showcasing the simple or sometimes eccentric beauty of our natural world
rose in milk jug
Words curl into drops of water that rejuvenate me like the red rose drinking from its life juice out of the milk jar that’s cloudy and faded, its number eight greyed and worn and peeling out of the edges, green leaves beaded with condensation, clamping against the sides of the jug as they stay steadfast, so strong, so delicate. The sturdy light green stem reminds me of life and youth and my own seventeen years on this earth. Seventeen years having loved this world full of colors and shapes and sounds. It reminds me that my life is slowly curling at the edges one by one, like the shiny, velvety petals on the rose in the milk jug. So fragile, yet so strong.
Head bobs gently, to the beat of the rattle of the wheels against the road. Calm, calm, calm. I don't know where I'm going. Rather- I do. It's a road trip. Of course I do. Still I am swirling in a world of endless possibilities.... thinking to what we could do, here in this tattered, half open car. When we stop by a forest, I could be a bear. My quiet sensibilities could convalesce into the one, singular sound of my breathing, and my paws against the rock. A timeless, senseless beat. My own rhythm continues, sounding steadily in the heart of the forest, the trees, the ground beneath my feet, of the eagle, whose eyes are sharp and whose wings are steady, holding fast against the wind. When I take my camera in my hand I can create my own quiet beat too. Clicking the shutter slowly, quietly, then rapidly, a blur. Smiling at the movements my fingers make and their catharsis, noticing how with each energy wasted I make more in exchange As I add my own to the beat of the bear, the eagle, my camera. The beat is fast but It is calm. Calm, calm, calm.
maple flavored latte in a travel cup
A maple flavored latte in a travel cup, brewed with my roommate’s keurig, mixed with the milk I’ve almost let expire, tossed into my backpack on the way to class. Maple flavored latte that warms me like a blanket for the cold tone of my professor, helps my eyes stay open just long enough to hear her words, smells like home when philosophy readings make me feel lost. Maple flavored latte, brewed with my roommate’s keurig this morning. Poisonous medicine to help me swallow my roommate’s text: “Those cockroaches in our kitchen? The ones that march like ants in a line, mutated alien colonies with too many limbs, coming from the corner of the wall to underneath the microwave? Yeah, I think they’ve been breeding inside the coffee machine."
Stop, for a second. See the mountain. Hear it. Feel it. This is your existence. You who has been, who is, who will be. Listen to the gentle heartbeat of the earth. Stay calm, focused, ignore the din of the people, of those who do not know. Listen. Do you hear how the earth suffers? How it groans when starry skies become smudges made of graphite on paper? Do you feel the wet rain on your back, sticky and salty like the tears the moist soil breathes one last time before it is burnt into ashes? Listen darling, listen. You are the mountain now. You are the beat. You are the earth. Learn darling, learn, so that you can save yourself.
I often find I think most, when the water is beating down my back, and the steam is a white swirl that fills my ears and nose. When the only sound beside the crashes in my head is the slow trickle of water pooling at my feet, becoming a gentle pendulum that renderes me lost in my own mind. I find answers here. The shower is the lost and found of my soul, the hidden cave in the Bermuda Triangle of my consciousness. Here I can talk to mermaids and fairies. Here I can write on the glass; my pudgy fingers leave a dusty trail as salty tears stain my face, when my own inner oracle, the sage that emerges only when I am vulnerable, wet, stone cold, reveals to me the answer that I utter from broken lips and that has always screamed within my soul.