She is a prickly kind of beautiful, soft and vibrant petals atop a stalk of thorns. If you seek to touch her beauty, know her defenses are strong but so is her love.
Tag: mindfulness
Paint
Paint the world beautiful today
Let your heart spill onto the canvas of your dreams
Swirls of color, twining to depict the joy
The brush your tool to start anew
Paint the world beautiful today
You are the artist of your own destiny.
Starting a New Story
I’m sitting in the airport waiting for my first flight in a year. A few days ago, I went to purchase new luggage, and something magical happened, or at least it did to my eyes. Inspiration and magic are everywhere you turn. You just need the gift of sight.
And it begins….
I couldn’t understand why I was the only one who could see she was different. Maybe different is not the best word to use. When you are at Weatherby’s Rack, the discount version of my favorite store I can’t afford, normal is normal, and anything not normal, is different. Claire, if her tag was not a ruse, was falling off the scale on the different end for she had elven ears and ancient runes tattooed on her face.
The Empty Seat
I wasn’t prepared for the empty seat at the table. He filled it so dutifully, yet quietly, each meal we shared.
This was the special occasion table, the linen-and-real-plates table. It barely fit our nuclear family of five, but somehow it detonated to fit our husbands and children.
He occupied the seat at one head of the table, across from my mom at the other end for a balanced table. The rest of us scurried to grab the spaces in-between, the youngest in high chairs like jesters off to the side.
This table was solid wood, built for joy. There was the occasional skirmish around it. We mostly broke bread and blew out candles here.
Cancer tried to take it away.
COVID tried to take it away.
The disagreements all families have tried to take it away.
We always came back though, and he sat in that same spot, asking his grandchildren and sons-in-law for extra ice cream and cheesecake, a procurement specialist for the good things in life.
This was the only throne he ever wanted. He was head of state in this fatherland. He will always fill that seat.
Sun
Glory be to the sun of a new day, a fresh start through the obstacles that darkened our way.
Awake with your confidence.
Awake with your vim.
Fill your cup with fortitude to the brim.
Glory be to the sun that has called us this morn, a messenger proclaiming we are reborn.
Drink
I drink the edge of the sky
A tall, morning cool glass of ombré sunrise
I taste the fruit of a new day
Sweet, my cup full of pulp free potential
This is perpetual refreshment
For those who wake to take it
No meniscus to worry about
A travel mug of joy
Father Superior
We are celebrating the life & times of my father today. He passed on February 28, 2022. He loved Lake Superior. And, my oh my, did he love his people. This is what I wrote.
If I Could
If I could carry you on my back
To the next place, a fortress of peace, I would.
A million memories like threads
Of alabaster spiderwebs will still exist
If I could absorb your pain and any sadness
In the sponge of my soul, I would
A movie of what we were and will always be,
Beautiful and righteous, will play on
If I could rock you in a cradle of my arms
To a sweet, unending sleep, I would
Pieces of you are intertwined in all of us,
Filling the darkness of life’s lattice with good
And to carry you on in all that is done, I will. We will.
Morning Mourning
I mourn in the morning,
When no one can see.
The French press of my emotions,
Coursing through me.
My tears awake,
As the moon goes to sleep.
But when the sun says hello,
I cease to weep.
For the day returns in glory,
Calling me to live.
I tuck away day-sleeping sorrow,
For the joy I have yet to give.
I mourn in the morning,
When no one can see.
My now past yields to my present.
I am once again free.
Snow at Dusk
The steady fall along my wall leads to the end of day.
Frigid flakes coagulated atop the fertile ground of Spring exhibit their intricate glory.
Inside, I make dinner. I’m safe. It’s warm.
Dusk brings warning of a night from which I must hide. Or must I?
The only light is the crisp white of the snow out my front door.
The steady hum of plows is a clockwork announcement of the burden of today.
Do I dream of the melt of it all?
Or do I let myself be numbed by the cold, hypnotic beauty of snow at dusk?
Instead I dream that I am a snow crystal floating in the air, landing with the other crystals on the blanket we make as we go.
Kelly Rogers 