Green Dreams

Waking driftings, nothing holding me down. Just a blur, just a passing frown. Green dreams of my children’s eyes. An imagine that makes me want to drop to my knees. Some thoughts are so big you cant think them. Some dreams are so crisp overcast glow, then burn your eyes. Then shine like ravens in battlefield skies. Dead ends are so mystifying to us, aren’t they? We always love to see that cliff or wall. But sometimes all I want to see is what lies behind it. What is it in me that drives such flagellation of other lives when all I have is now. Maybe it is in such that I allow myself to see what I hid from myself in my heart.

Pan en, then… Is that enough? Do we need more? Pan en pain, pan en tears, pan en silver light’s caresses. Theos en pan.

How can I turn wrong in such purity? Then why still fear my maturity? I guess that’s the lesson in these green dreams. Fear is not in my heart. The skies are overcast but wrap around us like angels wings. How can any of this be real when it feels so easy, so right. Just like in dreams when nothing seems to connect, and no one seems to notice, least of all the dreamer. What is the lesson if not that its very disconnected flow is a sacred Chao. What level do we perceive from? The Chao is a unique snowflake in Chaos blizzards dance. And oh how it dances and flows to its own beautiful music. Some can see past Chao and its twins, with grids of majesty and tearful power. Sometimes I can see the fragments spinning in my life and just accept them as they are. They still glint from the light source, for all fragments shine. Lost nows. It is these that we hold on to so tightly that we cut ourselves. Nows that can never be lost but in our hearts. When we despair of the break from now, and the pattern it follows. Will its edges be jagged or smooth? Will they be sharp or course? Gentle or hard?

But what, then, is this but window dressing? Would we scoff at The Three Graces if placed in the window of a Burger King? Would Monet’s fire be any less if placed in a rough hewn frame? Why do we dance so in the frames of our lives… All still shines from the soft sweet light at its center…

All I wonder about now… am I falling into it, or away from it? Do fragments spin away? Or past?

Time will tell… Time will tell.

Such Chill

Its weird that you can still hurt me from your frozen thrown where you rule your kingdom of ice. Why would I want apart of that world? I know, ice can be beautiful in its sweet sorrow. We want to comfort it and try and warm it up, but it knows it will just melt. Better to be away, back in your ice caves. But I still feel sad. But you know the honest thing? I feel sad for you, not for the loss of you.

You finally got what you feared, expected and invented along the way. Weird huh? In the end you were dragging it out of me. So what else is there to say? I just showed you the truth and you made it about insults and pain. I showed you a crossroads and you picked this path without a second thought.

Nuria, I said a prayer to your gods for you. I asked them to take good care of you, and bring you the happiness you couldn't take from me or so many others. What else can I do with someone so lost in their own madness? I tried everything else. But I'm done selling myself short, your not worth the bother. I cant change you against your will. I cant love anyone who wont let me. I cant love someone who doesn't love themselves. I cant even respect you because you don't respect your self. You limit yourself with your assumptions.

Nuria, beloved, goodbye.

I know I wasn't the best I could have been, but I tried my hardest, start to finish. Can you say that?

My Nuria

Why didn't see it sooner?  I saw, and I saw, much and more.  But it wasn't all of it.  I called you, my luminous one, I made you real.  Nothing fills me with more hope, nothing fills me with more terror.  How can this be?  The things that go unnoticed in my life, what are they up to?  They listen, its clear to me they listen.  They are the rats in the walls of the castle, the little bird on a branch in the woods.  They are also the maker and the destroyer, gods and men.  How careful I must be...

          I forgive you, my bright one, for it was not your fault.  It was my own expression returned, and I welcome it home again.  What else can I do with it?  My children are always welcome at my table.  Did I reach out in pain?  What did I release to myself?  The balance was lost, so long did I sit on one side.  I choose suffering, why?  Time and time again, why?

          Is it so easy to play that part?  Yes, so easy.  Its always around, just tap into it.  Is it so easy to connect with it?  We all carry it along.  Is it interesting?  Oh yes, ever so much so.  I was never bored, not once.  Maybe you don't believe that, but its true.  Nuria, you have been the most stimulating thing to ever happen to me.  Is it a good thing?  In the end, I can see the good in you.  Thank you for every minute.  Dreams come true.  What am I dreaming?  Is it worth it?  Yes, a thousand times yes.  Living is the justification for life, and its true for all children, the good and the bad alike.  We treat them all as treasures.  They are all treasures.

          There was always some balance, there are the good times with the bad.  There is more, there is room.  Is that what feels so good about suffering?  The room for love?  True and simple, practiced, not professed?  All things in balance, maybe I fell off.  So here is the clean page before me, what do I write?  What do I say to the mouse, sitting in my house?  Its time to make this right, to tell your story, and to tell of hope.  We always have hope, I will remind you of that.  They will be listening.

          Come, sit by the fire and be at peace.  There is soft music and slow dancing.  A great bird roasting in the kitchen.  The snow falls out the window, and the sun fades.  But here its comfortable, warm and safe.  You can close your eyes and hear the fire crackling, you can smell the cold, and the wood, and the food.  Welcome home my child.

Cactus and Dust.

Star bursts of purple waving at the end of long green stalks, forever frozen, forever in motion. White stones in defensive tiers, guarding emerald leaves. A mottled canopy, casting distorted shadows in the soft wind. Slow and patient Ivy, crawling, waiting, twisting over everything. When no ones looking, in the dead of the night, it spreads its dominion, inch by inch. Up the pale sky blue walls, hiding away wide white trim. An inviting teal double door atop 3 stairs.

A tall and steep hill, crowned with sparse bushes. Each an invader, an outcast, surviving on an edge of two very different worlds. Natures mounded wall, a boarder between quiet suburbia and the wilds. A wall with towers and sentinels, long dead and silent, fallen to ruin. The watchers still there amid the white dusty skeleton of rock, melted into its walls, fused into stone. A graveyard of the ancient masters of a watery world. Cross over, and be confronted by a beautiful and savage vista. Shrub covered hills slopping away into obscurity. Meandering paths leading deep into fields of mustard, with small yellow flowers held high over our heads. A place to lose yourself.

Stands of cactus, sharp and unwelcoming. Keeping mostly to themselves, they grow in tight comities, spike covered havens. Amongst the thorns, purple and yellow flowers blossom with a hundred little fingers, each reaching out to the sun. Past them lay the hills. Rocks piled high with a light dusting of dirt, and a few hearty shrubs clinging on with all their might. And to those brave enough to climb their sides, a grand view and just the right number of seats. A place of rest and reflection, to watch the sun sink on another carefree evening.

For you see they really are fond childhood memories. Cactus and dust.

Sunset Noon

Somewhere, a war as ancient as mankind is underway. Its another skirmish in the endless battle of man verses nature. The troops are assembled, and weapons brought to bare. For you see, somewhere California is burning. The scar from this primeval battlefield rises up to the heavens and blots out the sun. It came drifting over the hills, from miles and miles away, driven by a cold and hungry wind. Smoke and ash falls from the sky like a great perversion of rain, speaking of only death. Sunset at noon. Its so disorienting. The shadows are short and tucked, the midday's heat still beats down from the obscured sun. But the colors are all wrong. Its orange and red, a mockery of the end of days.
There is this smell of wood smoke that hangs in the air. I know its a herald of destruction but all I can think of is quite nights around a campfire. Of happy times where I was safe and contented, in the peace of nature. And yet I know, right now people are losing their homes to this war. There will be casualties. Is that wrong?