Sunday, August 30, 2015

{ thinking in words } - yogi. photographer. writer. weirdo. austin, tx

She wrote the words from her heart which her head could not comprehend.
About loss and about living, about affection and about nothing.
She described the feelings and sensations that meant the most to her.
Sometimes she would share everything.
Other times she held it inside like a treasure guarded by a tiny smile, until the words disappeared.
It could be quite poetic and clear.
It could also be vague, enigmatic nonsense.
Could she slow down and savor all the words of each moment?
Lately she wondered, how are so many words lost?
Her mind constantly full of adjectives and experience.
It was time to acknowledge the need for these words.
Not some, few, or the sexy ones.
All the thoughts, celebrations, and fears deserve deep exploration and voice.

Monday, August 24, 2015

{ slap } - yogi. biker. writer. mama. austin, tx

It started with a rainy ride.
White shorts, chambray, and streaming tears.
It's easy to cry in public when it's raining.
Only I knew, because raindrops don't taste like salt dipped heartbreak.
Muddy splashes into my shoes and my ankles covered in dirt.
I'd have thrown myself into a ditch for full emersion if I were back home.
It was foggy and I dove into my penance.
Thank god for the slap.
Verdant leaves heavy with the rain whipped my right shoulder.
I sped up.
A spark of hope.
Light emerging in my darkness.
Old drops fell as leaves could retain no more and released them to cleanse me.
This was my life and the magic air I used to breathe.
Through tunnels and under trains, was I riding or flying?
Something carried me or I was floating.
What I'm sure of is that I let something go.
Something daunting and that did not belong to me.
That sludge was not mine.
I'd have to open up, say it.
The more I share the more I receive.
I don't want to go back to that cave.
I want the grass to brush my legs.
I want the wind to muss my hair.
I want to feel pockets of cool amid the steamy Texas air.
I want to stay awake for this life, no matter what.

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

{ telegraph } - yogi. mama. writer. austin, tx.

Simply quit this torturous routine.
Baby who knows what life will bring?
Knock off the abuse.
Cocoon yourself in lilac, be enfolded in petals of grace.
They touch your skin like liquid velvet.
You're going to be okay, say yes to soothing.
Let the water run through your hair, take in the scent of divinity.
Light is inside you like embers just beneath your skin.
Don't fear your fire, spark it and be warm again.
You can't continue to punish yourself for mistakes, you never deserved that.
Feathers brush against the back of your calves and soles of your feet.
Strength from the wings of curious angels.
Slow down and find your North.
You're not as alone as you feel and someone cares that you hurt.
It wasn't ever right for those things to happen.
Take a soapy rag and remove the barrier.
Toss the whole bloody bucket and rinse the sludge.
You're shiny now.
Don't run from the mirrors.

Monday, August 10, 2015

{ a time ahead } - mama. yogi. writer. austin, tx.

Someday you'll hold your own and know that the stars are in the sky for her.
You'll understand that the sun wakes up to kiss her cheeks and sparkle light upon her shiny hair.
In time you'll see her smile, hear her speak, watch her grow, and your heart will belong to her.
She may break it, bruise it, and test it, but without her it wouldn't work anyway.
Through the pain you'll learn her language and the tears will become elixir.
Tell her she's the reason you're alive and affirm her sweetness.
Never assume that she knows.
Generations have toiled at tearing her apart.
Wrap your arms around her and plant firm kisses on her head.
Look her in the eyes when you say that you love her.
Be her foundation, guide her to see her worth, and never forget how much she needs you.
It will take great strength my love, but there is nothing more valuable in this world or any other.
Her eyes close and night falls, the moon lifts to witness her slumber.
Breezes blow to feel the softness of her skin.
You'll know all of this and you'll still want to give her more.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

{ not my fight } - yogi. writer. nostalgic soul. austin, tx

I can't remember her name anymore, but I recall her Dallas skyline t-shirt and slightly frizzy brown hair.
She had freckles and seemed like someone who would swear a lot, brave somehow.
My instant desire was to be her friend.
Ridicule came like a blow, like a heavy fist in my gut.
I choked on my tears and childhood heartbreak.
"Little girls are so mean."
Sound encouragement for life from my French teacher.
There were phone calls of harassment and threats.
She wasn't going to be my friend, she wanted to ruin my face, she sought some vile leadership of Monday Skate Night.
I never told my mom about the calls, never cried to my dad about the ugly words spoken against me.
I hid in my room.
I closed off the world.
I failed to understand that this wasn't my fight.
My self defense of kindness was like ammunition to her.
Little girls or grown men, some people will splash their pain on others without realizing.
Maybe there is a reason she always wore the Dallas shirt.
Perhaps those cruel words you only have courage to say to me, because you know I will never snap back.
It's possible suffering souls draw from a well because they feel empty.
You have my pity, you have my love, but to hell with you taking my light.