Search This Blog

Friday, July 13, 2012


It had become the hardest task of all.

Eating a bit of leftover tamale, the rain roaring under the tires of the cars passing on the interstate beyond the open window. Nuisance. Nerve-wracking. Needless. Never-ending.

Analytical problem of the highest magnitude complicated by unreasonable emotions. 
There is nothing that makes the deepest mysteries solve themselves.

Why love? Why not love.
Why hate? Why not hate.
Why suffer? Why not suffer.
Why hopeful? Why not hopeful.

There were infinite answers for who, what, when, how, 
that all satisfied and could be described,
but the condemning Why never goes away.

(Mincing past it so as not to awaken it from its fitful slumber still it howls.)

The volumes written, the coffee spilled, the rhetoric proclaimed, the ancient wisdoms plumbed, the theologies died for, the institutions achieved, the mindsets unmoved, the theories evoked, the beliefs sullied,

still nothing removes the Why.

As the flowers in their vase softly withered and the teacup became stained,
the rain continued its fall and the Why remained.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

The First Breathing

The pounding of her heart echoed in her head. The last breath to ever breathe freely now past. It was over, all things ceasing to be in an instant of fatal transformation. She yearned for silence in which to sink her aching head.

Drawing the light of the morning sun around her like a shawl, she moved in the direction of where she thought she would in just a few moments, spin into an eternal spiraling star of joyful unity with her One. Her One. Her Beloved. Named Beloved, and returning that name to her in gratitude at finding where their hearts had always longed to be. They had written this moment for so very long, every detail, every hope, every possibility was prepared and saturated the air she had just finished breathing.

She sank into the sand; bare feet, bare legs, her hair falling out of its soft braid, clinging now to her silent skin. It was the first breathing of her life without her One. A handful of unrestrained joy slipped from her fingers as she let go. No mourning dance. No salt-laced tears. Just gone.

When your entire life has waited for a moment of flawless air to breathe; of grace that will unravel the all-surrounding pain; you are doomed to wait alone and to breathe the wrong air and dream the wrong dreams. Colors are not real until that moment of fate, when the finale encore has been danced. And you will not find yourself until you let go… of endless hoping and dreaming and believing.

The first breathing after the sun burns cold is the real one. In it is the past and future and the eternal momentum. You will not find it by looking; only by letting go.

"Release me," she says to the sand. She looks at the colors of the petals that she had clung to in belief of unity’s possibility just a moment before, then she straightens her spine, holds her head erect, and steps ahead.