Monthly Archives: April 2012

My most beautiful thing

Once, in the blackness of night,
I would gently lay my hand
upon your doll sized chest, 
place my ear against the red ripeness
of your lips, and listen

to the sound of the soft whispering 
– in and out, a tiny pause,
and it begins again –
of the beauty that is
your breath.

You’re bigger now, 
but somehow it remains 
my most beautiful thing.
Like an invisible heart-line

between your breath and mine,
its rhythmic flow, a soothing meditation,
a peace-filled reminder of all that is, 
of all that is possible,
and of all that matters.

Fiona Robyn, of Writing Our Way Home, has recently published a novel titled My most beautiful thing, which you can find out more about by clicking on the link below. Right now she is offering it free for kindle on amazon.

http://www.writingourwayhome.com/2012/04/my-most-beautiful-thing-blogsplash.html

As part of this, she has also invited people to write about their own ‘most beautiful thing’, which I have done above. I wonder what you would choose?

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Choose

Choose each day what you love
for that is all there is.
Practice being 
right where you are
in the midst of your life
for that is all there is.
Sweep the floors, pay the bills
earn the cash.
Be with the mundane and uninspiring
they need you right now.
And then, choose 
and choose again
to give yourself
wide open,
like a soaring eagle
on the edge of the sky,
to what is in your blood.
Until you are surprised
when perhaps one day
you find yourself 
in love.
And that is all there is.

The gap

She felt like she was living somebody else’s life. Or maybe somebody else was living hers.  Or maybe her life was still caught between the two worlds, presuming there were only two.  

Was it everyone’s story at some time, or all times, in their lives? Or was it simply some diagnosable condition, treatable with a little white pill, that every second person seemed to be taking these days? 

Was it the story of her time, the ‘having it all but really having none of it’?  It sounded more likely to be the story of an earlier time when women could only dream of a different life.  

So where did she fit, in this forever dreaming, straining, for some kind of life that didn’t seem to exist, anywhere in her vicinity?  Even as she thought it, dreamt of it, imagined it, even only just a shade of it, she asked herself, instead of reaching for it, toward it, into it, shouldn’t she just be happy with what she had? Because she had a lot.  A lot.  And it wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful for that, she was. And sometimes she felt it, how truly blessed she was, and for a moment, even moments, that was enough.  

And then it would come again, creep in, sneak up, like wind blowing through a tunnel, invisible, until all of a sudden it would chill her to the bone, and she couldn’t remember what it was like to have been warm, or how she ever would be again.

She knew what she wanted, one minute, but the wanting it, and the picture of it, of this longed for life was too much for her, too much to truly contemplate the possibility becoming a reality.  That life, that creation, was for clever people, people who had worked at it their whole lives, had a gift, could remember, and recite even, their first poem or story written at age 6.

It was too late, even though it wasn’t at all. 

Sometimes it hurt, physically, in her chest, the ache for it, the ache of not having it, the gap, like being on one side of the ocean, and her lover, her love, was on the other. But in this case she’d never had the love, only longed for it. She felt like a piece of her was missing, like a puzzle half completed, yet the pieces are lost and she’s looking in all the wrong places. 

So, she leaves it, well she thinks she does, to do what she knows, what she’s good at, so she’s told, what she thinks she enjoys, likes, can call a worthwhile life.  But secretly she worries, all the while, maybe its sucking the life out of her. 

And then she wonders if maybe there’s still time, and a way, to find her life, to push through this world, into the gap, where it’s waiting, this other life, sitting, waiting, for her. Or maybe she’ll spend this life pushing, only to realize, it was here all along.