Up and Down Like Mountains.

The colors emerge from the ground.

They spiral up like steam out of a teapot, winding their way UP and UP and UP, deliberately piercing the breath of the earth.

A silent bolt of energy.

A loud display of hope.

No more blank skies, blank screens.

No more blank minds, blank conversations, blank stares.

Colors of all shapes and sizes now fill our space, tell us time, share their stories.

Browns, so rich and gritty.

Blues of depth and joy.

Yellows reminding us to play.

And then Red.

Purple.

Green.

Orange.

They move up and down like mountains.

And then they set into place, almost on cue.

Red splashes on the backs of birds.

Blue pours on to the ocean, diving deep.

Brown layers the tree bark, the soil.

Next they enter the heart, the body, the mind, and the spirit of our world.

The most perfect blend, most perfect swirl.

They speak in whispers, adding to their divine mystery.

We all agree that the colors have arrived in style.

RIght Here in the Middle.

Don’t we just love for life to come out evenly for everyone?

That’s what we are taught in America.

Equality.

Fairness.

Balance.

…Right?

Everyone gets an equal share of the pie.

Our heads bob around the babysitter’s elbows like a bird’s tiny body bouncing from branch to sky to ground, never deciding its final resting place.

We watch with our hearts racing as she cuts up all the pieces.

“I want the square piece.”

“I call middle.”

“Wait, do we all get one or two?!”

Everyone gets an equal shot at success.

… And then ACT scores become a thing.

(Cue the horrified student who hates math).

Everyone gets a perfectly equal square inch-square-foot,“Talk of the Town” room in the house.

But wait… Who gets the window?

We fight for our share of the land, our share of the money, our share of beauty and fame, and that never-ending stardust we all fall prey to.

hmm.. What are we fighting for exactly?

And then... Behold.

Our eyes peel open after days, months, years of being locked away, like the forgotten, rusty castle door that holds all the treasure inside its barren walls.

The sun hovers over us and she sings.

She lets us know we are okay.

We are safe.

Right here in the middle.

The middle of life.

The middle of growth.

The middle of the road.

There is always a road and we are always in the middle of it.

On the way to somewhere.

With someone, without someone.

With shoes, barefoot.

With heavy heads, a clear mind.

Our berry-spilling, crust-crumbling pie.

Our own version of school and the classroom- with barefoot hippies who talk about farming and a deep compassion for the earth.

Our perfect, cozy little room with inviting pillows and a book shelf the size of the Appalachian Mountains.

We shall meet right here in the middle.

Where life happens.

The Place of Play.

The Place of Play, in a faraway land.

An old treehouse with tattered wood that creaks.

Piles of pine cones, sticks, and leaves.

Shiny red bikes with bells.

Coffee-colored dirt under our fingernails.

And a wisp of fresh air that makes our eyelashes curl and our thoughts slow down.

Clothes getting stained, wet, torn.

But we don't care.

Laughter is our song today.

We are free.

We are light.

We are running.

Chasing pretend wolves through the forest.

Feet stomping, breath quickening.

We speak to mermaids, dogs, cats.

And that beautiful whirl of green keeps circling around us, never leaving our side.

Scrapes and scratches collecting on our knees, but we don't notice.

We are here.

Happy, Alive, and Well.

… Is this Place of Play really that faraway, or does it live within us?

Tiny Hands, Big Heart.

Her walk is like a dance as she bounces with each step across the polished wooden floor.

Her curly blonde pony tail rocks back and forth like a grandfather clock that never stops ticking.

She smiles all day, her cheeks round and soft like cotton balls.

The harder she laughs, the more her eyes squint.

And then she follows up with a slight head tilt to the side as if to say, 

Can you believe how silly this is?

Her talking is more like singing, words rolling off her tongue with ease and ambition.

So many words. 

So many songs.

So many giggles.

She plays telephone and runs her fingers across every single object in the house.

She picks things up and slams them down on the floor with a loud BANG! eruption, making every adult’s heart stop just for a moment. 

Eyes turn, fingers point, heads nod slowly left and right. “No, Eva! Don’t touch that.”

She giggles mischievously and floats to the next room.

A cloud of noise is this child’s constant companion.

Lots and lots of joyful noise.

Eva could probably be her own traveling band with the amount of noise her little hands and feet produce.

She slows us down.

She keeps us curious.

She reminds us to play and love and be brave.

This is Eva.

This is hope.

Loud Hair, Loud Jewelry.

The blue sky turns to gray and I am walking.

Up the grassy hill, the back strap of my chacos escaping me as I climb.

My muscles ache from the day before, the good kind of ache that gives you hope for toned limbs just in time for summer.

The grass is soft, silky.

I have always loved the smell of grass, ever since I was a child.

It reminds me of my brothers’ soccer games under that Alabama sun that you love and hate all at the same time.

All of the younger sisters at the game would drift away inch by inch, climbing trees in our dresses and coming back with new stains to brag about. 

We ate up attention like it was our job.

Then the team would eat oranges after the game and smell like sweat all the way home.

My back is to the boats.

I hear them sneaking up behind me, ready to tag me and say that I am “it” next.

They are slow but they are graceful, like the kind of Southern ladies that always remember to wear their pearls to the parties and smile and nod when they have nothing nice to say.

I love being a stranger in a new city.

I am the guest, the visitor, the neighbor next door stopping by to introduce myself.

The city of Portland, Maine is calm and kind with the wind of San Francisco.

It reminds me of a best friend’s grandmother that serves lemonade and asks you to make yourself at home, but really means it.

Wrinkled hands and big, rosy cheeks.

Loud hair and loud jewelry.

Nice to meet you, Portland.

It's been a real pleasure.

Body Tells Heart.

The moment has come.

And the dance hall awaits like a grandmother’s silent plea for a baby’s first step.

Ceilings as tall as mountains, white as snow.

Grecian columns, so circular and round, taking in all perspectives, never missing a thing.

The tall, elegant windows build bridges to the outside world.

Bridges to the magical, mysterious forest, so full of that deep, fresh green you want to breathe in forever.

Without any instruction, the girl begins to make tiny inches toward movement.

She shifts the weight to her toes, then her heels, then back again.

She curls the tip of her fingers one at a time, enthralled by each knuckle becoming more defined, more deliberate.

Her eyes float around the room.

It feels good to float, she thinks to herself.

Her arms swing side to side like the wings of a blue jay.

She leans her hips to the left, right, finding her internal rhythm and tone.

And before she knows it, she is gliding.

The music in her head guides her, perfectly aligned to her steps.

Left.

Right.

Knees bent.

Legs extended.

Why she dances, she’s not entirely sure.

Perhaps her body is telling her heart a story.

And She Moves.

The lilies of the field dance and applaud the arrival of the wind.

The wind greets the lilies with the most perfectly timed, perfectly arranged schwoop over their heads and around their leaves and stems, each lily’s heart racing to this adventurous hello. As surprised and startled as the lilies are, they welcome this delightful disruption to their routine as they bend each and every way, giggling with glee.

Finally, the lilies theatrically lean toward the sun, and produce their final bow after this most pristine and sophisticated performance, all enhanced by the wind,

the Helper

the Mover 

the Greeter. 

The sun thanks the lilies with a little extra warmth and glow, something special for their morning.

The wind is the extrovert of the crew- brushing by like a glance from someone you love across the room at a party. But then she moves along to greet the grass or the branches of the trees or the hair of the pedestrians, always giving them a gasp and a desperate need to control their appearance. Hands move like lightening to their heads as they try to contain strings of hair behind their ears. Then they smooth out their hair like a worried mother ironing away at her child’s shirt seconds before he runs out the door to catch the school bus.

The wind never stays for an extensive or elaborate conversation, yet she never fails to say hello. She moves her hips from side to side, just gliding and floating around like a 7 year old boy in the kitchen with his socks on, sliding his feet in his silent, sneaky way.

The wind is the life of the party, the center of the Soul Train at all the wedding receptions. You never know how long she willl stay or who she will greet next, but she will be there nonetheless. 

She loves to twirl around in circles and make herself known. 

Sometimes she’s quiet, but she’s always moving, always dancing.