On a walk I noticed this tree and,

A morning walk in franklin park

Humans are like this tree and this tree is like life. Look to the branches. What do you see when you trace them? …Full of bumps and ugly twists, spots of beauty if that’s how you define it, dark holes and light bark, unpredictable twisty messiness, unfurling out into our own expansion when we simply follow the light and feel our roots. May we remember that we don’t have to be anything else, standing without apology like this tree.

3.11.20

54321. Go. Go go go go go. Do. Doing is good. Sustainability in the physical sense. Achieved.

Doing. Action. A performance.

I wonder… if a person is always performing, where does authenticity have room to grow? How does one perform and be genuine? If a person is always on… doesn’t it become a string of acts? A performance?

Acts of slowness. Solitude. Vulnerability and feeling. Just a ||. Does a person need time to confront the self, the one that is always going? Enough moments of not performing, and perhaps, a person can have the space – the energy – to be with their self. Say hello. Maybe enough of these moments can bring this other self closer to our doing selves so that in as many moments as possible, we are not just acting with intention, but wholesomely. Spiritually. Softly.

A turn in the road // On the other side of time

As the fog dissipated, the stone became clear and in writing it affirmed. Neither one wrong, one wanted solitude a little longer. It wasn’t for specific views, known feelings, or a different medium under their foot. It was the art of isolation they longed for, though there weren’t words for it, because it wasn’t a conscious thought then… it was the art of isolation and what it could unfold into if given the time.

The stone sits, the paths unwind into the wood… and maybe they go further still.

The wind knew your name,…

I wish I was there with you. I found your hand when we started into the woods. Held it tight. Held it dearly. But I didn’t know you were running to the fall. I couldn’t pull myself from planting the roses I thought were for us. When I looked up you were gone. I ran and ran, tears and branches wiping my face. I followed the small voice I heard in the wind, out to the other side. It was your’s… calling from the bottom of the basin. You had already jumped, not realizing the only way down for me was if I went with you. I wish I had been there. I wish.

Sometimes I still think I hear you down there.