Trust

In the hours before the storm, I am most alive. Trees bow to sudden wind gusts, branches snap and bright green leaves spin in contrast against a darkened sky. I stand on a carpet of soft pink cherry blossoms and feel the wind whip hair across my face pulling buried emotions to the surface. Clouds sprinkle the first water drops down an already wet face. The winds sweep aside dead branches and exposes life while thunder sends animals scurrying deeper into the woods. White caps slam into solid creek rock as I watch lightning race across the sky.

I trust this dance and want to be among the ones who feel peace in spring storms. I trust those who live in the moment and aren’t afraid to share emotions. I trust those who experience love until it hurts. I trust the tears of those who laugh hardest. I connect to those who live a life bent that once was broken. I am comfortable with those who carry their scars on healed wrists and extended hands. I understand those who plunge into internal pools and splatter life on bystanders. I trust what I see, what I feel and in these people of the rain.

I don’t trust sunny days filled with people displaying even sunnier dispositions. I wonder what is lurking behind cheery faces and if their names are called Stepford. I wonder about polite half smiles and limp handshakes. I wonder what they hide and if they hide from themselves. I wonder if they apply false illusions with practiced hands to cover up smudges of secret lives.

And yet, I wonder most of all about myself standing still in the storm feeling my mask wash away.

Listening

In the silence between words, life is spoken. I hear it in the echoes of family and whispers of lost love. I see it in the quivering of moist lips and bright eyes. I feel it in the touch of a gentle hand and skinned knees. I remember it in the taste of chicken soup and the softness of a first kiss. I smell it in Vicks Vapor Rub and spring honeysuckle.

And yet, sometimes the loudest voices belong within. Innumerable voices with unfriendly names. In these conversations, I stand alone and so I battle and conquer; succeed and fail. In a perpetual effort to live in peace, I struggle.

When stillness reigns, I am able hear. I step back and do not form opinions or create persuasive arguments. I do not interrupt or negate ideas. I do not impose. I do not fight. I simply listen to the ones in front of me. Their voices tempered with the tenor of their past, their demons, and their victories.

For in the silence between words, life is spoken. I hear it in tones and pauses. I see it in faces before me and in the hunch of overburdened shoulders. I feel it in the tremor of hands I reach out to touch and in tears I wipe away. I hear it in laughter and in the comfortable stillness of those who know each other best. I feel it in the stickiness of cotton candy hands reaching into mine and in the beat of a fragile heart.

Life is spoken. It’s up to me to listen.

Flying

Dreams must move from our hearts to our heads before taking shapes as recognizable as scarlet red kites outlined against a cobalt blue sky. Watching and running and chasing after dreams, we watch them plummet in jeopardy as the strings clutched tightly in strong hands knot and the lines tangle. Fragile and delicate, dreams must be nurtured along life’s pathways until daily miracles lift them into the heavens. Unexpected gusts will cause them to spin out of control. They will be buffeted in tumultuous air, pummeled by storms, and float gracefully within gentle breezes.

Such are the flights of dreams. We cannot factor all of the conditions. We cannot account for precise times or the best places for launch. We cannot choose the precise journey they take. I’m not certain we even choose our dreams. They choose us coming first as whispered voices in a sleepless night. Beckoning and calling until insistently they demand our attention; our time; our lives.

We remain tethered to them as we learn to fly and gather strength to cut the weights tying these dreams to the earth. We cull the cast of characters trying to direct the lines. We learn to let go.

Dreams will soar into an undefined future until they are specks against a solid horizon. Ultimately they will land in a remarkable place after a remarkable journey. They will shine without doubt. They will soar without fear. But first, we have to unclench our trembling hands and fly instead in their grasp.

Words

Words hold a unique magic. Once whispered they hang heavy in the air as early morning fog draped above river banks and reach into recessed caves hiding in ancient bluffs. Some words hover longer and kiss the hearts of tender young saplings and budding spring flowers. Other words meander into shadowy corners and expose crystal dew kissed morning glories. They float as gossamers in the air and land on life’s fragility until they become distant memories. Words have power and soar into the sun dissipating long after impact is felt on the heart.

Words are as fleeting as nature’s images and share the seasons shaping who we are, changing what we become and even altering who we were destined to be. Words can hold shape in sticks and stones and we hold their magic. We place their power on our lips and share love. We offer comfort and healing and bring warmth to friends. We hurl words heated by summer storms and watch them burn into unsuspecting hearts. We freeze the blood of the innocent with words chiseled from blue white glacier fields formed during past heartaches.

Our words have movement and touch the one before impacting the many. They can land as sparkling fairy dust on ocean waters. They can erase pain or create suffering. Words are not simply spoken. They are felt as the sharp sting of thorns or as the soft fuzz on baby birds. They are felt in hearts and minds. They are felt as tears falling down weathered cheeks. Words are personified as lonely faces in a crowd.

Together we float on the gossamer until words shine on our hearts exposing the truth. Until we feel their power as a desert survivor tasting the lifesaving first droplet of water, we float in these silken threads. We remain delicately intertwined, until we find the courage to learn a new vocabulary in whispers. We test it within, transforming our hearts, until we find the spirit to share this new language. It is then; we discover that our magic gives us the strength to stand alone. We use the power to watch the fog lift and bask in glittering fields.