Sheets of Trees

Why does a piece of paper have to define who you are?
Depicting, illustrating, outlining your future, your status, your heritage.
From birth we seem to be identified by pieces of paper.
Birth Certificate.
Social Security Card.
Passport.
Learner’s Permit.
Driver’s License.
Diplomas.
Documentation that tells you what?
Stating what kind of human being you are?
Certainly not.
What kind of friend you’ll be, mother you’ll make or father you’ll become.
I don’t think so.
It says nothing about what’s really in your heart, about what your true characteristics are.
A Piece of paper does nothing but state your name, the date, and how much money, blood, sweat and tears you put into the label in black calligraphy on that biodegradable sheet of tree.
Accomplishments, perhaps, but character, absolutely not.
And what’s accomplishments without character?
A declaration of…?
That piece of paper says what exactly?
Nothing that I really need, just confirmation for the ego, the superficial, the mind.
The heart needs no authentication.
The heart already knows what’s true.
The heart sees that you are doing it, that you have achieved what it is you set out to do.
Tell the mind and ego to shove it, put it in that piece of paper, roll it up, and smoke it.
Do what you have to, but in my opinion, pieces of paper are a waste of oxygen – good, green trees that we need for livin’.

Yes Breathe

Fear of failure.
Fear of not being good enough.
Fear arises.

To quell the storm, I breathe.
Put all that aside, because YOU CAN DO THIS.
Tell yourself you can, and you can, because you have to.
Have to because you CAN.
Because this is who you are.
You, not defined by your actions but accented by your endeavors.

Self, you CAN do this.
Breathe.
Breathe.

The sun sets pick and purple and orange.

The sun sets pick and purple and orange.
Summer time has arrived.
98 degrees and full steam ahead.
Eating food with my fingers is so much more delightful.
Some days I just have to lay down the fork and knife, and suck the juice from the tip of my thumb.
My skin kisses the sunshine.
My soul delights in the warm embraces of May.
Strawberries taste like strawberries.
Corn on the cob pops so sweet in my mouth.
But no matter the season, hot tea still finds a place, nestled snugly in my hand and tenderly on my tongue.

Let's not put screens on any window

Last night I watched the sunset through my open window as I took a shower. The cool evening breeze mixed with the hot steam from the running water was a welcome, easy contrast to my long day. Watching the sky change to orange and purple and yellow I washed my hair invited the scent of shampoo and dusk into my senses.

I put on a loose dress, made dinner, and sat on the back deck, finally accepting that spring was here. The temperature outside was perfect. I felt as though my skin were the air and the air was my skin, there was no barrier.

Practicing guitar by the light of a single candle, I sang to the stars with my out of key voice and strummed along to the crickets with not a particularly good rhythm.

Why can’t everyday be an adventure? Why can’t I make every moment worth sharing? Traveling makes it easy to experience life in a new way. When I don’t have that luxury, I’ll accept the challenge to make every day a new and exciting endeavor. Inviting interesting happenings into my life and accepting mundane experiences as learning tools regardless.

War Paint

Running her fingers through the wet earth she dons her war paint.
Two bands around each arm. Stripes slash each cheek. A dot in the center of her forehead and a streak down the center of her face. Wrist bands and chest paint and two hand prints on her stomach. At her throat, beads of clumped, dried, mud cling like an amber necklace.

As she watches the sunset, she builds a fire. The flames growing larger, the stars appearing brighter, the crickets getting louder and the music in her bones becoming stronger. She cannot help herself. She must be free. The dance courses through her blood. Leaping to her feet she whirls around the flames. Kicking up her heels and letting our loud whoops of delight to the drum beat in her heart.

All night she sings prays to the divine. Her heart becoming open and pure. Sweat cleanses, rinsing her clean – returning the carefully applied armor to the earth from which it first came. At length she rests, curling by her dwindling fire, exhausted yet fulfilled. Like the embers of the fire, she glows. With a smile on her lips she dreams.

As the sun rises once more, illuminating the world, so too is her life once again lit.
She is now ready for the battle of another day.