More than a year has passed since I lived through this day. It was an anniversary which was once celebrated, reduced to a pile of shard-laced rubble, too painful to dig through, but which now no longer wrecks me. Like that mountain that nearly killed me to climb, as I walk away, on the other side of it, I am no longer overwhelmed... it diminishes. What you see depends on where you're standing.
Understanding never comes all that easily when you're standing alone, sifting through the rubble. The ability to move on comes at a higher price when forgiveness is not asked of, or given to you. I read a book last year titled, "Wisdom Bowls," which suggested that we need to come to our own conclusions in order to move past our grieving. Truth, like sight, is subjective. We can never know what is in the heart or reason of another. We can only know the recipe of our own mixture.
Decide for yourself what really happened and just go with it, is my simplistic paraphrase of the book. This very "truth" will fill in the cracks and allow you to fill that bowl with wisdom, is the basic resolution which the author offered.
I try too hard. Always making something out of nothing. From memories of wonder that flashed every now and then in my life, I have held onto that feeling like an addict always trying to attain that HIGH again.
Love isn't a thing. LOVE is the sum of all that you are It is the end result of your hurts and triumphs, the elixir of your hopes, dreams and desires. But it is nothing until you choose to bathe another in its gift. A simple smile for a weary stranger... a helping hand for a neighbor... a kind offering for a friend in need... and maybe, if you're really lucky, a heart that will take yours, and do the same for you.
Ahhh...
swimming in this notion that is known by so few... tell me what was love before I loved you?
The direction of my gaze abruptly pivoted skyward
As I remembered to look for a shooting star
As if there was a sale on sky lights
Heaven displayed its abundance of wealth and wonder
My eyes scanned the vast canvas
But were drawn to the line of mountains
Which cut the sky as waking cuts through dreams
As if kissed by g~d I longed to see the shooting once again
