Friday, July 10, 2015

Up and Down Like Mountains.

The colors emerge from the ground.
They spiral up like steam out of a teapot, winding their way UP and UP and UP, deliberately piercing the breath of the earth.

A silent bolt of energy.
A loud display of hope.

No more blank skies, blank screens.
No more blank minds, blank conversations, blank stares.
Colors of all shapes and sizes now fill our space, tell us time, share their stories.

Browns, so rich and gritty.
Blues of depth and joy.
Yellows reminding us to play.
And then Red.

They move up and down like mountains.
And then they set into place, almost on cue.
Red splashes on the backs of birds.
Blue pours on to the ocean, diving deep.
Brown layers the tree bark, the soil.

Next they enter the heart, the body, the mind, and the spirit of our world.
The most perfect blend, most perfect swirl.
They speak in whispers, adding to their divine mystery.

We all agree that the colors have arrived in style.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

RIght Here in the Middle.

Don’t we just love for life to come out evenly for everyone?

That’s what we are taught in America.

Everyone gets an equal share of the pie.
Our heads bob around the babysitter’s elbows like a bird’s tiny body bouncing from branch to sky to ground, never deciding its final resting place.
We watch with our hearts racing as she cuts up all the pieces.
I want the square piece.”
I call middle.”
Wait, do we all get one or two?!”

Everyone gets an equal shot at success.
… And then ACT scores become a thing.
(Cue the horrified student who hates math).

Everyone gets a perfectly equal square inch-square-foot,“Talk of the Town” room in the house.
But wait… Who gets the window?

We fight for our share of the land, our share of the money, our share of beauty and fame, and that never-ending stardust we all fall prey to.

hmm.. What are we fighting for exactly?
And then... Behold.
Our eyes peel open after days, months, years of being locked away, like the forgotten, rusty castle door that holds all the treasure inside its barren walls.

The sun hovers over us and she sings.
She lets us know we are okay.
We are safe.

Right here in the middle.
The middle of life.
The middle of growth.
The middle of the road.

There is always a road and we are always in the middle of it.
On the way to somewhere.
With someone, without someone.
With shoes, barefoot.
With heavy heads, a clear mind.

Our berry-spilling, crust-crumbling pie.

Our own version of school and the classroom- with barefoot hippies who talk about farming and a deep compassion for the earth.

Our perfect, cozy little room with inviting pillows and a book shelf the size of the Appalachian Mountains.

We shall meet right here in the middle.
Where life happens.

Saturday, July 4, 2015

The Place of Play.

The Place of Play, in a faraway land.

An old treehouse with tattered wood that creaks.
Piles of pine cones, sticks, and leaves.
Shiny red bikes with bells.
Coffee-colored dirt under our fingernails.
And a wisp of fresh air that makes our eyelashes curl and our thoughts slow down.

Clothes getting stained, wet, torn.
But we don't care.

Laughter is our song today.
We are free.
We are light.
We are running.

Chasing pretend wolves through the forest.
Feet stomping, breath quickening.
We speak to mermaids, dogs, cats.
And that beautiful whirl of green keeps circling around us, never leaving our side.
Scrapes and scratches collecting on our knees, but we don't notice.

We are here.
Happy, Alive, and Well.

… Is this Place of Play really that faraway, or does it live within us?