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fire

Walk with me again

The Sun Shines!

Walk with me again.

 

Here again.
A year ago I hit the ground running.
Three-hundred and sixty-two days ago I saw my third sunrise in as many days and I was a changed man. And then again. And then again. And then again.

Walk with me.

Walk with me; you will find the path is not as clear as it should seem.
Walk with me; you will find you had no idea what you were getting into.
Walk with me; you will find I have no idea where we are going.
I will lead you astray. I will do things wrong. I will wreck your walk. I will hurt your feelings. I will say and do and think things that are not the things that you will want me to say, do and think.

Walk with me anyway.

The destination is not as important as the path, which is not as important as the journey.

Walk with me anyway. we will walk to new and wonderful places.
Walk with me anyway; we will discover things and feelings we did not know we were capable of.
Walk with me anyway; we will say and do and think the answers to questions we never knew we had.

We will walk in profound joy and we will walk in profound grief. And we will come to the face the sunshine on the third day and we will stand in front of our new family and we look each other in the eye and see the light is cast not by the sunshine alone.

And then we will be apart.

When I think back on that morning when the sun shined over the forest’s peak on the third day, I will remember the love you showed me.
And the pain of your absence will be lessened when I realize, one day, we will walk together again.

Sept. 2010 \ Photo Attribution

Mother teases as the seasons creep

Icey River

Mother teases as the seasons creep.

 

Mother teases as the seasons creep.
She knows what she wants, and she can’t help but give glimpses
of the fires that bellow below her crusted coverings.

Ragged tufts of green poke between the crusts and cracks.
A bountiful bust of blossoms stands between the stations.

Can the turning of seasons come so closely to the deeps of winter’s despair?

That is not ours to say.
But it is ours to hope.
 
We hope
and hope
and hope some more.

Life waits between the peaks and valleys. Fire strikes at the midpoint, snuffing desolation with its bawdy smolder. Its flames belch dance and song, bread and wine.

It is springtime, and it comes again.

Feb. 2, 2010 \ Read it on Scribd \ Photo attribution

Celebration of a certain group of friends, many of whom I am yet to meet.

Used Under Creative Commons by permission of robertpaxton

Celebration of a certain group of friends, many of whom I am yet to meet.

 

Labor Day:

A group of strangers, focused and with intentions clear, sets fire to themselves.
Through pain and celebration, they are unified and reborn.
Reset by divine experience, they wobble across the peat and set to returning to the world.

 

And it is not the same.

 

As they tear down their village, they are not yet aware that the world around them has changed as well.
A snap. A crack. A puff. And a smolder.
They are strangers no more.

 

I am searching for another chance at that experience.
Can you bring the fire home? Are you even supposed to?
Or, is there a larger, less personal, purpose to it all.
The answer, my newest friend, may be yes.

 

Walk with me, and we’ll find out.

 

Jan. 5, 2010 \ Read it on Scribd \ Photo attribution