful,” Matt Maher says.

“If you don’t, you never really get made beautiful. It’s a weird dichotomy, especially in the world we live in because there’s so much focus on beauty.

“The whole idea of having to empty one’s self to achieve beauty is completely counter cultural, but that’s what happens — marriage, service of the poor, sharing the beauty of the gospel.

“That’s what Christ calls us to do, and I hope these songs will help inspire people to follow Jesus in that way.”

http://www.mattmahermusic.com/index.php

mad mad morning

The elevator opens with a “ding” the second I press the button. 

Looking over my shoulder, I check my reflection in the hallway mirror, pick at a wild strand of hair and step into the elevator. 

All without looking down.

“Good morning,” I say, adjusting the bag on my shoulder and fixing my eyes on a section of wall appropriate for riding the elevator with other passengers.   

The man says nothing and then is gone without a trace.  

I feel the woman’s gaze as we wait  — in what I think is perfectly normal elevator etiquette — for the door to close behind him.

She speaks as we begin to move to the next floor.

“Uh, I just have to make a comment —”

I give her a smile and a look that says “go right ahead.”

“Are you aware that you have —

And it’s here that I begin to feel there’s something ‘off’  about me — is it my shirt?  Did I forget to button it?  A stain?  No — my pants?  Oh god, is my zipper gaping open? What? —

What? —

“— two different shoes on?”

I’d sooner believed her if she said my hair was on fire, so sure I am that this is just not the case.  But then —

My mind races back to the last thing I did before I walked out the door —

The shelves of shoes right by the front door.  A glass of milk, a footwear choice —

Grab a pair with the left hand and plunk on the floor while draining the glass and staring into space.  Pick up my keys.  Step into the shoes —

Without looking down —

Until now.

My god, could they be any different?

One is a flaming orange and white Car Shoe.  The other, a Stuart Weitzman tortoise patent.

At 8 a.m. I can hardly say “it was dark” —

And “I meant to do that” is too offbeat — even for me. 

So I laugh and tell her thank you for her polite comment —

And she leaves while I ponder —

Getting this day off on the right feet.

reduced speed ahead

It’s no secret I don’t like to drive.  It makes me anxious.  Fills me with dread.  And yet —

I drive. 

I drive quite a bit actually.  And,  thanks to my odd little coping rituals, prayers and affirmations —  I think it’s safe to say I’ve done a pretty good job at fooling the other drivers on the road.  I obey the rules, stay in the lines and to the untrained eye —

I appear composed — maybe even happy —

But I’m not.

On this road I’m on —

I’m not the driver I appear to be. 

Now this is not news to me.  I’ve knowingly played the imposter and paid the price for many years — believing —

Driving itself was the unavoidable problem I needed to overcome —

Until now.

The proverbial fork in the road.

As the road I’m on goes down to one lane with many curves up ahead — I can’t help but think —

Divine detour.

Truly, this is an opportunity to choose what feels right to me — to choose where and with whom I belong —

And get on the road that will allow me to be the driver —

I am meant to be.

the spaces between

Summer is a special time to be aware.

A walk through a city park at the end of the day was the inspiration for this piece — another truth from nature about the beautiful shapes relationships can take.

like a ribbon unraveling

swirling overhead with a flourish

they write to me in the sky

what is the message? the meaning?

they disband and then land

separate, independent touch downs 

quiet, barely perceptible movements

then again and at once

they soar wings tip to tip

and by the spaces they keep between them

a beautiful pattern is placed in the present

solids against a changing sky

a few clouds, shades of blue and grey

purples, and the orange hues of

endless sunrises and sunsets

in the background or the foreground

depending on how you look at it —

present in different ways at different times

but always —

birds of a feather.

open doors

Keeping doors open has always seemed to me to be a good thing to do —

Seemed to be about possibilities and options and —

And why not be open to —

What could be?

But then again —

What could walk through that door you left open might end up to be —

Not so good for you. 

Ya see where I’m goin with this?

It’s all about context — or should I say —

Mindfulness — or maybe controlled access.

Or not.

Oh, for the love of god — I’m not sure what the hell I’m trying to say here.

What I do know is that last Saturday night —

While my 20-year-old nephew was sound asleep —

Alone in the house —

The sliding glass door was open.

And he woke up to intruders  helping themselves to his family’s jewelry, stereos and computers.

They left without harming him, thank God.  But it made me think harder about the concept of leaving doors open as it relates to taking responsibility for yourself in life. 

The Saturday night intruders, you see, were no strangers to the house.  They were uninvited guests at a party the night before.  Came in with someone else —

Maybe twice removed from the original guest list —

And allowed to stay because —- well, maybe it won’t hurt — after all, isn’t it good to be —

Open?

Hey, I’ve done it.  Do it —

All the time.  Call it liberal-benefit-of-the-doubt-thinking, over-idealistic —

Or just plain stupid —

But I’ve always been more  inclined to make the circle bigger, reserve judgment, remain — well, yes —

Open.

And I’ve been lucky. 

Sure I’ve had things taken from me.  And I’ve had to ask people to leave — or leave myself on occasion.  But this episode made me think harder about the risks of exposure.  And the choices I make that might indirectly put myself and others in avoidable pain. 

I’m not sayin’ I’m ready to put a guard outside my door 24/7.

But I am definitely looking harder at levels of access and when it’s appropriate to deny access altogether. 

And this is a good thing — for me.

bunny trail

 

My patio is tucked in the elbow of the plaza, just three giant steps from the fountains that roar above the sound of 94.  

It’s a vortex, really, for anything unwanted in the universe.  

A magnet for whatever the wind picks up —

Or people above drop —

Or shed.

White cottony masses clinging to chair legs and bicycle spokes.  Dried seeds lodging under carefully placed rock collections.  Dirt and dust that’ll take any surface it can.

Petals.  Leaves.  Butts —

An endless supply of — gag — fake flower pieces.

And thanks to the baby bunny who is perhaps a little shy about doing his duty in front of the other urban wild life —

Handfuls of teeny tiny pellets — dusty little powser colonies —

Achoo.

dance with me

Metaphorically —

Literally —

Or virtually —

“Dance with me” is easily my favorite expression of life.

And joyfully, there are so many many ways to dance. 

So many people to dance with —

And so many steps yet to be experienced.

The spontaneous dance — without hesitation — tops the list for me.  But practiced moves — with a willing skillful partner — are not to be overlooked in the scheme of things —

And in fact, I’ve found them essential — like a hub in the spokes of spontaneity leading to expanding creativity.

Oh, how many wonderful things in this world start with a dance.

And the first dance —

Is there anything more defining? 

In any relationship?

What will I learn?  Feel?  Give?  Receive? 

Who else will be influenced?  Drawn in?  Touched?

Will there be another?

“Dance with me” is always an invitation. 

A question that must be asked and answered.   

And the response is never a forgone conclusion. 

The acceptance, a gift —

From the other —

And above.