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Ironing.

 

I have to admit that although I have 100% British blood racing through my veins, I don’t iron a damn thing unless it’s absolutely necessary. But it’s different here. So I’m different here. And when I first arrived, I had to iron, of all things, sheets.

 

And a duvet cover.

 

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever attempted this task, but I’ve lived in the land of tumble dryers for many years and I can say with certainty that I never have—Okay now…it might not be just because of where I live—and that particular morning, it was arduous. Trying. And taxing. For me.

 

Five weeks I’ve been here now. In the UK. And this morning, I once again, saddled the old board with yet another billowy, seemingly endless sheath of heavy fabric. But this time, the iron glided over it as smoothly as skates on ice and before I could have the satisfaction of shouting, Blimey, I hate ironing, I was done.

 

A very different experience than the first time round.

 

And it proved to me, it really is all about frame of mind. Whether it be that you’ve simply decided ironing isn’t all that bad or that life has shown you what the meaning of hard truly is, it’s the way you think about things that will make the difference.

 

And a difference can sometimes be your steam. And that steam’ll blow the wrinkles out from where they have no business being.

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I’m still here.

 

Yes. Here.

 

And here.

 

In my turret, looking out over the crumbly beauty of this sleepy little place. Only today, things aren’t as clear as when I wrote to you from my crystal harbor view.

 

Ohh, but our minds are powerful, aren’t they? And what’s in them determines how we start our day. And respectfully, how we end it.

 

But it’s said that we hold the power to change.

 

Our minds.

 

The way we think. And react. And deal with the circumstances of our lives. And although it can be far from easy, it is possible.

 

We have to strap on our harnesses. Tighten our suspenders. And pull up our socks. Maybe even scale a few towers. Who knows. Whatever it takes. To make ourselves see through the muddle that can descend. Often without warning. No foghorn announcing its arrival. Many times, no chance to gird our loins.

 

It’s not always easy to get through. Or over. And a seemingly simple switch of sorts won’t work every time. But it’s always worth a try. Because magic is forever in the air. Just waiting to be plucked by the most persistent stars.

 

But we have to look up.

 

Find it.

 

What ever it is that makes us whole.

 

Because even when it’s hazy, every Prince…and every Princess…can see their own castle through the fog.

As long as they believe it’s there.

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We’re friends, right? Yes, I know we are. Know how? Well…you’re here. Reading this post.

 

I’ve been gone a long time. But you’re not mad. Or angry. You’re not even upset. Maybe missing me—I secretly hope—a little sad even, and that’s natural. It means you’re a good human. You care. But what you’re not doing is questioning my intent. Or commitment. Or the relationship we’ve built together, just because you haven’t heard from me for a while.

 

And I appreciate that.

 

That secure, connected feeling is the sign of a strong, healthy bond. Being able to be without someone, or something, for very long periods of time…sometimes forever. But somehow still knowing that you could knock the door during a stolen moment, and be welcomed with open arms.

 

Because life can be prickly enough, can’t it? Without having to worry whether our comrades are questioning our loyalty. Or better yet, our hearts.

 

Life can take us places. Down roads we weren’t expecting. Often ones we don’t want to be on. Roads that can sometimes make it impossible to be consistently in touch. And while these diversions are not always welcome, we can sometimes find certain and once again, unexpected crumbs of joy in the corners of their pockets.

 

Today, I am lucky enough to be writing to you, coated in delectable crumbs, from the corner of this stunning pocket. A small slice of joy on an unforeseen road.

HarbourWriting

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I thought I broke something the other day. Something I’ve been trying to be really, really careful with. Something that is important to me. And holds much emotional value.

 

In fact, it’s something that plays an integral part in me not only functioning, but also in my happiness. And health. So you can understand why I’d want to make sure it’s well looked after.

 

But accidents do happen. Even when we’re being mindful and as it were, it slipped from my grasp. Have you ever wished you could go back in time? Years? Maybe just a few seconds? To alter an action? Change the outcome?

 

I have to admit my heart plunged along with it as it toppled to the floor. And as I watched it go down, all the things it’s come to mean to me over time swirled ‘round inside my head. And while I immediately wished the mishap hadn’t happened, it ended up being a good opportunity. For insight. And growth.

 

I hurried to pick it up. Save it. Examine it closely. Look for chips. Cracks. And to hug it close to my chest. Amazingly, it seemed to be intact. Although changed. And I got to see it in a different way.

 

I do know the cracks could be hiding. Deep inside. Unseeable. Lying in wait to open towards the sky.

 

And disconnect everything.

 

So, I’ll be even more careful from now on. Treat it even more delicately. Respectfully. With kindness. And a soft hand.

 

Because when something means the difference between being happy and barely breathing, you know it’s a big deal. And if you’re able to trust that its cracks are simply openings for new light to enter, then every little thing will be all right.

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Do you ever feel like writing – like, really blowing something out of the water – but your mind is so muddled. So clouded.

 

That you can’t.

 

For the life of you.

 

Figure out what it is you wanna say. Or what it is that’s worth saying.

 

Well, hang on to your hats. Because that’s me this time ‘round.

 

I know I’m almost always obscure. Abstract. But in general, I mostly have an idea when I start a post, of how I want it to read. What point I want to smear across that foreboding blank page. What it is I want to say. What it is that’s worth saying.

 

But not today.

 

No, today, I come to you with open arms and a murky mind. And I ask you – What do you think I should say? What do you wanna hear? And what would make it all worthwhile?

 

Hard questions, I know. And more than likely, impossible to answer.

 

So, stuck here, am I. With a desire. A desire that cannot be fulfilled. Because I am failing to pinpoint the words, the meaning, or the value that I need to convey my purpose.

 

Heartbreaking, isn’t?

 

Sometimes, I think it would be nice to simply curl up on a grassy knoll. Under a rainbow, or maybe the stars. And let it all come to me. Because it seems the more I try to chase it, the further away it gets.

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Hope floats, right?

 

Or is it that we float on hope? Do we need to search for it? Call it? Or does it just know where we are? Does hope simply show up at the door…ring the bell? Grab our hands and take us for a spin?

 

I don’t think hope is as lighthearted as that.

 

I do think it finds us. Yes. But it finds us because it’s looking very hard. Looking for the ones who will take it seriously. That won’t waste what it has to offer. That will use its power for good. Hop on its back and have faith that they’ll be in the right place when next their feet touch the soil.

 

I think hope is still.

 

And heavy. A good heavy. An anchor. And that once we manage to grab hold, it weights us. Makes us stable. Gives refuge to wait out the storm. And lets its optimism shower down from a star-studded sky.

 

I think hope is like an Orchid.

 

It’s looking for the people who are willing to turn the crap life has handed them into mulch. Cultivate its roots. And still…still have hope that hope will believe in them. People who trust that if it’s well looked after. Nurtured. Respected. And truly happy.

That they’ll be blessed with living alongside its bloom more often than once a year.

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It’s raining tonight.

 

And I don’t mind.

 

In fact, normally, I find beautiful things in the rain. The way the shrubs and trees and grass burst with luscious life. They way they pop with extra vibrancy against their bleak grey backdrop.

 

The fresh smell of things revived.

 

The moist in the air that feels like it’s good for my skin. The jewelish patterns it leaves on the windowpanes. The sound of it panging the roof.

 

And hey, I’m always wanting a valid reason for a roaring fire.

 

But tonight, I feel sad listening to the pitter of raindrops smacking on the outside shell of my world. For whatever reason, this night is not one of those nights that I’m willing to search for brightness amongst the streaky, cellophaned streets or the drippy ink sky.

 

No. Tonight, I just want to be sad.

 

And that’s alright. Because sadness is poetic. We are lucky to live the sad moments. And rarely do we stay sad forever, right?

 

Sad is not the enemy.

 

Because being completely sad is, after all, the very thing that allows us to know when we are completely happy.

 

And we know this, because our hearts tell us. And so does the wise Louis CK…

 

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