Fill Me

  Some nights I feel so full of emotion that I am sure I could quite possibly burst if one more feeling pounded through my head like an over eager child in class, hand extended and waving, begging to be noticed.
  It could be nervous frustration that's fluttering like an excited bird against the cage of my ribs. Or perhaps another night, anger is pushing at the knitted seams that holds my skin together and keeps my beating heart in. Maybe sadness drowns my brain in its salty oceans of fear that swirl down the drains and leak slowly out of my eyes. This one that's bitter yet indulgent, sweet and sour, leaves a track of ugly across my heart and jealousy prickling in my eyes -- it's called envy I think. Love is easy and beautiful and deep. And is it elation that jitters my hands, gives me shivers, makes my feet leap and want to fly, my eyes crinkle as happiness breaks out in beaming smiles across my face?
  Other nights though, when I feel as empty as a watering can that poured out all of its substance onto the flowers that surround it, and while the flowers might be well wetted, the watering can feels only the loneliness that rattles around in its tin shell -- and nothing much else.
  I wish I could bottle emotions. Save them all, even the bad ones, for days when I feel nothing. When I'm sucked dry like a juice box that a kindergardener has slurped clean, just crinkled and empty cardboard, even the air taken from me, left to bake and fade with the sun on the side of the road, and eventually, forgotten, melt into the environment.
  Because even the bad emotions that prick my heart like barbed wire and make it bleed a little are better then the emptiness that sometimes drains me. When that happens, I don't know what to do, and I panic.
  I am stripped of my essence, vulnerable to the environment-- the winds of worry wash wearily over and the rains of insecurity that pound down on my body lick me clean-as-a-cat of my confidence.
  "Fill me," is my plea. To my friends, my work, my art, my god. "Life's too short for emptiness."

Thy Will Be Done, My Father

To be read aloud as spoken word:

Thy will be done, my Father
For you say let it go, Lord
I mean it's kind of hard to do
The only comfort that I'll have is
Depending solely on
You.
And I know that should be enough, God
It's certain and it's right and it's true.
But my fleshly desires are always
Crying out inside
Yearning and growling hungry and unsatisfied
And I must feed the beast that is my sinful heart
With jealousy and malice and doubt and
Pride.
So much pride that hurts as it rattles inside.
Breaking the bars that confine it and hold it still and I can feel its chill
And I have to learn to silence it so I can hear
The quiet voice that whispers over all the din
"Just trust my will."
For if I could learn to trust you, God
Ah, that'd be the day. I cry for faith, my Father
I have such little and the fear that is there tends to scare and beware the
Anger that stems from it.
I just want to know you, to see you, to touch you, feel you, be by your side
With your hand in mine and it'd all align if you'd give me a sign
Thy will be done, my Father.
For where were you, God, when the nights were long and I'd sing a song simply to myself
Because it felt like no one cared.
And the doubt that whispered "You're alone"
Lay upon my heart
Heavy as a stone and cracked open my eyes with unbelief in the form of tears.
My prayers sky rocket into the atmosphere but no one's there
To catch them at times so they fall back down and
Hit me hard to the tune of the mocker's who surround
As I'm stretched on the ground
And the wicked march on.
Thy will be done, my Father.

Solitude

  Sometimes aloneness is an unwelcome companion. You cannot shrug him off and he grasps your hand, clammy fingers grabbing onto yours where friends are supposed to hold instead.
  When you choose to be alone, however, that is solitude. And solitude holds the promise of new ideas and breathes into you inspiration. For it is when you are enjoying your own company and basking in the promise of your future that happiness helicopters down like an autumn leaf or a freshly made snow flake and lands on your shoulder with a soft whisper.
  Solitude is immersing yourself in the adventures of Huckleberry Finn whilst perched on the limb of a tree, legs dangling, feet gently kissed by spring's promises of summer soon to come. And the birds echo the joyful melody that resonates through your heart as you bite into an apple and bask in the sun. The berries you squeeze beneath your fingers stain your hands with red and tattoo your skin with happy spring thoughts.
  Solitude is sinking into an old chair that has seen so much in its lifetime and could tell stories that would make you gasp in wonder and giggle in surprise. Your fingers warmed with a steaming mug of coffee, your nostrils greeted with scents of vanilla and cinnamon. Surrounded by light that dances across the table and flirts with the shadows on the wall, only to order them away with a spritely command.
  Solitude is not being blown away by the wind when weather is angry and earth is solemn. Stepping in puddles just because and taking the long way home because you like walking and thinking and the wind knows your problems and begs to carry them far away to the east, gone for a very long while, and possibly never to be seen again. The wind chimes sound like the choir of the breeze and they make you smile because you're happy to be alive and to be the only human around that hears their serenade.
  Solitude is sitting on a wooden bench and watching. Just watching. Wondering who that man was in his long lifetime and where that woman is rushing in such a hurry and flurry and bustle. Seeing two strangers meet and a flame sparks between them and you're not sure whether this is the beginning of a new romance or simply a happy serendipity but you wish them well. Watching not alone but in solitude
  And that's perfectly alright with you.

Snow Globe

There’s something to be said about living in a snow globe. How the white all melts into itself and you can’t tell land from sky from clouds. The snow greets you like an old friend, gently kissing your face with wetness, as it reminds you that though you may have forgotten it in those balmy summer months, it has not forsaken you.

And it nests snuggly-as-a-baby-bird in your hair, clouds your vision by clinging sweet-temperedly onto your eyelashes, taste like winter on your tongue. You’d be frozen stiff except for the warmth of friendship that surrounds you, like a wool blanket that wraps around your soul at least three times and nuzzles softly against your cheeks, the warmth of your own breath an internal heating system that circulates throughout.

There’s a love language flurrying around spoken in smiles and guffaws and giggles and smirks. Embraces you, warms you, slides slowly down your throat into your belly. In those precious moments swept away by whiteness and winter and cold and dear friends, you are the snow princess, ruling her kingdom, living in her snow globe. The bubble that surrounds your globe is impenetrable, and the flurries that whisk you away are made of simple whiteness and nothing more.

It is the prettiest side of winter. The side that goes on post cards and gets dreamed about by sleepy children on their way to school wishing for a snow day. It is nothing short of magic.

And you can’t be more grateful to be alive, to have warm blood coursing through your body. You look up, your eyes lift towards the heavens as they continue to salt-shaker down the snow that surrounds, that reminds, that makes you so grateful to be a part of the simple white magic.

This is your winter.

Your snow globe.

And it’s beautiful.