Mandela Rising

There is repetition
casting imagination aside / black and white
Road blocks to growth

ruts in the path
Stumbling in the ridges

There is repetition
breaking anew
New found shaped / colorful
each balancing with the other
Shifting form of layers cast
designs of nature
Designs of self

There is repetition
one reaches upward
One reaches down to engage
another level
Dimensional weaving
outward extension

There is repetition
in remembering who we are
From whence we came
from where we can go
In the rising mandela

THE CROSSING

Have seen it large 

and seen it small

Have felt its' presence

before its' vision

Now it is here

All open to slide 

into the flow

no chance of failure

All choices of value and growth

Since I placed my foot into the crossing

Reconstruction

A harsh and ardent word to use.  It delves into the presence of thinking that what worked is no longer present either physically or psychologically. The need of reconstruction may be laid upon us by others , being out of style within our outer or inner worlds.

It hit me like a metal bolt grazing a bright yellow construction helmet , so quiet and yet  jarring that this  is what I am,,, under construction, restricting from the framework that fed my soul and my logistics for quite a long time.  Even in my healing process from person, place or things , I have been like a sculpture adding wet clay to the already formed figure unable to pinch off pieces that no longer serve my form or effort. It hit me that my framework may be totally whole as it is and the finishing touches are already present around me…the presence of friends, books, family ties, travel or dipping into a different environment. Their presence may be in nature, in children or  ideas floating ghostlike in the universe.

This is not a time of tearing apart my body and soul in reconstruction. Lingering in thoughts of where to go, what to do, whom to be as I near the age of suggested retirement is not fruitful.

It dawned on me, this Saturday afternoon as the blistery wind tossed the crispy leaves in circles and lines across my yard, that I can start fresh now.. I am not dormant  or crinkled waiting for “something to speak to me” ,rather I can build  with  seeds already present.  I am not static but sliding on a course unknown with a changing body and fruitful presence .

Construct rather than reconstruct. Yes, Construct.  Going forward rather than feeling inadequate in one's present state.

  This is the day that the Lord has made ( is making) let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Willow

the willow weeps for no one
laying roots
burrowing towards earth's center
leading us to water
bending gracefully
casting shadows
reflective light


no sacrifice
in its presence
abiding in its truth of stature
animals, people and soil's advantage
no giving up
rather giving
storms and thunder pierce
its sides
rampant heat curls its leaves
wearing away fresh color
into shedding piles of crushable
shards


it feels no sacrifice
it feels its connection to all time
all conditions and withstands
in its power of giving

Life for Sale.

His life was for sale, with an auction paddle and a promised check.

Holding the portfolio with its gray concrete pages laden with tissued drawings my heart accelerates, like pedestrians catching the flashing hand at an intersection.  Ready and fired up.

The dense well protected black leather binder, light under my fingers lept to life. Each page still vibrantly hand inked with interior designs, craftfully done.

Who was he? His portfolio, ascribed a B+. Other belongings were perched on top a splintered table and a pair of colorful and worn chairs along boxes without lids containing cufflinks brandished by wear
 and two watches catching the last breaths of bygone days.

Searching in a webbed world, unknown to him, I found him.  Mr. Watler of Gansevoort, New York and formerly of Beeker Street in New York City.

WWII honors
Bank clerk in NYC
Student of NY School of Interior Design
State Assessor, Albany, New York
Never Married
One cousin in Gansevoort, New York
All other relatives deceased

Grasping tenderly at his artwork and design, I imagine his designed life and wonder if anyone ever knew him like I do or cared so much about who he was.

His life was for sale at the auction. I held it in my hands for pennies on the dollar.

Letter from MIdlife Woman

I may appear tired to you

from the frenzy of thoughtless past

I may appear sad to you

from remembrance of sun filled days

of dance and drink

I may appear lost within the stillness

of my core

but none of these things are the truth within my field

The expectation of non commanded adventures

The pensive nature of being me

The restful body capturing light and energy for the next

frolic or peaceful glance

Yes, Midlife Man, I see you as well

a bit ragged, a bit lost

in thought

As circles penetrate each others circumference

there is motion,

there is dance, 

there is acceptance

I wish to collide with you, sliding the doors open to 

unforeseen vistas and quiet acknowlgement of living

living evermore in amazement 

This will come 

in unknown time

 I taste its richness and subtle tenderness

I am not tired,sad nor lost 

simply ready for the new etchings upon this life canvas

Through The Gate

Coming through the gate
its' handle brandished with others effort
of oiled hands
its' hinges creaking with mild resistance
I pause
Have I been here before?

The ridge rises with openhanded wildflowers
The lupine particularly pink this season

I do remember the blue lupine and the scattered
Indian blanket flowers
The black-eyed Susans waiting for
harsher sun and parched soil

The moss edges the stones from
spring rains
Rains that buried seedlings under
the sandy soil until now

I do remember this place but is brighter now
and perfected in wildness of textures and whispers
Sounds primal and resonating the stirring valley

I cannot turn back this time
I am propelled with older vison to not turn around
This is where I belong
In the wildflowers and in sundrenched vistas
In the wildness of forgotten dreams

The gate closes behind me with the next breeze
I look forward to meeting the next visitor
resting in this place with me