Squirrel Lady

She loved.

Much more than I could.

Peircing me with soulful eyes that say too much.

She laughed.

Much easier than I.

Seeing all of the magic that engulfed us both.

She hungered.

A zeal for life, for living, for being, for being with.

She saw.

More of me than most.

Through the wall to the edges of the pain and the painfully real.

She was a bold priestess full of magic and fire and desire and innocence.

She taught about hope and faith and love.

Her gifts continue to unfold from within me

Her wisdom is deep, stretching beyond the abyss.

Walking kindness.

Healing words.

Thoughtful.

She. . .

Winter Time Drink Recepie

Step 1: Goto your local starbucks

Step 2: Order a Grande' Caramel Apple Cider with the following amendment, substitute 1 pump of the chai for 1 pump of the cinnamon.
tall= 2pump cin/1pump chai
grande= 3 pump cin/ 1 pump chai
venti=4 pump cin/1 1/2 pump chai

Step 3: Enjoy!!!

PS It tastes somewhat similar to the old fashioned mulling spiced cider drink.

Love

Love is a great word.  To boast about,  To write about.  To bitch about.  To make uneasy statements of belief or unbelief in.

To one it is magical and involves serendipitous moments, whimsy, and fate.

To another it involves chemicals, biology, and programming.

Love is at the same time a kind mistress and a bitch.

She is a roofie for your mind, heroine for your body, and she never stays.

Love is an unfaithful whore promising a lifetime as her feet take her wherever her frivolous and untamed desires lead.

Yet she is all powerful.  She will kick you in the teeth and leave you wanting more.

She will take your dignity, and, once restored, steal your manhood over and over again.

She is the darkest of loveliest things.

She makes great boasts through the tongues of men she holds

We write all of our songs about her.  Compose great stories exalting her but I have discovered her secret.

She is not real.  She is a fake  She is not love at all.  She is selfish, narcissistic, and self absorbed.  She is a dark and empty hole that can never be filled.  A thirst that can never be quenched.

Real love abides.  Real love conquers.  Real love sees the good in others.  Real love is thoughtful.  Real love knows the value in sacrifice.  Real love is rare.

She cannot be found in a poem, or a movie, or a song.

She is found in the house where wisdom lives.  She whispers in your ear when you are tempted to walk away.  She lives with humility.  Her light shines brightest in the faces she touches.

Moving On. . .

One day it all started.  Then, as with all things, it ended.  The beginning was full of joy and love and sex and innocence.  A zeal for life.  A new beginning.  Life was a waltz moving, moving.  Spinning, spinning.  Dizzy days and not caring for much.  Throwing caution to the wind.

Then the day grew long.  The spinning slowed and eventually stopped.  I wept and was not sorry. There was no solace in the ear of a friend or the aroma of a cigar or a loud party or an evening alone.

And now there is waiting.

Waiting for a new song.  Different arms.  The awkward moments.  First smiles.  New lips on mine.

And then we will take our walks.  Sip our coffee in the morning that is much too early.  Experiencing newness in the mundane.  Traveling to new places and even seeing old things as if for the first time.

I used to be a cynic.  Dry.  Protected.  Indifferent.

But then I was broken and the innocence and the vulnerable spilled out.

For a season stuck, but now out. . . and moving on.

To Love

To love

Deeply. Fiercely. Violently. With all that I am.

To bleed.

Exposing the soul to the anguish of rejection.

I may be called a fool.

But, did not someone once say

that being a fool for love is good?

Is it not an untenable risk,

To give you the greatest power?

To expose a spirit so delicate, bruised. . .

You are worth the risk.

Know that you are indeed loved.

Know that I require nothing in return.

Except for you to just be loved by me.

Your Husband

Pain

Pain.

A foe to overcome.

A companion to be embraced.

Pain tells me I am alive

She tells me I have a shitty life.

That I am awake.

What joy is like.

She challenges me to live

To learn

I will not release her embrace,

Until I have looked into her wild eyes,

And drunk deeply of her wisdom.

I Am Not Alone

Darker seasons. Broken heart. Heavy Burdens.
Frivolity seen at a distance.

The Lighter fair of Christmas providing a contrast that teases and mocks.

Indifference. Caring but not wanting to.

Tired.
Old.
Too young to feel this old.
Don't touch! I hurt all over.

Deep hurt.
A hurt that goes into the marrow and radiates outward.
Encompassing hurt.
A thick dull pain that envelops my heart so that its beating for something that matters is a wisp of a memory long ago.

Nerves frayed at the edges. Thin like old cloth a hairs breath away from dust.

The desire to melt away. To curl under heavy blanket.

I am in utter need.

Need of grace.
Need of Love.
Need of Acceptance.
Need of praise.
Need of belonging.
Need of filling.

Let your grace be my sufficiency this day, this hour, this moment.
I am not alone.