A Perceptible Abstract

The pages of The Secret Speech begin with the imminent destruction of a church in Moscow. I don't yet know the context behind this. The first characters are apprehensive, conflicted, and have no way out of participating and witnessing the event. The crowds in the area have a different notion.

As I do when reading - I interrupted myself with thought.

I pictured scenes from the Ireland, Middle East, Africa, and Selma, Alabama. Destroying areas of worship has a far more profound reach than neighborhoods and business districts - not in the loss of life, but rather a deep loss of self. As for the human population goes - we can create more, and we can rebuild. But, sacred areas can never be restored. Sacred spaces are one of a kind. Original. They are like Tibetan Sand Mandalas, the minutes ticking by - all of which will never exist and be experienced again. No other human, nor sunrise or sunset will ever grace the walls - trees- sands and earth. It's a far more significant loss to the individual than it is to the whole of the group.

Well, that's enough ramblings for now. I return to page 5 and finish chapter one.

-- (c)deyanira.

Jesus on a Greyhound, Shelby Lynne

I was on my way to somewhere to the Mexicali sand
A man sat down beside me, he had scars upon his hands
He told me some stories - I told him some lies
Light shone through my darkness, cast shadows from my mind

His eyes they looked right through me
Oh I knew he carried weight
Something real was going down that day
Oh I told him I'm a sinner

He said that's o.k.
I'm not here to change you anyway
He was gone when I turned around
Was it Jesus - Jesus on a Greyhound

Oh we talked about the world gone bad
The troubles we had seen
We talked about the dirt
Brown shoes he wore on his feet

He said I'm tired and weary
I've been riding a long way
Let me rest my eyes now
Let me drift away

He acted Like he knew me
Then he fell asleep
I had no More secrets
I could keep

Oh I told him I'm a sinner
He said that's o.k.
I'm not here to change you anyway

He was gone when I turned around

Was it Jesus - Jesus on a Greyhound
And I'll rise again
Ain't no power on earth can keep me down

And I'll rise, I'll rise again
Oh ain't no death can keep me in the ground
Was that Jesus

Songwriters: Glen Ballard / Shelby Lynne

Jesus on a Greyhound lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., The Bicycle Music Company

You + Me = Us

Sometimes, inspiration takes us down a different path than the one we set out on.

I recently wrote an article on the topic of volunteerism. I am not sure, yet, if I delivered the piece that was expected; I wrote the only way I know how. I expressed our human need to take part in something more significant and outside of ourselves. 

Sometimes, we don't know where it comes from.

We are so far removed from our historical reference points. We just know - some of us are driven from a seemingly outside force. But, it's not from the outside. Our internal sensors are calibrated to look for others that are like us. To take care of other beings. To cultivate, generate, and protect. 

Sometimes, we deny ourselves.

Love, respect, and decency. We are deserving of them, our very existence mandates it. Yes, we deny ourselves the basic of needs by our very own hands. We harm ourselves by setting us apart from everyone else. 

Photo Credit: NailedUPSC

May the Fourth be with You (and Me, too)

This past 4th of July I felt genuine happiness to be alive.  I felt whole - more whole than I have in years. I'm light on baggage, it seems. 2018 turned out to be better than the year before. So much so, I now breathe easy at the thoughts of future endeavors. I am not typically this calm. Never been less anxious about the outcome. I know not what to attribute this to.

In the past, my writings dealt with the perception of floating or not being anchored. I didn't have a sense of purpose after my 'great depression' of 2008-2010 - give or take a year or two. I've amped up my writing and increased the volume (so to speak) by making them more public. Poetry became the most useful outlet to get through the worst of it. As my depression eases and I experience more and more days of genuine happiness, I write less poetry and more prose. 

In the past 10-months, I have written more meaningful pieces with well thought out ideas and focus on the topics. It feels empowering. It feels energizing. The written word is more sacred than ever before. 

https://www.flickr.com/photos/hippie/2475835909