:: i think it was my mom, cherry, who first introduced me to chihuly. i’ve been smitten every since ::
:: crush on the cloon-ster ::
:: i’ve been missing my favourite shoreline. through the winter month’s, my gps in partnership with my very soul, has been searching for other spaces that qualify as harbors, spaces that are deep and wide enough to hold all the seashell secrets i bring. thus far, i haven’t found a space quiet and patient enough to let me hear the hum of the found items i bring to it. a space that let’s me understand their true form, their essence. and, my contentment in two of the three forms of salt water is dwindling quickly. though i rejoice in spring, i long desperately for summer - for sea::
(disclaimer: the following words are precisely how I feel and I shall not bend to offering apologies for any perceived lack of grace or trust. these words, in merely two words, just are)
it’s the week of dad. this past monday marked the day, the two years that have passed since he became spirit, since he traded in his envelope of skin for the heavenly hosts and the hosanna’s they say we’ll all sing. the rubble has been permitted and the dust has settled. and life, life for most everyone, has continued on as it must. dust to dust. how easy it is to fall from the world, held clumsily in place by the suspended memory of the few that mattered.
my foolish, albeit hopeful heart, thought time would bring clarity, or at least a breath of peace. but dust is a crafty substance and I gravely underestimated it. while we find rest in sleep and the otherness of dreams, it settles into our every pore, every folded limb. hell, I’d bet it even sinks into our souls a bit if we let it. we breathe it in unknowingly, without choice. it rides on the air we need.
it is a strange re-realization to come to terms with the fact that my life and the lives of the ones I love dearly, will always be seen through the lens of this loss. every year. every march 5th. every marker of life that warrants the presence of my father, has been written away. my family of origin has been abridged. The Writer of story wrote it thus.
and I don’t like it.
if I were honest, and my parents taught me always to be honest, I’m angry about it.
i intend to write the Editor. i know my letter will not be the first He’s received. though I’ve always heard He is kind, even known His kindness - right now He seems cruel, an upper management suit that writes lines for His own amusement, His own personal reasons.
rest assured, the nature of my words will be pointed. as He has spared me no pain, I have no intention of sparing Him my thoughts. He can handle it. I have to.
like the fresh breath of childhood honesty, my parents taught me also to trust. unwavering, unthinkable trust. trust in a goodness I cannot see, or feel, or even right now, believe. but just because I don’t feel capable of trusting in this moment, doesn’t mean He isn’t to be trusted.
for now, I choose to wear my feelings in their fullness. i choose to know my own brokenness. i choose to pick up my pen and write an unholy letter to the Editor. from what little i’ve learned in my almost thirty-year-old existence, belief is easily found in the heartbeat of brokenness, at the end of our wits, one measure short of a mad hatter.
:: home is where the tree is ::
:: my favourite mathmatically-minded romance. watch it, it’s cute ::