Tuesday, June 13, 2017

To Share the Light Like Dinner.

Maybe.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe the next day.
Maybe some day soon.

I will tiptoe out of the water and onto the land.
I will no longer be afraid to be seen in the light.
I will wake up and not be afraid of the world.

Maybe, just maybe, I will see that still, small beam of light as my only option in this busy world.
That light- she is soft and smooth in color, easy to the eyes, soft to the touch- like a baby’s cheek at the backside of your finger.
She is quiet, calm, and subtle- like the barely noticeable whisper of the human voice at the top of a song.

That light- she is the sultry, thin mist steaming off the morning water.
A spider web rising off the skin in feathery layer beyond layer.

I have been thinking a lot about light and dark lately.
Two opposites.
They compliment each other so beautifully, though.
Without one, you can’t have the other.

What is my light?
What is my darkness?

It changes by the day, really.

Tonight, quite literally, my light is a lamp.
My darkness is the wilderness outside of a window in Ashland, Tennessee.
A beautiful and reluctant green moth is glued to the window.
Her feet stick like honey to the glass as she watches my every breath and we share the light like dinner.

Some days my light is my creative energy, my yes, that forces me forward when I want to say no.
And my darkness can be my no- keeping me hidden underneath the dark water, keeping me afraid to rise up to my neck and be seen by the light. Exposed and worthy.

Some days my darkness is all the metal outside and the interstate noises and the polluted air.

Sometimes my light and my darkness crash in my dreams.
Like the heavy chunks of metal on the interstates.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I need more light.
More light to my darkness.
To share like dinner with a moth against glass.

Here’s to the light.
Here’s to the quiet kiss of light and darkness.

Here’s to growth.




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