Posted by: Artsy Squibbles | September 2, 2006

Grey September Skies

The first day of September created an ambiance suitable for a blanket, cup of tea and a quiet moment with Kahlil Gibrahn’s Treasured Writings, The Thornbirds, and spoonful of chocolate chip cookie dough. Alas, it was not so for me. My battles as of late leave few moments of “tangible” quiet. Avoidance of issues that need to be dealt with are beginning to rise around me, a bit like flood waters, stagnant and much more putrid, and require attention that I would rather spend on other things. My focus is off kilter, and many dreams lay shattered, glittering remnants that will eventually be crushed into particles the size of a grain of sand. Several old poems come to mind that remind me I have passed through this before, and so what is it that is different this time, and why again? My reaction.
I open the book, seeking one answer like a woman pulling the covers back from a waiting lost love…wiping the dust from its face and smoothing the dent from one corner. I smile, remembering…to the middle I jump. Page 464 grabs me, kissing my lids with such a tender passion that a tear rolls down my cheek as I quickly glance over the black fonts that rest so easily on the creamy white page. The word is more than what I need and still not all. Who am I to feel this strongly about any thing that I might think, feel or live through. I read on…

“…Are you a Poet full of noise and empty sounds?

If so, you are like one of those mountebanks that

make us laugh when they are weeping, and make us

weep when they laugh.

Or are you one of those gifted souls in whose hands

God has placed a viol to soothe the spirit with

Heavenly music, and bring his fellow men, close

to Life and the Beauty of Life? If so, you are a

torch to light us on our way, a sweet longing

in our hearts, and a revelation of the divine in

our dreams…” _Kahlil Gibrahn,

This from The death of The Master, speaks of the two roads, paths, choices that each of us encounter. The entire chapter is a good read… and I skip a page to run my fingers across the words…

“Life is an Island…in an ocean of Loneliness, an island

whose rocks are hopes, whose trees are dreams,

whose flowers are solitude, and whose brooks are thirst.”

Why should I even attempt to write when all has been said? But dance and feel the music inside of me I must. Whether it be a slow march that winds its way through grief, raising my hands with a keening spirit, or if it be a jig with arms straight at my side…I am, as Gibran speaks, the latter of the two.

“…running as with winged feet, singing as if their

throats were strung with silver strings, and climbing

toward the mountaintop….Free Men of Tomorrow.”
And though my body fights my desires, my heart sings to the Universe…with gratitude. And there is nothing in this world, not even death, that will turn me from this permanently. Perhaps I must wander the other paths just to see where it is that I need to be. Perhaps that’s all any of us are ever doing.
I seek only to be myself in the middle of this storm. Maybe hold a hand along the way, kiss a brow with tenderness, fill and empty tummy, or love with the courage and passion that seems to be making its way back to my heart after a twenty three year departure.

Mary Engelbreit, and artist of cards, calendars, gifts and nic nacs that kindle good thoughts, created a picture for a card that someone dear gave to me years ago. A girl stood in the middle of a field arms stretched skyward in gratitude with the simplest of words. Thank You.


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