In one month from today,
I’ll turn forty.
Does that mean something?
I think it might.
I think it might mean
bidding a fond farewell to a decade of time
book-ended by zeros
and ushering in a new one,
as though it were a crisp,
unwrinkled, never worn gown
to slip into and dance on
endlessly into the night.
Everything that meant anything important
I’ve learned so far,
I’ve learned from unlearning something else.
Like how love means letting go
not holding on,
and a life filled with meaning
has little to do with money.
Or how kindness is a superpower
not a weakness,
and angling towards joy
doesn’t mean to ignore the darkness,
it means to not ignore the light.
I have inherited a body of knowledge
not my own –
a body of paper skin and earthen bones, too.
scarred, broken, perfect.
Did I mention perfect?
There is nothing on this splendid,
spinning, blue-green marble planet,
strung like a pearl on its cosmic necklace,
that wasn’t supposed to happen,
simply for the fact that it did.
If my years so far could be distilled
into one sentiment worth mentioning,
it would be this:
To live a well-contented life,
it’s crucial to stop fighting.
To stop fighting:
To stop fighting with the truth of how every single thing –
and every single one of us, our self included –
is of the nature to change.
Tag Archives: Creative Writing
I flung open the door this morning –
both the door to start this ripe new day
and the actual door, serving as a boundary
between my slate floor kitchen and the concrete steps,
which when taken lead to the ground,
where all things manifest and are made possible.
Stone, concrete, earth –
all things, no matter how seemingly solid,
can break into shards.
Take this day, for example.
There’s no guarantee we’ll remain intact
by the end of it.
This day, just starting to unfold,
like an origami crane returning to its original paper state,
to be refolded as the day goes on
perhaps into another shape,
might very well be the end of it.
Interloping flowers mixed with pines,
moisture soaked earth perfumed
Mormon Creek surges
rushing in my ears
eager to hear all they can of this place.
The forest is still,
steeped in an outer quietude
that translates inside,
where my heart beats with a fierceness
mirrored by the raging of fire
and glows with the luminosity
of 10,000 points of light.
And then there’s the settling –
once the trees penetrate the forest
of my armor and misgivings.
A calm that hushes the
swingings of thought
and presses pause on the ol’ to-do list,
in the most reasonable of ways.
And there’s never any doubt –
blatant or subtle –
that this interplay of self and nature
is anything other than right,
sensical, profound and sacred.
It’s never been – or ever will be –
a waste of time to ratchet down
and breathe among the trees,
where roots wind in sprawl underfoot
and plans become a thing to be had
some place else.
My tired eyes are propped open
held deliciously captive by
sprigs of budding growth,
and the greening underbelly
I know at times it feels dark and bleak
to encounter the news –
or another day, or life.
I know when you feel uncertain
it’s the best case scenario,
as the more common alternatives are
fear and anger
I know that sometimes you wonder
how things could possibly get any worse;
and then they do
and you feel broken
all over again.
I also know that raging beauty
and unbounded goodness
and decency exist –
not only out right for all to see
but buried like treasure in the hearts of men,
So please, dear ones,
take my hand,
and let us become miners
in search of it.
As winter acquiesces to springtime in the mountains,
light peals back the darkness of morning
earlier and earlier,
and stays later and later
Like a dinner party invitee,
The Light is akin to that dude who
awkwardly and unexpectedly arrives
way ahead of the appointed time of the soiree.
after all the food is gone and the dishes are put away,
and the roar of the fire is down to its flickering embers,
The Light is that last lingering guest,
begging the host to question:
What the heck is this guy still doing here?
I’m the sorta writer who’s comfortable being a one trick pony; able only to write about my own life and how I live it. I’m not a poet or a comedian but I weave words like spring blooms flowers and I find my own self hilarious on a regular and ongoing basis.
I’m a writer in the same way the seasons come calling and winter is the longest, here in the mountains of the west.
I’m a writer like I’m a Montanan, not native born but chosen – and savored as though any day might be my last. And there’s a good chance I’m a writer in the same way I’m a comic: not at all and only to myself.
I’m a writer who likes to think that one day the book I wrote will be in book form, with a cover and binding and acknowledgements no one reads.
I’m the sorta writer whose heart will be the last thing that gives up – and it’ll take a tank to take me out.
I’m someone whose called to step it up in the being-a-decent-human department. I’m someone who’d much rather be seen as kind than cool. I’m someone not looking to put on airs or parade around pretending to be something I’m not – but you should know that who I am authentically is a standup dude and I have my house in good working order. So if I intimidate you or you think I appear too good to be for real, that’s your baggage not mine.
I’m someone who works hard each and every day to show up well for my fellow global inhabitants. I’m committed to a life lived with a heart open choked and full throttle and high moral standards I’m not willing to compromise on.
I’m someone who holds in high regard such things as virtues and ethics when it comes to modes of conduct and behavior. I’m someone who doesn’t think it’s dope to joke about dysfunction or how someone spends most of their time drunk or high or in a state of perpetual teenagerhood.
I’m someone for whom life is an action verb and I’m someone who is all in.
One day soon, the other side of the bed will be occupied by him once again, and I will no longer have to utilize the services of my heating blanket to keep warm at night.
At certain times over the past 3-months, I’ve used this solo time to imagine what a life led in his permanent absence would be like; as though he were gone for good and not only for a short stint. I’ve pondered how I would manage and carry on without him. I’ve gotten a tiny glimpse as to why a widow might keep herself in mourning for a lifetime.
When you’ve married your heart to another full throttle – after weaving your lives together for a spell – there is no such thing as time spent without their energetic impression accompanying you.
Mind you, I can hold my own. I’m steady on my own two aching feet and can joy it up with the best of em, all on my own accord. But I want to keep doing all of that with him close at hand.
One day soon, I’ll shift positions in the middle of the night and in place of the open sea, he’ll be there to catch me – and it will be the utmost of grand occasions.