Just a Walk

I decide to walk to Kroger instead of drive. My feet crave the pounding against pavement. I need a closer look at the trees on my street.

Best decision ever made.

Nothing has changed, really. The same twin cats sit on my neighbor’s porch, so relaxed it makes you wonder if they are still breathing. The same boring brick house sits passively on the corner, relaxed just like the cats. Watching the cars go by in all shapes and colors.

Yet this walk gives me a newfound energy, the kind of energy that vitamins and caffeine simply fail to supply. The kind of energy that makes me feel untouchable.

My spirit sings.

My heart beats loudly.

I really do love this neighborhood.

The Cave

Something about being talked down to in a sympathetic tone, I just can’t deal with.

It cuts a whole in me.

Deep.

Cold.

Hollow.

I am like an empty cave with an end that never comes.

I wander nervously through this cave within myself, uneasy and fragile, desperately trying not to wake anything hiding away in the corners.

I feel small.

Incapable.

Worthless.

Like a child... in the needy sort of way.

Tiny Taste

Communion is tiny. 

Simple. 

Like the pinky of a newborn baby, her nail so minute you can barely see it at first glance.

Receiving is a gift to be cherished. I walk away my hands crossed awkwardly, my eyes on the floor. Do I bend my elbows? My breath is short, shallow. I feel dizzy, lost in the crowd, the never-ending ocean of strangers waiting their turn for the same beautiful gift.

The taste of wine always seems to linger on my lips.
Sweet and Warm.

My tongue moves around nervously, not knowing what to do or where to go with such a distinct, tiny taste. Impulsively, it rolls over and over at the roof of my mouth, allowing my chin to dance in circles obsessively.

Communion can be lonely. 

Sometimes I dread it, my feet gaining weight with every step as I sometimes grudgingly force myself to the front of the room.

I like to watch the children.

They are my sanity. 

They calm my breath and give final destination to my fluttering, frightened eyelids.
The little girl with blonde angelic curls, her smile so welcoming, so kind.
The baby boy in his father’s arms that never stops moving for a second.
And the father rotating hips, clearly embarrassed at the wild, elaborate scene his son is causing.

Yet the magnetic energy draws me forward. 

My robotic steps follow behind the mob of strangers, in tune with the silent reverence surrounding me.

I feel small at communion, yet connected to something enormous. 

A House for the Soul.

In my soul house, there are lots of empty chairs handcrafted in the finest wood one could imagine. Each chair spaced out like wandering ants at a summer picnic, no one necessarily following the other but searching for its own source of food, along its own journey.

A guest may wander in and sit, her ankles crossed, hands on her lap, with scattered breath and a first-day-of-school kind of anxiety. She waits for the agenda and her eyes wander, looking for corners to define her space. But there are none. She finds no end to this madness, just miles and miles of empty chairs in every direction, all turned at various angles.

The sun climbs up and down the sky of my soul house, yet the chairs remain.
Waiting to be used.
Waiting to be noticed.

My soul house is a resting place. I wander from chair to chair depending on my mood and settle in, sometimes with difficulty, sometimes with ease.

A rocking chair that leans back like a fearless child, letting go of all restraint.

A chair with little to no room for my achy back, forcing me to find rest despite my high-maintenance expectations.

A queen’s throne, elaborate with jewels, shining with glamour of all kinds.

I find my chair.

It finds me.

I sit.

I rest.

The Little Girl

There is something magical about a little girl.

Her smile.

Her fear.

Her dreams.

Her stories.

I never want to let go of that little girl.

Sometimes she stares deep into my soul, my heart beating out of control as the sound of her silence overwhelms me.

Her stare becomes heavy, like rocks buried in your sweatshirt as you carry them home to brag on your new discoveries. With every year I gain, the fear of losing the little girl within me increases. My knuckles become white as snow as I stand weak in the knees, in fist-clenched denial.

Growing up is hard.

Scary.

Depressing.

Embarrasing.

I miss the simple life of the little girl, whose imagination is from an outside world with animals that talk and humans that fly.

No makeup.

No deadlines.

No meetings to attend except tea parties and fancy balls at the castle.

Relationships are easy for the little girl- no secret conditions or hidden agendas. Simply best friends who you can trust or enemies never worth a second glance.

I used to make my own jewelry and write my own songs.

I used to play pretend like it was required and never be ashamed of my dreams.

Growing up is boring, time-consuming.

Like a sneeze, it attacks you and you can never seem to stop it from coming. It consumes your body. It stops you in your footsteps, until all you can do is close your eyes and wait for it to pass.

Yet the little girl is a stranger to the concept of time. 

The sun and the moon are her clock, moving across the sky like a dance.

Ocean Blue

I attended a conference for work.
There was a poetry session.
I couldn't resist....

I am the sound of raindrops against the tin roof of an old, forgotten cabin along the outskirts of town. Sometimes my chatter is soothing, relaxing the mind of my listeners. Sometimes my passion and overactive brain gives way to my sound as each word, each raindrop of my vocal cords, introduces a storm approaching over the mountains of life.

I am the season of summer, barefoot and wandering along the trails with their deep chocolate brown soil that finds its hideaway underneath my nails, in between hair strands, along my cheeks.

I am the aroma of grass glittering in the sunlight. Bent over from human footsteps, wild and free.

I am a seagull soaring high in the clouds, floating with the wind, each drop, each lift, letting the sky carry me and choreograph my every move as I watch all movement below.

I am an ocean blue, the calm of my sanity.

I am the subject psychology simply because I ask a lot of questions. Questions are my preferred language, my avenue to humanity, the skin of the earth.

The Real Deal.

Sometimes I can be so confident. A good day and I feel like I created it… like I strategically laid brick upon brick and poured my own sweat and labor into the making of its entirety.

My imaginary sweat drips off my forehead, my eyelashes, above my upper lip.

Tickling my entire face.

Sparkling all of my features like gold.

Every second of praise so well deserved. Every honor, every accolade worn like a necklace and momentarily frozen in time to remember forever, adding it to my “Fine Gallery of Achievements”.

My pride is like a boulder creeping in, silently slipping through the back door after curfew.

It destroys me.

This mindset is so addicting. I stand like a prisoner inside of myself, toiling away at life’s finest details, all for a second of attention, a second of fame. When suddenly, my self-imposed castle is nothing but a mere replica of a pile of sand whispered away by the magnitude of the tide.

What builds real castles is Hope. Love. Truth.

May I never lose sight of such things.