An Author's Offering

Hi there! I had pneumonia over Christmas, but all better now, thank God. Basically... I'm back... again ;-D The Siege of the Storm People come to this lake to see serene scenery, Ducks and geese that sail silently, Smooth and quiet, still surface, The water reflecting the sky. How boring. When I turn the last corner, I park and go still. To see the action. I'm here for a rock concert, a cage match and the Lord of the Flies' playground all in one. The clouds rumble their way in, above, pushing and shoving their way to the front, blocking the view of the sun. The waves form and clap in time. The current starts out calm, but finds its beat and runs strong and deep... deep. Birds battle while the the rain pelts the ground in a drumroll, like the drummer boys marching before the troops. The war is on. It's a battle of wills; it's a battle of nature... versus nature. The geese, the ducks, coots and pelicans. They're all assembled on the battlef...

Her eyelids are heavy; her vision is shaded, Lashes weighing down and out, but not quite closed. The residue of sleep builds up in the corners of her eyes. She wonders why, where did it come from? Sleep has eluded her for days, coming in fits and bursts. Worry of the future, lists of responsibilities stretching out in her mind of days to come, Distractions and thoughts like a cloud of gnats buzzing around her ears, never stopping. Would she ever find rest? Sleep is elusive prey; you can crouch in the shadows for hours and never catch it. It likes to play with the hunter, staying just in the line of sight, and just out of reach, Only to overcome the hunter as exhaustion runs them down. But slowly, oh so slowly, the hunter learns to trust, To let their guard down, just a little, To not crouch ready for the next attack, the next kill. And with trust filling the blood and spreading through the body, the muscles relax. And rest, though elusive in nature, makes its way to the ...

I don’t have a dream, except a dream of a dream. I have a hole instead: a hole or a pit, a vacuum that never fills up, and a thirst that is never satisfied. I look at my life through a mirror, the reflections speak to me in muffled voices, and I’m sinking down and down through the gloom, wishing my soul to sing, my essence to fly out, into the clear bright air under the sun. I have a dream to breathe, to fill my lungs and live But instead I I control my breathing and sleep, Sleep through this life and long to dream. But then… Along comes Hope and with Hope comes life, and I find it, or it finds me… And I breathe in deep, and as the air fills my lungs, I long to cry and shout, to sigh with relief, as I awake anew, from the dark, deep sleep, where I dreamed of dreaming a dream.

I look at the sea, and the sea looks at me. I dive into its arms and it buoys me up. I slide on the slippery seaweed and pebbles. I dance as the waves slap the water in time. I feel the spray in my face and shout to the sky. But I know to never let this relationship go too far... For if I go too deep, the water would swallow me whole.

Apologies for the lack of posts. I blame a long sinus infection, strained muscles in my back, and the fact that the doctor put my hurt foot in a boot. You know: all those happy cheerful times in summer... Anyway, here you go! A cliché is not authentic. It is not original or creative or often even helpful. Many talk in clichés to say things they do not really mean. But a cliché is not a lie simply because it is cliché. It does not pretend to be original; that is not the point. Its purpose is not to open the eyes of mankind to truths never found before. But still, that doesn’t make it a lie. In conversation, it can be used thoughtlessly, without feeling. It can be more of a comfort to the speaker than to the listener. But a cliché doesn’t pretend to be anything but what it is: a common, overused phrase or saying. But all this doesn’t make it a lie. A cliché is said too much because when it was first introduced, it meant something to those who heard it. Perhaps the origi...

(The point is to be a little confused at the beginning... don't worry!) I’m a bunny in a breeze. I’m a frog in a frenzy. I’m a mole in a mountain. I’m a lion on a lawn. I’m as slippery as soap, and as stubborn as a sailor. I’m as listless as a lump, and as harried as a hamster. I’m a human in a pickle, looking for identity, lost in metaphor and riddle, searching for analogy. I find I’m both and neither…  everything and nothing… Until finally I decide: I’m not a character,  portrayal or example, I’m me: impossibly complex,  and truly unexplainable. 

We often describe this life as “fine,” “good,” and “same old same old,” when the truth is, it’s not. Often, we’re drowning in a sea of change, loss, hurt, confusion and loneliness.  Sometimes we’ve fallen so deep into a pit that we don’t see a way out. A rope was thrown down after us, our only hope, but often it seems no hope at all. It is slippery, and we can feel it slip through our fingers no matter how tight we hold on. We can barely keep hold of it, and salvation seems impossible. We are so deep underground we can’t even see the light of the opening above our heads. We’re weighted down by mud and dirt, and long for enough oxygen to really breath. We may begin to panic, or give up all together. But still, we manage to keep hold of that rope, the only way out. Maybe, it will eventually become dry enough to climb, or someone might even pull us up. Because if we let go of the rope, our hope, then we will never get out of the pit.