Walking with my Wings

I was out of sync. this morning. The pink gyroscope in my garnet jello heart was out of balance. Even blogging couldn’t rouse me. You know it’s serious then! I’ve noticed that just watching these slumps can make them worse. Tiny judgments creep in, assumptions that the mood will keep sinking. It’s a small but powerful difference.

So I decided to walk to where I vote. As I walked the rare, saturated colors of ephemeral leaves watched me. no refererI thought of the seasons and how they continue before and beyond me. I could sleep forever and the world would continue. I realized my burden was not really mine, I just thought it was. I had made it mine. Now I saw the leaves would help shoulder it for me. The air was warm and sweet, and it also comforted me, but only when I let it. So I let it, reluctantly. The air wasn’t offended at all.

At the polling station, I was told my precinct had been moved, and was actually closer to me than before. I spoke a few minutes with a city council person. We spoke of the arts and how cities need them to stay healthy. I felt healthier hearing that. And hearing it from such a friendly representative.

As I headed back, I took a detour through a wooded neighborhood. I haven’t taken detours in awhile. I’ve been staying on the main path way too much. no refererThe colors I saw are indescribable. Colors have so much to say, but they say it without words.

I began to think of my pink gyroscope garnet jello heart, and how such a tiny imbalance can throw it out of whack. And I thought how I needn’t fear, because there’s so many things to help re-align it, just the right amount, not too much, not too little. I heard a little rattle in my head.

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Crossing

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Hearing his heartbeat, he crosses the worn wooden threshold of his apartment door and turns right down the sidewalk into the the little spits of mist floating in the sunlight. The speckled painting of fallen leaves coats every surface with fresh wet decay. He walks with intention, nowhere. We watch as he shrinks, sinking into the canvas, until his faded blue jeans are a twig to his damp, golden hair.

Playing What Is

A musician sits practicing alone in his room, as he has done most of his life. He is a beloved performer, respected and revered by many. He is concentrated and fearless in his focus. Time passes effortlessly here. Time stops.

The light in his room dims. He looks up from the piece he is playing, the solo part from the slow movement of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto. Above his music stand, there hovers a soft violet glow. He hears a chorus murmuring.

(voices of listeners from all time):You play the music in our hearts. You play things we feel. You are deep and wise.

(performer): No, I play what I am told to play. I play what I know you will feel. But I do not feel what you do. I am not wise.

This saddens us. You are not what you seem. Tell us why.

I think and feel as you do, but I am empty. I fill myself with things which give the impression I am full. I show you yourself.
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Listening

no refererI’m a problem solver. If something needs fixing, I assess it and decide how to act up the solution. I want everything working, even if it’s held together with duct tape.
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But that doesn’t work with people. Sometimes it’s difficult to know when to listen and when to offer advice. I have trouble knowing the difference. Listening can be harder work than fixing. At least for me.

One thing for sure. I learn more from listening.

I’m listening… what’s on your mind?

(anyone see my duct tape around?)