Not Over the Hill yet.

June 2009

I recall being easily overwhelmed most my life.

I remember taking my son on his first hike. He was almost three and he complained about every six feet of trail. I would keep walking. He would stop and and cry when I would reach three yards away, “Mommy, wait!” I decided that if I gave him more control of our route he would be more inclined to enjoy the great outdoors. “Which path should we take now?” He pointed up the hill. “There.” Encircled by a worn bike path, a lone Manzanita bush stood near a flat surfaced boulder at the inkling of incline up the hill. We made it past the rock and spotted a blue bellied lizard, he was not amused, he wanted to go home. I was determined to go on this hike. I watched as he took one step in front of the other, heel toe, toe heel. He would constantly turn his head and panic as if I were going to vanish. We got a quarter of the way, tears streaming as his mouth shaped the letter “m” turned to “A”, he slid into me. I grabbed his hand and picked him up and he clung to me like a baby marsupial. Half way up the hill I stopped to catch my breath and almost slipped, I knew moving up would be difficult, but somewhat less challenging than heading back down. My heart beat strait into his each step. Occasionally he would shudder, so I began to mutter, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.” We got to the top, “I know I can, I know I can, I know I can.” He smiled and laughed and didn’t cry again that day. I looked down the almost 90 degree hill we’d conquered and we both agreed mommy would lead the rest of the way home.

My son has shown me over and over the strength I never knew I had. At times I feel as if I am wrapped in that hillside, sensing the added weight of responsibility, swallowed with determination and pride, and each time I make it to the other side learning more about myself along the way. 

Composition Book.

The right angles
The soft degrees 
Rooted in all I touch
Taunts the imagery 
Paint me
Feel me 
Hear me 
Live by me
A multitude of different strokes 
Touching edges 
Taking notes 
When I was a child I got the beat 
Growth defined 
Word settled 
Letter inked 
Counting on petals 
Leaves stones 
This my path 
No need to find the way back 
Illusion of safety within  
My composition

For The Birds.

 Why are we so quick to think we are not birds?
 Mylar balloons and stained glass windows are all I need as proof
 Intimately seeking a higher route
 Follow the light
 No need to be set free
 Clipped wings tendency
 Flight upheld
 Note the direction
 The truth in my eyes can see for miles
 In my realm I travel up levels
 Up and up
 Shortcuts don’t teleport
 Governed lands hatch options
 Stashed the knowledge I’ve carried thus far
 Not ready to beam up just yet
 Still resourcing re-con
 Traveling through time
 Cauterizing the line
 Ribbons of brilliant fragments
 Swirls of before
 Steady the horizon peering through
 Immediate illusions break down when skewed
 Blinded by the true nature
 Shining spotlight for you
 Defining divine delusion to the pane