Her Whisper.

From a spare hour I had at a coffee shop…

I am wearing flannel today, so it officially feels like fall. The sky is cloudy and gray and yes, in Nashville, that makes it even more official: Colder weather is coming. I must say, though, this early morning chill at my shoulders is oddly welcoming.

I am ready, I think.

Fall means new beginnings, change, transition. The brigher the leaves turn, the more this is confirmed: Change is coming.

I notice it in my body. My chest feels less stable, less rooted, like hot steam rising from a whistling tea kettle. Thin, almost invisible, but rising just the same. But ya know? I like the feeling, at least every once in a while. 

The feeling of not knowing what's coming next. 

Of not knowing anything, really.

This is always our human state but fall makes it more real, it seems.

Fall is like a tiny whisper of promise delivered with hope, wonder, magic. Her promise carried with the powerful magnetic confidence of a curly-haired three year old with bright eyes and a voice of song, play, and wild imagination.

In the back of her voice, though, you hear it: that slightly mischievous and sneaky, "up-to-something" kind of tone. Like the homemade backdrop of the high school play. You don’t notice it at first but there it is, setting the perfect scene and laughing when the actors forget their lines.

Fall’s whisper, it says,

“Look out, something’s coming. 

Something good. 

Something special. 

It’s waiting for you, just sitting on the curbside of October. 

The bus stop of November, ready to get picked up and swept away. 

Ready to walk among the strangers, blend in with the layered smell of skin, with the promises of tomorrow.

When the trees turn gold and the cool breeze picks up and the leaves crackle underneath your footsteps on the sidewalk, then you will know it's coming.

Something good, something special.

Something just for you.

“Just wait,” she whispers.

Just wait.”

What is Real?

A piece from Writing Group last spring. I know, a late entry. But maybe it falls on the perfect day, the perfect moment... I believe that.

“What is real?” the rabbit asked the Skin Horse in the attic.

The Skin Horse, in his fatherly, whispery wisdom, explained to the rabbit that to be real is to be loved.

I am that rabbit.

That Skin Horse is my God.

The horse rocks forward and backward on that wooded, creaky, little attic floor with spider webs in the corners and rays of sunlight dancing in.

His voice is like sand: calm, steady, dry. My overly-eager attempt at a tiny taste of his wisdom almost knocks my weight forward. My hips move beyond the balls of my feet, and I inch toward the sun rays. 

Warmer.

Lighter.

Warmer.

Lighter.

My skin horse tells me that I can be real, that I can be loved.

Just the way that I am.

My thoughts run like train tracks.

Loud, fast, and wild. 

Yet my Skin Horse keeps rocking forward and backward.

Steady breathing, steady voice.

What if I am already real? I wonder.

What if I just never knew it to be true?

My shoulders sink in a little, my chin caves in toward my chest.

My train track keeps running. 

Faster and faster, until my heart rate matches my thoughts like a reflection in the mirror.

Loud, fast, and wild.

And then I hear it.

“Just be,” my Skin Horse tells me.

His three whisker-like wrinkles lying beside each eyelid thread out in all different directions, like streams leading into the ocean of his calm, peaceful face.

“Just sit. Accept it. You are real. Your thoughts, your stories, your tragedies, our human existence- all of it, real.”

The attic suddenly becomes a castle of clouds in the sky. 

I am lifted, weightless, calm.

My train has stopped. 

No more shaky fingers.

No more stress or racing thoughts, denying my ability to be loved.

Real is THIS moment, THIS breath.

Real is NOW.

Child of the Forest.

Since I can remember, trees have always been my source of strength.

Their roots, like the fingers of a child digging through fresh garden soil in search of slimy, wiggly worms. Their yellow-green leaves cupped like hands ready for communion, an eager palm ready to receive salvation’s greatest promise. Their branches spread wide with little predictability, like the legs of a spider moving meticulously through time and space creating a wild masterpiece against the backdrop of blue sky. The texture of their bark always surprises me, rough and rigid, but never without a story.

Trees are my strength, my bedrock against the storm of life.

I remember leaning against a magnolia tree, turning my white Sunday dress into my mother’s worst nightmare the day I got confirmed for church. The second the camera flashed, I blew an enormous bubble from my one-hour-too-many strawberry flavored gum, and I knew the tree was laughing with me.

I remember the bright, golden-sun yellow tree that leaned over our street in my neighborhood, always protecting, always saying hello to the walkers, the dogs, and especially the children. I was trapped in a love war with that tree. No matter what happened, I couldn’t go a day in fall without staring at her ever-evolving color and smiling.

The year of the tornado was the year we lost that tree.
I will never forget her.

I remember the reckless trees of Baton Rouge with branches like I had never laid eyes on before. My brothers wanted the gumbo, the shrimp, and everything else on those Louisiana trips to see Granny.

All I wanted were the trees.

And the Redwood beauties of my year away in Northern California. I swear they whispered secrets to me on my long and windy runs up those rainy, mossy mountains.

Whispers like,

“I love you.”

“Come this way.”

“You are the child of the forest.”

Trees are my strength, my forever friends.

Always steady, always kind.

Finding my Inner Stillness, or Letting it Find Me.

I’ve been thinking about the beach lately. 

Mainly because I crave it something bad in the winter. During these ice-cold, snowy days in Nashville, I long for the quiet, peaceful afternoons underneath that warm Gulf Coast sun. 

Sand between my toes, sand in my hair, sand on literally everything I own, but I am okay with it. I even find it getting stuck between the pages of my books, in combination with splashes of salt water and the aroma of summer sweat. But I trust that it will simply add to the story and remind me of the sweetness of the beach when I long for it in later seasons.

The beach never changes, but always changes at the same time. It looks different based on the various levels of blues and greens in the ocean, those two powerhouses blending together so vibrantly that, immediately upon first glance, my breath becomes slower, my thoughts are centered. 

Every summer, the beach looks younger, like it hasn't aged a day since the last time I saw it. There I stand at water's edge, impersonating a proud mother, watching its rise and fall like the belly of a baby in his sleep. 

So fluid, so natural.

So slow and steady.

But I know deep down that this elegant, peaceful gem has been around much longer than me and will live as long as the earth requires. She is the mother.  She is the wise old being that is the heartbeat of this world. That steady, constant reminder of who we are and what we are meant to become.

The beach is so quiet sometimes. Yes, this vacation spot is a popular place in the summer season, and oftentimes, there are people everywhere, interrupting my whispered, poetic conversation with the ocean tide. It's like being in a restaurant and locked into that perfect moment of a holy exchange of words with the one you love, when a loud, obnoxious party of ten comes parading in with high heels and bachelorette sashes on. 

WAY too much pink and WAY too much hairspray. 

The night is lost in echoes of tequila shots and "one more for the bride-to-be" barging in and invading your eardrums, when suddenly, even the food tastes like a honky tonk cigarette.

BUT.

On those unique opportunities where you get the beach to yourself, for just a moment, without the traffic of human toes creeping up behind you and trying to claim the best spot for their 30+ family, 

The beach is so quiet, so kind.

I long for those quiet mornings on the beach. Like a child at recess, the ocean tide tunnels in, roaring for attention and moving constantly. The beautiful ocean blue meets the backdrop of a pale blue sky.  The wind cools my face, making my hair dance in all directions. That wild-free abandon gives life to even the tips of my eyelashes as I find myself laughing at this flirtatious exchange with Mother Nature herself.

The beach is the holy land to my cold and gray winter days. She is the whisper of solitude that keeps me going when my feet feel heavy and my nose seems stuffed up for days on end.

For now, I will have to create my own quiet and holy exchange with the white snow blanket kissing the ground and rooftops outside my window. A quiet, peaceful dream for some, still a party acquaintance with a shy hello and a half-smile for me. I am still learning the sound of the snow, the smell of the cold.

Not my holy land, but my morning. 

And I am thankful for her greeting this day.

The Human Illusion

Control.

What is that, really?

We stand on our tiptoes, ready to pounce on whoever or whatever attempts to threaten it in the slightest.

We pretend to own it, like fluid cash in our bank account.

That sacred cash of control,

That sacred green paper, full of important numbers that reveal our status and announce our importance to the world.

Control.

In our pockets, at arm’s reach.

An awkward moment with family over the holidays.

Reach in the pocket, Fix it.

A traffic jam on 440.

Reach in the pocket, Fix it.

A kindergartener being bullied by another, much bigger kindergartener.

Reach in the pocket, Fix it.

A violent war just outside our borders.

Reach in the pocket, Fix it.

Guns.

So. Many. Guns.

Hurting so many people, killing so many innocent families and children.

Each eager finger pulling the trigger to cast an even deeper bullet hole into the chest of the collective soul of the universe.

Loved ones lost, breath stolen for a cause unknown.

Reach in the pocket, Fix it.

Control.

The human illusion.

The cash that never truly fixes anything.

It’s just paper.

Nothing but green, dead paper.

Loving Tea and Lighting Candles

I have come to love Saturdays.

They have led me to loving tea and reading in bed and lighting candles.

This is my day of listening.

Listening to my breath.

Listening to music.

Listening to the ceiling fan in my room spin around, endlessly, effortlessly.

This is my day of learning.

Learning about Mumbai, India in my latest read, Shantaram. 

Learning to be human again and reenergize after a long week.

Learning to find that sweet spot between duties, obligations, deadlines and rest.

Oily, messy hair but a heart full of love and compassion for my space this day, my Saturday.

This day is beauty.

And I feel like myself today more than ever.

Here's a thought: Sometimes, just sometimes, we work too hard. 

We get so caught up in the stuff around us, all those external components that make our lives busy or make us feel important and useful, and we connect to those things. But then we become dependent on, enslaved to, and tied up with these things, until all the sudden, we become those external components without even realizing it.

Our identity is found in our stuff.

You know... the meetings, the committees, the certifications, all of it.

The stuff that makes us "really involved", "really invested", really "well known in the community".

We lose ourselves in what we are “supposed to do”, what people “expect” of us, what we "told people we would get done". 

But, who are we really?

Like, on a Saturday when we actually choose to pull away from everyone everywhere and just be alive in our own skin and listen to our own breath and relax?

Let us be real today.

In every way we know how.