Little boy in white...

A little boy

in white,

by the pond,

holds a stick

pushes a ball.

No smile,

no frown,

but pleasure

is on his face.

The world can be 

so weird,

so lonely.

Its people 

so strange, and cold.

No smile,

no frown,

but distant

looks of nothing.

Oh to go back,

become

a child now!

They love, and

hate, but rarely

will they 

resort

to downright

indifference.

A little boy

in white,

by the pond,

holds a stick

pushes a ball.

No smile,

no frown,

but pleasure

is on his face.

Rip Van Winkle...

  Most people only see him in books. Some might see him in a movie, or dream about him, or see him in their imagination. I saw him in the library...
  It was a hot day. Even though it was nearing night, the heat hit me as I left the Church. From the corner of my eye I noticed the library across the street. Should I go? Should I skip it? I thought about it for a second, stopped, and walked back to the corner. Cars passed by. I looked left, then right, then left again...and stared! An old car approached slowly. The only one in sight. On the outside it was tarnished and bronze. It crept slowly to the library entrance. The entire back seat was filled with books. Old books, new books, used books...no way to possibly tell what they all were. There were so many that even the front passenger seat was covered in them.
  But the most interesting thing of all was the driver. He bent cautiously over the steering wheel, peering through the front window, trying to decide what he wanted to do. His hat looked like an old felt cowboy hat, bent and torn to perfection. His full, white beard drifted down over his face, covering every part of his chin and neck, but starting to thin out. His round, silver spectacles (for these were no ordinary glasses), added character and a deepness to the face. And his wrinkled skin fit in perfectly with his soft, red and black, checkered shirt. All he lacked, to make the picture perfect, was an old shotgun at his side, and a piece of straw in his mouth.
  I crossed the street, resisting the urge to turn and stare over my shoulder as I did. He made an awkward turn right in front of the library street entrance, and headed back the other way. There was no doubt he was going to the library. He must have simply decided on another parking place though. I walked through the well known doors and went to the book sale that they hold all year, almost forgetting about the man I'd just seen. I began to skim the books. Next thing I knew, the old man was beside me, standing at the bookshelf right next to mine. I knelt down to look at some books between us. His face was bent the same way. I studied it carefully as I pretended to look at the books. He never looked up. Never noticed me. His spectacles were held in one wrinkled hand, his face was intent on a book in the matching hand. His pants were old and faded. His shoes fit in perfectly with everything else. Old, black, lace up shoes. Then he moved on and, finally, escaped my scrutiny.
  Whether I ever see him again or not, I couldn't help but smile as I watched him. I think I can honestly say that he was one of the best things I saw that day. Why? Because, he made writing and reading so real!
  Whether you believe me or not doesn't really matter, because I know that I saw Rip Van Winkle in the library! He was generous enough to step out of his book, out of his time, and show up in mine! Not only that, but he likes the library too...so never think twice about going there, you never know who might show up! ;)

(Picture is not mine, it is taken from a book cover of the story of Rip Van Winkle. And if you've never read his story, go read it!)

The Rope...

With hands held at side, I took a deep breath

Eyes straight ahead, I took a small step.

The tightrope beneath, eternal space up above

No walls, no cushion, not a walk for the faint.

The rope creaked and quivered, my arms lifted slightly

There were drops on my forehead, and my jaw began to tense.

Yet with firm resolution, and fear in my heart

I stepped gently forward with, what some, would call courage.

Eyes peering forward, ears straining for sound

With each balanced step the darkness seemed to grow.

It grew and began to consume what rays of hope there were

It pushed from all around, a laugh of hate I heard.

The snarls of wolves grew strong in my ears

I cried out in pain as they tore at my flesh.

Fear and despair grew deeper and darker

My eyes shifted down and my arms swung for balance.

Where was I now? What hope was there?

What had I done? Would I ever regain control?

My thoughts flew to light, my eyes lifted up

One ray, one spark. It was there, it remained.

As something cold crept up behind I could not see my end

But with gaze fixed I slowly stood, I was not finished yet.

The icy fingers I peeled off, they dropped with a hiss and a curse

And firmly I walked on again, my foot upon the rope.

Love

Verse:

Love is like a fountain

of grace overflowing

It leads you to

the river of Life.

Its power is amazing

goes far beyond all measure

It floods through every

part of my soul.

Chorus:

Love is like

the wind of change

like a breath 

of fresh air.

It never falters

never fails

And It can stand
the test of time.

Where would I go

if Love fell through?

That's impossible

Inconceivable.

What would I do 

if Love were a lie?

I think life would 

cease to exist...

(K. Brinkman, Moreton Island)

Little Boy

Little boy
with your blood,
and bruises...
Where do you go?

What do you think?

Does anyone care?


Neglected
you sit in
the corner...
Do you ever eat?
Do you smile?
Do they notice?

Does it hurt

every time

he kicks?

With each punch 

do you shudder

and wince?

I ask you,

but I know

the answer.

I simply ask

cause I wonder

if others do.

Little boy,

so skinny

and small...

What is your name?

What do you think?

Where are you now?


(disclaimer - photo is not my work and does not belong to me, it belongs to: http://ouradopt.com/category/traumatized-children )

In the Middle of the Sound...

Can you find a place

in the midst

of the noise?

Find a peace

in the middle

of the sound?

Find the song

between

the voices around

Find the word

beneath the

unending sentence

Can you find a reason

beyond all

the feelings?

Find a purpose

at the heart

of the faces?

Faces, voices

Places, noises

in the middle

of the sound...

Smile...

Smile

while no one

is watching.

What are you thinking?

Sing

while no one

is listening.

What do you feel?

Stop

while no one

is distracting.

What do you hear?

Buddy...

Imagine this: You're fifteen. You live in two different places. One place you love, the other you try to love. Every Sunday you go to Church. Every Sunday you feel discouraged cause there's just something missing. You try to talk to people, try to connect...and it just never quite works.
  Is it you?
  Is it them?
  Does it matter?
You enjoy sitting with the adults, but you can't help feeling lonely and a little out of place sometimes too. This isn't home and you miss home. But every year you decide you'll try again to make things better, more homelike. But you try, year after year, and it never works. You say hello, you get an awkward "hey" back. The people around you look at you like you're from another planet, and deep inside, you feel like you are from another planet. And it's a lonely feeling. But, eventually, you give up. You accept things the way they are. Every Sunday you leave as soon as the service is done. You walk, quickly and quietly out the entrance to the Church, and down the street. You stop, look both ways, cross the street, ten more steps, and you're there!
  You go to the garage.
  You enter the code.
  You enter the house.
It's cool inside, quiet, and so calm and familiar. You relax. A smile forms at the corners of your mouth as you start to hear a rattling from a cage and an excited bark. You close the door and head through the kitchen towards the excited beagle in his kennel. "Hey buddy," You say gently, "calm down boy, calm down, it's just me..." and you open the cage. He bursts out, eyes big, tail wagging, ready to explode with excitement. He jumps up on your legs, he barks, he runs around the house, and you try to calm him down. Finally you go to the back door and let him out. When he's done his business he comes back in, calmer, but still excited and still wagging his tail. He's excited because you're there. He's excited because he knows you, and he loves you.
  You pet him.
  You sit on a stool at the counter.
  He lies down at your feet.
And you both sit in content silence. You've done this almost every Sunday of every summer for three years. At the end of the summer you leave. You're gone eight months. You come back...and he still remembers you. He still knows you. And every year he gets more excited when he sees you, because he loves you, and he knows you love him. You never do anything very special for him. Never give him treats or pet him more than anyone else. But he accepts you for who you are, he greets you with excitement and a smile every Sunday, and he cheers you up when everything else seems so dull. And every Sunday he takes away a little of the loneliness.
  You grow older.
  He gets older.
  That's life.
You're eighteen now. Your friend calls. You find it odd that she's calling. You talk about this and that...hasn't been long since you saw her. You wonder what the phone call is really about...maybe she wants to plan something? No. She's called to tell you that Buddy's gone. She reminds you about how he was acting sick last Sunday, how he didn't have much energy, and sat with his head hanging. He didn't get better. They took him to the vet. His stomach had twisted, and he was getting old. There was a surgery they could do, but only a 50/50 chance of it working...in the end, they had to put him down. Your friend tries not to cry as she tells you. You sit there, shocked. You tell your mom, you cry. You tell your sister, you cry. All those days you went over, not just Sundays, but other days too. All those times he cheered you up. Just the way he would greet you could make you smile.
  And now he was gone.
  It didn't seem possible.
  But it was true.

Funny how the simplest, silliest things in life can sometimes be the things we find the most joy in. Buddy was just a dog, a little beagle, but he was so much more than that. People write corny stories about their pets all the time. I suppose this would have to be one of mine, and he wasn't even my dog! Buddy was friendly, energetic, and sometimes lazy. I miss his bark. I miss his greeting me by jumping up and trying to lick me, even if I'd been gone for eight months. I miss his big eyes and wagging tail. I miss how he used to sit right in the middle of whatever game we were playing when he felt like he was being ignored. It's been a year, but I can never go to my friend's house without thinking of him.
  Buddy was a dog, I'll never see him again.
  He's gone, and I miss him.
  But I remember to thank God for the little things in life now...before they're gone.

(photo by C. Becker)

A Dance

(Kind of a girly taste to this post...hope people don't mind. I was looking through my journals and found it...)


  Life is like a dance. So step up, take His hand, and let God lead. All you have to do is listen to the music and follow...and that is quite enough! Sway back and forth, and focus on Him. When He starts to spin you, don't close your eyes, don't hold your breath, focus on Him! Focus so you don't get dizzy and fall. Look into His eyes. Look deeper. What color are they? What are they saying?
  Look at Him! What is He telling you? Look, it's so intense! Are you blinking? Are you laughing? Are you crying? I can promise you'll do all three, but don't look away. At times you might almost throw up. When the spinning won't stop, you might stumble. At times your hand might start to slip, but don't be afraid, and don't let go! Cry out to Him, refocus, stare deeper still, and cling with all your might. And then the music will begin to slow, and His strong hand will pull you gently in again, and carry you while you rest calmly, quietly, securely in His loving strength.
  Focus. Look into His eyes. Is He blinking? Is He crying? Is He laughing? Look! Look deeper! What color are His eyes? What are they saying, what is He trying to tell you? Listen as His music guides the dance, listen, focus, and don't look away.
  It's so intense!

A Stone Face

Emptiness

in a stone face

No smile,

or glimpse

of light.

What was it,

in that one short look,

that made me

feel dry?

The faces

around, the fear,

hollow

pain and

reality.

Moving feet,

unending laughs,

the masque

of joy

and peace.

Life without

a solid, firm

meaning,

lacking

the truth.

Yet one ray

of hope, a

smile, a

listening

ear.

One life of

solid belief

can make

a great

change.

There's Peace...

A soft summer breeze
The sun, just right
Writing in the park
Brings back old memories

Everything is calm
There's peace...

The rustle of leaves
As birds sing out
Cars, in the distance
Confirm all she believes

Everything is calm
There's peace...

A Symphony

 

  Imagine this: The lights dim. The voices in the crowd turn to whispers, and then die out completely in silent expectation. One area is lit. One area in the front and center still shines out bright. Around this light, in a half circle that's facing the silent crowd, you can just make out the forms of people sitting silently, an instrument resting gently in their laps. You can just see the lines of their faces, concentrated, firm, resolved, and waiting. Then come the footsteps, gentle footsteps, footsteps so quiet that you almost can't hear them...but they're there all the same. Finally the cause of the footsteps emerges from the dark. A man, dressed in black and white walks into the bright circle of light. He stands in the middle. He turns to the crowd, bows, and straightens again.
  The moment has come. His moment has come. He wrote, and through his writing there was produced a sound. The sound was turned into a melody and put on paper again. It's a powerful thing, and this powerful thing has been created by him.
  It has come from his mind.
  It has come from his heart.
  It has come from his imagination.
  All three have been working together to create a beautifully complex thing. It contains beauty, intelligence, and feeling-like a human. It speaks without words-unlike a human. Its name is music. And the creator is the conductor. Tonight he will share it with the world.
  Suddenly you see him life his hand, ever so slightly, and the sound of light tapping reaches your ears. Three taps. The forms in front of him raise their instruments, tensing ever so slightly, poised and ready to begin. The air thickens. Slowly, gently, his arm begins to move. The hand holding the stick sways back and forth, bringing out a soft sweet sound. It was the beginning, and through it you could hear all three of them: mind, imagination, and heart.
  In the dark of the room there suddenly seems to be more light, shining, singing inside of you. Something within you seems to come alive. The weight you carried begins to lift. You start to laugh, pure joy coursing and vibrating throughout your entire being! You're alive, you have been given life, been given love, been given everything good and wonderful. And you know it!
  You think it.
  You feel it.
  You see it.
  But then you begin to cry. What started as such a beautiful thing suddenly contains sorrow as your eyes shift from the conductor to the shadows around you. The echoing, haunting chords of the symphony pierce your soul like an arrow. Never has it been so hard to breathe as now. Never has it been so difficult to raise your eyes from the ground, or open them to watch the tears you're weeping splash on the marble floor beneath you.
  And then the tone changes. Softly, gently rising higher and louder than the agony being expressed, comes a new sound. Just as despair seemed to be taking over, just as you began to believe you would suffocate, there comes the sound of hope. Oxygen, pure, untainted oxygen reaches your lips! So weak, and so thin at first, but growing stronger and thicker with every sound produced from the hand of the conductor. You'd forgotten about him. Yet there he stands. Right in front of you. Giving you life once again. Reaching through the sound of pain that you let dominate, defeating the sorrow you allowed to overcome you, he's right there.
  You breath in.
  You breath out.
  You smile through your tears.
  You fix your eyes on the creator, the conductor, as he spreads out both hands before you for the final, long, loving note, giving you everything he has left. His hands go down abruptly. The music stops. The light above him goes out. It's as though he's disappeared, never existed, died or left. Silence seems to drag on for hours, but in reality lasts only a few seconds. The light comes on again. There he is. Facing you. Looking straight into your eyes. Smiling at you...and you smile back, gratefully. You're alive, because he's alive!
  You know it.
  You feel it.
  You see it.

  And most of all: you believe it!

Faith

Faith

In the cool

Summer mountains

So simple

So fierce

So different

So much to trust

In.

Doubt

Like the clouds

Creeps down, covers up

Yet still there

Hidden

Well underneath

The faith remains

Firm.

(Takdah, India)

Welcome to My World

  Imagine this: You are yourself. You think, you breathe, you eat, you sleep. You have your own taste in clothing, books, music and work. You have your fears, your hopes, your dreams, your weaknesses, and your strengths. You choose what you're going to do, what you're going to wear, and what you're going to believe. And those beliefs shape the foundations of your life. You live in your world.
  Now you walk to the train station. Your eyes are down, focused on the pavement as you walk determinately towards work. You reach the platform and walk past all the blurred faces, all the same-colored suits, all the different colors of hair, and look up at the machine in front of you. Having reached your first stop, you raise your eyes to the buttons, you press them, you insert your money, and the little plastic door at the bottom clicks as you grab your ticket and move on to stand and wait for your train. One last phone call, one last text before the train arrives.
  The sound of wheels in the distance, the rush of wind, the squeal of brakes, and the doors open. You step on. You sit down. The doors close. You stare out the window, the train starts forward and something catches your eye. It's your own reflection in the glass. You look at yourself with and through your own eyes. Your thoughts fly to a million different places. Your mind goes through events, plans, hopes, and memories. This is your world. This is your story. This train, these thoughts, these smells, these sounds, and the sight before you are a part of this story, this world. 
  Something else catches your eye. It's the reflection of everyone else in the train. What was before a blur of faces, a blur of sameness, seems to separate. The hair, the faces, the eyes start to change, start to shine as individuals. One short, one tall; one young, and one old. Different skin, different hair, different eye colors. The train slows at the next stop. More people board, some get off, some stay on the platform outside: waiting. You're fully awake now, fully looking, and fully curious. Expressions begin to stand out. Each serious face has something more to it: anger, sadness, peace...the list goes on. Each serious face tells a different story. Each serious face lives in a different world, their world. 
  And the laughter? The smiles? Each one of them says something different too. Each one hides and conceals, or shines forth without a single worry. Each face, each and every one, changes you. You feel you're seeing for the first time, feeling more than you've ever felt before. One glance at a face and you want to shrink, to laugh, or to cry. One long look and you find yourself taking a deep breath. 
  A voice comes out over the speakers. The train begins to slow. This is your stop. As people stand you rise slowly to your feet. Everything around you slows down as you take it in. The noise around you seems to fade as you step out onto the platform, and you stop...you stop as a voice somewhere within your head seems to whisper: "Welcome to my world..."
  Eyes go past you, faces, expressions, people, stories, and worlds. Each one different. Each one unique. And your spirit screams at you in desperation as the train moves on. It's never felt this much before, never known this much before, never seen this much before.
  Don't ever put people in a box. Don't ever blur them together. 
  Stop looking down, look up! Stop looking in, look out! 
  Who are you? Who's around you? 
  What's their story? What's yours? 
  Welcome to my world...