Dreaming Existence

 What day is it, again? I know we are celebrating something....ah, yes. The original idea of Thanksgiving as presented to the public was a day set aside to honor the legend of the time when the first settlers to America were nearly starving and the indigenous tribes came to them with food so that they were saved. And they ate and drank and laughed-and had turkey, of course. And green bean casserole. And some cream cheesy version a pumpkin pie, surely.  My blog post today could have gone in several directions, much like my creative flow seems to. I won’t go down that shadowy path of truth regarding our ancestors’ invasion of the land we now call home, nor of the systematic approach of its ensuing government to eradicate the people who lived on it, either by starvation, disease or incarceration. Oh, I already knew much of the truth regarding the enhanced to fabricated history being taught to me since I learned to read. I had a really cool Humanities History teacher who taught us the trut

 Except maybe it isn’t just a place.  It isn’t really the destination that brings as much joy as the journey in getting there. Perhaps it isn’t even one place, but every night we lay our heads to rest together marks a destination of peace and accomplishment.  ‘There’s a place in the sun where my poor restless heart’s gotta’ run’... There’s a place in the sun and before this life is done, gonna’ find me a place in the sun...” Where is your place?  Who is your destination?  Can you feel the sun?  Thank you, Stevie..

  More meanderings from the minuscule mind of creative madness... It occurs to me, most suddenly, when faced with life’s unraveling- the end to which I am traveling, how very much we brutalize our living by the need of acquisition. Things, like strings and dragonfly wings to polished, promised golden rings.  Photos snapped to catch a smile- a tear!  freezing a moment because we fear it may never happen again.  Letters and cards etched with promises of love stacked in a box without locks or keys. Perhaps that is why they often slip away. Mirrors that encourage, confirm and judge while our intuition hides in waiting, trembling with her truth as the ego-satiating mind lies. Gold tarnishes as the skin begins to fold and images fade, the paper old  and worn. Letters torn in anger, sorrow as tomorrow taunts with  empty vows, the nows fade into later and later... How grand to be possession free and sitting still with free will to breathe. In. Out.  In. Out. To see with eyes of love, connect w

Life is an intricate tapestry, its delicate threads woven by many hands, the images drawn with love, hate and fear, painted with hues of laughter and tears, each thread a memory, a wish, a desire of the fledgling soul as it ignites the fire within our hearts. It is a challenge, when a snag appears, to let it be, eager to repair the damage so that none will see, we pull and tuck until the beauty unravels more, leaving great holes in the perfection that could be. If only we, contented, gently stroked the worn and torn bits and, stepping back, admire the subtle changes that define a life of love and not of lack. My Father passed away two days ago. I have a full, yet broken heart at this time. I am looking at the tapestry, seeing the faded places with loving memory, each small imperfection proof that we lived fully, courageously and with purpose. The road is paved with thorns and strewn with roses. There cannot be one without the other. I will remember you, Daddy.  Clifton C Kimble  1936-2