Fleeting Pleasures

I find simple pleasure on rainy days, and cloudy mornings. I sit close to the window. I feel the cold against it, and listen to the patter. It seems that on those kinds of days, the whole household sleeps longer, and deeper. Then of course when I happen to open my eyes and realize I am awake, quiet greets me with a questioning gaze. I gaze back, as if to inquire “What do you mean? What am I supposed to do?” Suddenly, my thoughts seem to rush to me in bouts of suggestions. “Get up! Shower! Clean up the kitchen!” To that I reply with silence, then stretching. I end up ignoring the authoritative calls altogether as I roll back into slumber’s arms. An act of defiance and fear. 

Defiance for I dislike being ordered around. Fear because I know vengeance awaits me at my second waking.

Before silence could be interrupted in my head this time, I get up with a semblance of determination and no further thought on what it is I am doing, or what it is I will do. Like a machine devoid of feelings I step in the bathtub and let the shower head do its job.

Sweet silence is here too! I feel a smile form but I dismiss it. Instead I want to remain concentrated on my senses and not my consciousness. Sweet silence in the rushing of the pipe water. It almost feels like a natural occurrence, a small waterfall perhaps. My thoughts need not to be drowned. My head is already filled with sensations. Now that I recall, I must’ve missed the touch of my dress as I pulled it on me. I do remember the smooth and swift movements of my hands lotioning my skin. 

The rest of my journey brought me to the dining table where I sat with a cup of tea, a computer – that device felt like the odd one, and my small wallet shaped bible. I unclasped it and searched its pages looking for a mark I left there previously. Then I read, and read. Oh! Some feelings now in my chest. I instantly despised it. It felt uncomfortable, constricting – it was telling me the truth but I did not know yet. I reread it absentmindedly and got pulled back by some sort of understanding. An understanding that my mind didn’t process but only delivered somehow. I had to read again, and read myself – I was not at fault nor at the center of my difficulties, rather I  was a scene that uncovered it. And just like the blind man I read about, even his parents weren’t at fault. Mine weren’t – although they made me surfer greatly. Yet, after Jesus made that clay and covered the place that was disabled on his body sent him to wash the clay away. By doing so he uncovered what had been done – a miracle. He uncovered his sight. 

I wonder what I’ll uncover. The places on me that are in a way disabled are more than one. My heart, my mind, my spirit – only inner places. How will I be touched? I don’t know. 

I remain in this gray area besides the window. I can see the happenings but not clearly. Most unlikely do I see what will become of the clouds. Still, I delight in this weather. It seems to understand me, reciprocating my interrogations, and my weariness. It does so distinctly despite the several songs of Soul and tunes of Jazz I later played to shake up my mood, it is there as the truth of my condition, and a faithful companion in waiting for, for something else. 

The saxophone agreed, pitching in the highs and lows as I finished bearing my state of mind.

Puddles

It is known that even a puddle of water can reflect your face
Even a teardrop is capable of showing you the sky
The ones that I see are muddy
It could be my sight or maybe my feelings
I stare at them for a while, trying to ascertain how unclear my being is
The more I zoom in on the bodies of water, the more I am intrigued by their beds
Some are lined with pebbles bright as jewels,
Some are brownish red
The colors are seen from the surface
Maybe what I see is just the first coating
Could it be that I saw only what was?

There’s not much that we can hold that doesn’t slip through our fingers
So when the thoughts don’t add up, or the beliefs seems to be counterproductive
Aside from accepting natural duality, may we consider equations leading to a sum
Currents meeting the ocean
Teardrops meeting untouched cheeks
Water meeting the ground

No mistakes, as in no coincidences are made
People become who they are in different ways

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Photo credit : Sabina Sturzu

WTH? (A think piece)

“I wish I would have never come here.”

Probably one of my most frequently used lines after “what the heck am I doing here?”
It’s not the location, the environment, or ambiance that I disliked, but this feeling; the absence of choice.
I would be wishing I was here – anywhere if I had stayed. Furthermore, what I’d be doing “there” wasn’t my concern. See, I chose by default. I selected the “what if” instead of the “in spite of”.
But understand me, my decision was not faulted (kinda positive if you ask me)/
I got away from misery – from alienation. What I’ve come into created unsettlement. Unsettlement, and unpacking as well.
Let’s see, three-four dresses, one ring on my finger. Various legal documents, a pair of jeans, an old t-shirt that has served as a towel a couple of times, and a pocket mirror.
The inventory of the items I left behind would resemble a grocery list – important in the moment, discarded afterward. It makes you think if anything was ever important. It has you wondering why you held onto inanimate objects so dearly.
Where’s the common sense? Where’s your mettle? The wrong foundations can trigger the most fortified mansions to their fall – directly in the pit of the ocean. And that’s where you’re called to find an anchor. Ironic, isn’t it?
Unstable ways make for sailing waves.
Settling wasn’t the burden to take on. We were/are supposed to conquer new territories. For that reason, what we leave behind really isn’t a loss; it’s just old lands that are now populated with other forms of life, passions, and stories. It’s time to find new ones.
After years of staring at my reflection in a metaphoric way, now what I eye is a ray of sunshine in my pocket mirror. Nothing much to see, you know? There are no signs, no providence nor silver lining. Just taunting light bouncing off a magnifying glass either pointing left, right center, back, or forward depending on where I move it to. Kid’s play. And that people, is the way!

Low on Balance

Breathe Grace

 

In a search of security, we’ve pressed ourselves to understand, know, and predict our circumstances. The more knowledge we thought we have, the more secure we esteemed ourselves to be. This quest of the ideal, the safe and the comfortable finds its roots in fear and it resulted somehow in pride. Pride isn’t inherently bad, but it can take up a lot of places, namely on our shoulders. 

Pride is defined as “a feeling or deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one’s own achievements, the achievements of those with whom one is closely associated, or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired.”

Deep pleasure in our achievements or other’s achievements. But what happens if these achievements aren’t a reality? Personally, what happens in my body is a heaviness in my chest area, a feeling of overwhelming heat. I feel exposed as if I was pretending to be perfect and the curtain rose on me.

It seems as if whether we accept our flaws or reject them, whether we reach balance on a certain day or completely miss its trail, all of the responsibility is on our shoulders. 

But in reality, there is grace. 

Grace is unconditional, freely given, and aims to free you from your burden. 

Besides the grace we can offer ourselves, which is again another responsibility to think of, there is the Grace of God. Now, we will not study the grace of God because it’s not the purpose of this page. We will simply imagine the grace of someone superior, bigger, all-knowing (what we subconsciously want to be) looking down, actually coming to us as a human would and giving us His grace. 

That’s it. That’s all. 

At times, we vitally need to receive something we cannot reach ourselves. We need that loving hand and giving heart. Then our breathing can settle, as to say “at last, somebody else stepped in. I can relax”. 

Breathe again. Breathe in grace.

 

A parenthesis

Give me air, not a muffled pillow

Give me silence and a little bit of tune, Tell Him by Lauryn Hill, cut by the screams of crows in the sunset sky.

This could be peace. This could be love.

This could be my mourning song and the comfort of God.

Stillness in chaos, the peace before a righteous rage.

Tell him… it’ll be all right.

#NotAnotherHashtag

BEing

What appears far off is on the contrary near,
The clothes of honor and respect you seek has been on thee, 
Strolling after what we want we miss what we need, 
The desires of our hearts are weaken by our wounds and their fears, 
And the fear came from the pride we took in ourselves, thinking we were endless like the air that flows from the Most High, 
Thinking, wishing and putting on ourselves more than we could stomach, 
All the while nature sits and looks but sees past us, too busy being. 
We should do that too – BE. 
Our lives doesn’t require a show, an act, a spectacle or catwalk. 
If you can gaze at a motionless picture, with colors or one devoid of colors, with clear defined objects or abstract measures with no confusion, only awe and consideration, you can do that for yourself and to others – let BE. 

That’s what this picture I took in my neighborhood a week ago inspires me. Simple as that. Poetry. Thoughts.

Kindling Hearts (Reach Out)

Reaching out,

Though we may not be mourning personally,

Though we may not be sick and hurting

Though our pain seems to be less,

Reaching out blesses the well and the depressed.

 

Reaching out, a means to not wallow, 

A ship that rescues us from drowning through a simple hello.

 

Reaching out may stir feelings of inadequacy, fear of rejection, the impression of obligation

It is but a trial, a bottle of water we share

If I can drink then you should have the chance to do so as well

Some call it solidarity

Others call it love

We can view it also as respect

The most are not asked, rather, the least,

Not just the least you could do but the least you could sit on,

Like the recurrent bickering, gossip, the assumptions and allusions, the suspicion that darkens disparate thoughts and follows our musings.

 

Reaching out, admitting that in fact, not everything comes from within;

Moving poetry, starking art, mental and spiritual illuminance lies dormant in her, in him 

That is why we must contain our urge of isolating

That is why even scant hope should be shared as much as our distress

Because what goes around comes around and we can’t take another round of this mess.

 

Please help me live as opposed to surviving.

 

I decide to help you live as opposed to surviving

 

Reach out, let’s kindle the love within.

 

This is not just a poem. If you need me, I am here. Reach out.

PS: If you can, #stayhome

Photo by Giovanni Ribeiro on Unsplash

Naked

Naked.

A statement, 

A  state, 

A page, blank and silent.

Naked.

Like an end to it all.

A death.

A pause.

A moment to reflect without thinking.

Naked.

A reminder to be quiet.

My being requires me to be speechless, grateful, accepting, whole…

As much as it was scary and intimidating, I stripped off of my insecurities and lingered there, at the center, facing myself, looking into my own eyes – not to find but to keep all that I am. Every part of me. Every part of me deserves to be kept, not bullied, not mocked, not considered as waste.

Naked; reconciled with me again.

 

Photo by Valdemaras D. on Unsplash

Grand Rising

A stick at a time, beautiful birds build their nest
Early in the morning as the sun ends its rest
With determination to press on their stength, making their wings counter the air, daunt it then sail ahead, till moments later, back at it again.

Focused not on the burden of starting over. Looking forward to the joy of flying once more.