Your Sword.

There is no need to walk with sword drawn.
You can unclench your fist.
And your jaw?  Let it relax and float.
Send the dogs back to kennel and leave the gate.
Look at you.
Such a state.
My dear friend, you are not under attack.
Believe me, you were not born to manifest fear,
And yet you are simply dripping with it.


I have seen your hardness, your posturing,
'Heard you revving your engine, your chariot 
Laden with stickers and magnets;
"Support This," and "Fight That."
Signs on your lawn that show you belong;
Let you be confrontational.
Hackles up!
So, you are a force to be reckoned with.


But somehow this does not help you sleep.


My friend, I know you can rage.
I have seen you charge and bluster.
But consider, for a moment;
Consider the pounding waterfall, churning and boiling,
Trying to cleave the Earth; to drive right through.
But at its core, it seeks to soften to the most delicate, 
Hypnotic trickle.
Consider the gales, invisible tyrants racing to level the horizon;
Winds that succumb to the sensual delight of their 
Quintessence; the softest, most delicate breezes.
And consider just beyond the bellows,
Beyond the torched houses, consumed forests;
And bursting forth at lightning's whim,
The ravenous fire; a beast that leaps and rolls, screaming fury,
And yet, at its core is the most beautiful, delicate flame;
Bewildering as it balances; a teardrop on a candle,
Gently weaving and dancing, so happy to simply glow.


You too have a tender aim.  So leave off your chase for a time, and
Summon, instead, the quiet flame you have hidden inside,
Locked so tight that you have forgotten what you were protecting.
Let it up to air and you will find that its warmth, its glow,
Even from something so small,
Is more powerful in its grace than any
Flexing muscle or shattering strike.
And perhaps, with a simple nod, sans twisting or strategy,
You might happily jettison your posturing and magnets,
Pull up your lawn signs, and wonder, as you
Retire to easy slumber,
What all that fear was about in the first place.

Ease.

The way of it all is to ease.
Mark any force with time or temper and follow its 
Inevitable slide to repose;
Water rushes to sea or pool; shakes off the froth of its journey and
Sighs with relief in the calm.
Churning magma spits out its heat; blazing to coolness in its
Desire to blend and age.
And you; your frenzied rush under the sun's arc subsides, as your
Children grow and embrace their own momentum.


The forces of emotion run parallel courses;
Anger, triggered from blockage and clutter spends itself
Finally to calm.
Sadness, the fumes from weak, unfocused nurturing,
With diligence, clear to contentment.
And your wild fear; your belief that you deserve the
Despair and loneliness clawing at your skin from inside,
Wants nothing more than to 
Escape, scatter, and leave you tall and soft.


There is romance about this; nature's wish to 
Reveal itself in grace, and to dovetail its tenderness with the
Beauty of your very soul.
This, my friend, is the most powerful Love;
An almost unbelievable rooting into the energy and 
Faith of your own existence, and the understanding that
You,
Your waves and particles,
Your sighs and desires,
Don't need to fight so hard;
Don't need to suffer.
And as you find your ease,
And you learn to forego all the froth and frenzy,
So, my dear friend, will you find
Your Love.

Your Time.

This Time you have, that you seem so afraid of,
It's yours, you know.
All of it.
It wasn't made for anyone else.
It is all for you;
The whole, full swath.
You don't have to move off onto the side so more worthy,
More significant can pass.
You don't have to sneak in and pick at it then step aside
So others can dig in.
This Time is yours, to navigate in with broad sweeps and runs,
And to feast upon in your gleeful search for spice.


And this fear it triggers in you?
Make no mistake;
Time is not your enemy.
It is not the canvas for your failing.
It is not the scattered rush to take any shot.
This Time you have is gentle and tender,
If only you will stop gritting your teeth about it.
Soothe and slow for a second, for a minute, to embrace it,
And parse its quiet rolling in and off;
Time is opportunity bound in the fabric of your attention,
Guiding you ahead, always ahead to its eternity, and the
Discovery of your unavoidable success.
It is only when you tangle and contort in an effort to harness it,
When you have forgotten the centre and see only the edges;
The coming and going,
The ticking,
That you misconstrue it as adversary.


What benefit of Time to finish with you?
What gloating to fashion impossibilities and snares?
What triumph in our frustration?


Time's only flaw, only weakness, is its troubled tolerance of 
Stagnation and loop;
Thieves, both, in their illusion;
Lateral and meandering, slowing growth with the venom of
Pathos and self-doubt.
But again, time beckons, and perhaps, with an ache or a
Touchstone, urges you back to the fresh voyage;
Not with vengeance,
Not with judgement,
But with elation at the thrill of new steps.
And once you are back enroute,
Time will reveal, when you are ready,
Its offer of ecstasy;
Its invitation to raise your head and boldly maneuver, in
Your own Time, to an unbelievable paradigm
That you once considered for all but you.


The funny thing is,
You were never, ever, meant to be a spectator.


Not for a second.

Your Feathers.

Those feathers you have, those wings, not meant for such tedium.
Look at you.
You are built for the sky.
You are built for gales and calms;
Summer's easy satin breezes and winter's hard-edged torque,
And all in between.
And I know you have seen the others;
Envied them in their speed and magic.
Considered them special, different,
And tripped to doubting yourself.


Ruffle.
Go ahead.
Move your feathers.
Ruffle.
Let the sun catch the sheen of them.
Look closely at how intricate;
Ribs and hooks.
Perfect.
Intentional.
Specific.
Raise them up and rotate to catch the wind and then
Let it go again.


Crouch down, just a little, and let your wings work.
Look at you.
You were made for so much more ... and part of you knows it.
Climb through the ether and find the thermal;
I can see you in it.  You absolutely belong.
Look at the others rising and coiling through gravity's fingers;
Paying the Earth no mind in their
Ecstasy.
Believe in yourself and take the leap.


Jump.
Commit to your gifts.
No more languishing.
Jump.
The wind is giddy and swooning to escort you;
Impatient jester bound to
Blow your mind as you abandon your misery, and
Wind toward your achievements.
They sit,
Busting in anticipation.
Waiting for you.
All you need is to go.
Just go.


And ... with a glorious twist you break your mind's tether, and
Arch your back around the high rays of the sun;
Moving upward with such grateful ease and glow,
Tingling, unspeakable relief as you out-fly the debilitating
Tendency toward fear and mediocrity.
Instead, with each maneuver, you embrace the reality that
Those feathers you have are there to bring you to your god in
All that you create.
... and you turn, and rise, and float, 
As if you had been doing it all your life.

A Tree is a Tree.

With the most gentle breath, the Earth wakes,
Slowly rolling and stretching;
Pulling back the night's curtain to reveal the
Rich treasures left yesterday in heaps and
Broad swaths.
Such tangible rises and waves of colour
Bending around each other through cities,
Through gateways.
Through fens,
And along like fingers working through forests and grasses;
Proper domain of creatures,
Quick and diligent.


And sometimes there is envy;
Curious of the solace, the comfort in
Any tree, or
Any river curling without a 
Stutter or any sign of the struggle to
Know, or overcome.
The measured simmering from one season to the next;
Leaves grow or change,
Water cools or warms,
And the creatures ready without fuss.


It is in this dependable setting that she rises, each day,
Uniquely conflicted and unsure,
Charged intrinsically with the task of finding the
Deep, soothing connections,
Balm to the scrapes and wounds suffered in their belief.
Through seasons and landscapes she navigates and
Wonders why the task is so specific.
Why not everyone a perfect fit?
Why?  But
A tree is a tree; it merely grows.
A person, of tempo and pulse, is cursed with the
Stutters and struggles of
All that she knows, and
All that she must overcome,
Manifesting any myriad of tones of the Earth:
Delight or challenge, as in the 
River's swiftness, or the meadow's rise.
Brilliance or frailty, as in any manner of
Accepting or fearing change.
And, either an almost
Frothing, tripping desire to set out upon each waking,
Or a tunneling retreat from the reveal, if, in the flow to present,
The travail has left a timid, brittle shell threatened mortally by any
Vigor or thrill.




The trick; to stay mindful of the breath of the Earth, and to
Trust,
Definitely,
Trust,
Without a doubt, the
Sincerity and intent at work to guide her, eventually into the most
Tender and passionate arms;
Bending, shattering ecstasy,
Easily trumping, by leagues, any memory or tendency to anything
Unremarkable.


There is no reason,
None,
For any breath,
Any rolling or stretching
To any effort at all
Towards a lesser aim.

Listen.

Listen, in the quiet.
Settle and let your muscles slide over your bones to rest.
Let go expression and move off your concerns until
Your only spice is calm.


Listen.
There is so much to hear in this pause;
Never nothing.
The Hum of the Earth underneath;
Chugging and firing,
Shifting and raging one season into the next;
The months, days and moments, 
All dripping clues to bait your desire.


Listen.
Static from the sky;
Remnants of the first blast,
And others twinkling in and out;
More clues to your place in a
Vast domain.


Listen.
Your breathing and pulse; the 
Texture and form of your body as you
Adjust and twist.
Acknowledge yourself,
Your force.
You.


So listen,
And take to heart the sounds, messages, of
The powerful desire that fires you,
The remarkable galaxy that hosts you,
And the busting momentum flourishing you through it.

Your Pyramid.

Have faith in yourself.
Have faith.
That pyramid inside you looms not for shattering contrast;
Not to infer the impossible;
Dimensions, expansive and overwhelming, only when you are 
Timid.
Perhaps you don't realize that it's yours;
This pyramid, this maddening urge, this passion for ... something?
It comes from inside you after all, and
Manifests in your impatience with the
Predictable shape of your days,
The longing you feel gazing skyward waiting for the
Light to turn green,
The thrill that shudders through you when you risk
Imagining your passion; see yourself in it.
But still timid?
Wondering?
Questioning?
To feel drawn as you do but doubt yourself so much?
Give a nod to proportion;
The enormity of your desire dovetails without gap to your
Talents and muscle.
My dear, dear, friend,
You are wiser and more supple than you think.
Trust me.
Those dunes you feel cursed to navigate are only sand;
Just sand.  So go ahead;
Build your pyramid, and marvel as they bend to you;
Arch, curve, and sweep with graceful attention,
Surprisingly benevolent;
Eager to include your passion,
Your pyramid, into the landscape.
It is astounding, and so beautiful,
But I am not surprised.
You, however,
Delighted,
Fierce,
Wondering why you ever waited so long.


So yes, have faith.
I can hardly wait.