There Are People

There are people

Who, when faced with the question of love,

Will quote the improbability, according to statistics,

That a life with someone else beside you really will turn out.

There are people

Who hide themselves away from 

The openness it takes

To maybe, perhaps, fall for someone,

Because they're afraid of the statistically-likely heartbreak.

There are people

Who keep themselves away from

The openness love takes

By melting down the heart to prevent the feeling,

Melting down the heart to avoid the feeling

Beyond physical need.

There are people...

They're the "they" of "they say" 

When we say that "they say that..." followed by

A made up statistic to defend and deny

Our own fears at the feeling of

Loving,

Loving and maybe losing.

But what about loving and maybe... Keeping?

There are people

Who might say that we, you and I, are statistically improbable.

I don't know if I agree.

But the one thing I do know,

Is we defy some kind of odds...

Because I'm not afraid of the losing,

Because I know it's you I'm choosing,

Today

And every day.

It's just you and me... Not they. 

There are people... And then there's us.

Quotes

"Being loved by someone deeply gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."

 - Lao Tzu

"Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs.  What's wrong with that?  I'd like to know 'cause here I go again..."

- "Silly Love Songs" Paul McCartney

"If there's anything that you want, if there's anything I can do, just call on me and I'll send it along with love from me to you."

- "From Me to You" The Beatles

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation.  It is too long ago.  I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."

- Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you directly without problems or pride;

I love you like this because I don't know any other way to love,

except in this form in which I am not nor are you,

so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,

so close that your eyes close with my dreams."

- Sonnet XVIII Pablo Neruda

----

Sometimes my words aren't enough.  These are all wonderful in their own way, but the sonnet is my favorite, I think.  I love you.

God's Power in Loss

Reflecting on the pain and anguish of a life lost far too soon as I prepared music for a memorial service early next week, it came to me that God's hand does play a part in such a sad happening. However, it is not the event itself.
Rather, God's hand - the Way, the Truth, and Light- is shown in the outpouring of love and community that occurs as fellow humans reach out to uphold those who are hurting. In my small way, the music for the service, I pray that I can contribute to this beautiful expression of God's love for the people who have lost and are grieving.

Knowing

Knowing
that I can be
Entirely Myself
and
not fear
being Too Much
or
Not Enough
is
enough for me.

Suspended in Doing

I'm trying to fill my life up with doing in order to keep busy and avoid listlessness.  It's proving to be only so successful.

Doing chores.  Doing errands.  Doing work.  Doing play.

I've been taught that acting is a matter of doing, rather than being.  We act on a desire, a want.  In thinking on my recent actions, very few feel motivated by true wanting.  Rather, they seem to stem from having to wait for the right time to be able to act upon the things I desire.

Is there a term for such a time?  "Existing" feels like it carries a tinge of negativity.  Balancing, perhaps.  Suspended.

Suspended in doing for the sake of doing, until the waiting game is over and the wanting can be allowed.



-------
And with these strange, meandering thoughts, to bed I go.

Change

Unceasing rhythm
An inevitable force
Constant in inconstancy
True to its nature

Juxtapositions

A shaking man who is older than his years squats on the street corner yelling at nothing or maybe at everything.

A young couple done up in designer coats with lattes in hand and their baby in its designer stroller give him a wide berth and wait at the crosswalk.

A trio of biking commuters in creased pants and blazers on their hybrid bikes wait for the light to change while their Timbuktu cases hang from their shoulders.

A line of high-end cars idle at the stoplight with anxious drivers in a hurry to get to the next light and wait some more.

The man is still yelling on the corner.

I sit on the bus and feel the juxtapositions of city life criss-crossing like the veins under my skin.

What Can I Give

What can I give

to brighten an hour

to change a day

to make a difference?

What do I have

that has weight

that has depth

that can affect?

What am I called

to witness

to know

and to tell?

I am called for much

I have little to offer

But what I can give

is my heart.

The Illusion

The Illusion is elusive,
   fleeting;
a single verse of a
siren song--
A melodious Temptation leading to thoughts
that one is
   Better,
   More,
   Above,
because the Luxury to ignore and
     cover up
can be Afforded.

But there are fissures
   breaking through
the fast-erected Facade;
there are Gaps that give
   glimpses
of the World as it is,
of the refuse of Reality
that remains invisible to those who refuse to look,
who can Afford to
turn away.

Late

3/15/15

Had the thought, "If I was as wealthy as I am tired, I'd be a rich woman."

But wealth is as transient as fatigue. Or thirst. Or hunger.  It's a basic need that is only ever momentarily satisfied.

What matters more? Love.  Peace.  Dreams for the future.  Even these things can fluctuate. Even these things change. But to truly have these things means never losing them. The same love, peace, and dreams can never be gained back in the same way.  They are precious.

Just reflecting.

Now/Then

Who are you?
A mostly-smoked cigarette dangles from your fingers,
Which are swollen from dehydration and festering scrapes.
A wispy, pencil-thin blonde mustache
Trails over your grimacing, muttering mouth.
Your grey, ratty sweatshirt and jeans hang from your limbs
And your face sinks back into the over-sized hood,
Hiding your sharp and nervous light-green gaze
That darts around the train,
While you yell to the driver to "Get this fucking thing moving!"
And tell the guy next to you that this is the first night you will ever
Ride the line all the way to the beach.

I had my keys between my fingers
And my pepper spray in my fist
Because when you followed me onto the train,
It made me nervous.

When you didn't follow me off at my stop,
I let go of a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
Then I wondered,
Who were you?

You were once someone's little boy.
You were once a child
Without worldly battles and wounds -
A child with innocent hands, innocent lungs, innocent eyes.
I hope you were a child who knew love,
Who had carefree days,
Who felt cherished and adored.

As much as I prayed for protection
From the moment you gruffly said hello at the train stop
And sat on the bench right next to me
Instead of the other open seats,
A small voice reminded me that you were once childlike
And that you are still cherished and adored.

Peace be with you.