On Homesickness. - The second time I went to New England was after a prolonged time in the deep south. My tenure at Louisiana State University had come to a close (relativel...
Monday, May 5, 2014
Let me take the time to sit on the steps with my eyes closed and the sun warm on my face, the girls riding bikes or playing catch.
Wake me with bird song for my alarm clock and remind me that spring is about rebirth and it gives me that same chance.
Give me ink, words, permanency, all thrust into the heart, coming from the heart, sent as an extension of it into the world.
These words are scrapbooks of a sort, timelines, testaments. Behind them, where you cannot see, they hold secrets even from me.
Echoes of an old prayer. The kind of prayer you write on a paper bag or a napkin, because you have to, because you can't risk letting it get away.
Prayer. Putting gratitude into the Universe. Throwing hopes and dreams into the air with all the might in your soul's shoulder. Asking comfort for fears or protection for loved ones. It's not in the answering, it's in the asking where the worth is.
Prayer. A deep breath and exhale at a sunset on the river. Reflecting with the sun.
Prayer. Seeing the smile of your child spelled out in the stars at night. And knowing the Universe, however vast, is there in the smile.