Apotheca

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Humanity



Theirs was a secret
as infinite
as timelessness…

cradled softly 
in the palm 
of their hands;

a whisper of evermore
a song of Always
a grain of eternity… 

beating through the Universe 
that shines 
through their eyes… 

Waking Dream…

 

Leafless…

She suggested that I write or to have a long bath… Two simple things that when time allows I indulge in: solace. Perhaps it’s the infrequency of those delicious moments. Though, I would Love nothing more than to do just that, the effort required feels unattainable tonight. The last time I attempted to write when she wasn’t home for the night, surfaced, as though I was pining child… or did it? Or was it simply, that I have been inexperienced with such deep intimacy, such Love, that I was justly expressing what it feels like to miss and to be missed; to Love and to be Loved. That it’s alright to feel; to truly be. That it’s a natural human response of Love and connection that is real and true; profoundly requited beyond earthly comprehension?  This is new for me. I have no prior experience from which to pull, tangibly. All I do know for certain… is that while I felt immense joy that she would be taking moments for herself and reconnecting with Loved ones who have had a tremendous hand in the beautiful creation of who she is, I missed her… And while tonight feels like déjà vu, tonight I danced. Tonight I missed. Tonight I Loved. Yes, tonight I Lived…

Dancing in Time…

Sharing the offerings that escape my heart; that embed themselves within the ethers of my breath… Soulscapes that dance with passerbys who stop momentarily to catch a glimpse of their reflection… Yes, like Christmas windows on a busy downtown street, where All is magically quiet and the gentle of a lullaby caresses the soul; in offering of momentary reprieve. A slow dance from the hustle and bustle of Life lived in fast forward. Just as children press their noses against those shiny windows of wonder, so too, do we. The only difference, we press our hearts. Solace is found in many windows. The artistry of such display lies not in it’s decoration, song, lyrics or words, but rather in the feltsense; a knowing of home. We are each of us Always home when sharing without censor the naked of our humanness…

My ‘story’ is not unlike any other… I’ve only just begun to release my grasp on the illusions that once offered false comfort. 

Bidden


Bidden

There in the hearts field of worthy;
of prayer and of Blessing bestowed
Sequestered in hand of The Artist
creator of breath and of soul…

Thy fleece of renewal lay gathered;
frayed edgings and carvings of gold
In heart is a promise of Always
where reach to a treasure unfolds…