Moving

The difference between running away and running to is a concept I now understand. I don’t know how life would have been if I had stayed put – living in the land between loss and failure. I ran away thinking that physical change would remedy my heart and new spaces and places would fill the old familiar sadness.

Over time, I learned that haunting aches lingered in the area hanging heavy on my soul and permeated my heart regardless of location. Old regrets moved with me and settled in the neighborhood. With care, I unpacked each mistake from well worn boxes. Whispered words floated in the gentle breath of the wind and found old resting places between each beat of my heart.

In the stillness of the woods, I searched for peace and amidst the glory of Tennessee lilies on a country morning; I found lingering Kentucky memories in full bloom. There was no hiding from the truths blinding my sight. In the hollows of the mountains, I again found the emptiness of my life and settled into the routine until change abruptly slammed me against concrete walls and barriers.

Today, I may only walk on paths but I have chosen these trails and the people who walk alongside. The damp air no longer hides sorrow and I am home in these new places wearing well worn shoes and moving towards a place that is only found in my heart.

Standing Still

On a day when color blended into swirls of grey and white, I stood still and the earth stood still with me. On occasion a blood red cardinal rested on a branch as the northern wind whispered softly through barren woods. The air was damp with sorrow and I reflected the earth’s mood mirroring southern trees bent under the weight of fresh snow. I heard the creek waters slow and languidly dance in new rhythms before stilling in the hush of a darkening sky.

Another gentle gust of air pushed the clouds away from the sun. The landscape sparkled under the winter rays and freshly lit crystals rose with unabashed glory. Icy fingers lingered mid-air creating rare moments in frozen time.

I wondered if my life shone each day with icy glitter or soft as fairy dust sprinkled on the air. Am I found in the soft snow drifts that look solid and firm but fall apart with the slightest touch of a broken twig? Perhaps, I am heard in the harsh sounds of ice laden branches falling off strong trees and shattering into myriad pieces upon landing.

I don’t know what colors others see. Nor do I know what they hear when I speak. Do they remember me during the seasons of time? Perhaps they have already passed me by in search of that which they don’t know -rushing onward with fast steps and faster words always racing without pause. These are all things I don’t know.

And yet, this is what I do know. In the eyes of those who love me, I sparkle as a polished gem and shine like the northern star shimmering above a winter wonderland. They look beyond the cold and through the shadows. Their love burns into the clouds and illuminates my heart. They see what others miss. They listen and hear me in the quiet. They search and patiently uncover my secrets. They know me and still love me. All because they stood still long enough and I stood still with them.

Handful of Dreams

Long, slim fingers gesture in the air articulating his thoughts with eloquence. Sometimes I get lost in my words as I focus on his hands which typically rest quietly as if waiting for my whispers to permeate his skin and breathe gentle life into hidden veins. Soft hands betray no secrets except how his money is earned as he moves through hallowed halls. His fingers touch cold door knobs which open into dimly lit rooms with scarred desks and metal file cabinets and only enough space for the past and future to collide between us.

I lose coherent thought often in his dark eyes and imagine his fingers caressing moist lips and touching my cheek to smooth away tears. Thinking of interlocking hands, I almost feel his strength course through my body. I wonder if he would touch my hair feeling the smooth weight before tucking loose locks behind one ear. When he reached my heart would he hold the fragility long enough for his pulse to match each tender beat? Would his hands blaze hot trails on my skin searching for new paths to ancient destinations?

Watching as he holds his pen loosely between practiced fingers, I soon am again lost in thought and time and place.

Until his fingers stretch out to cover the distance,I will hear his words float in space before touching my heart. I will feel his kindness find space in my soul. I will look at his hands and imagine myself tightly held. I will dream.