W r i t i n g

Diani Beach – A Dance With Fear

After we spoke the other day, I thought about humour. How it helps us overcome conflict, move through suffering. Humour being the other side of any situation.
Then, how much courage it takes to Step Into a situation — where someone else is suffering or feeling pain, with that lightness of heart. Not undermining the challenge they’re facing in any way, but being Big Enough in oneself, to Embrace them — regardless of what shit they’re going through.
Do I have this capacity within myself? 
Am I big enough, strong enough, courageous enough — to Trust that my love for that person is greater than their fear? Whatever their fear may be, even if it’s to do with loving me.
And when the flames have burned to the ground — stand there, unscarred by a shield of humour—the wrath of fear can’t touch this—because I love you anyway.
Because you know what? Me loving you — actually has nothing to do with you. It has all to do with how much courage I have — To love. To give. To truly give. Because I am enough.
With this kind of courage — we can do anything.
Give them a wink and a smile, reach across the walls of their fear. Even if they draw their sword and threaten—don’t you dare come near me. I hate you right now. Don’t you dare overstep my personal boundaries—
Take a step back.
Okay, what?
And then forward.
Is this a dance, now?
And In—
Yes, it is.
And Love always takes the Lead.

Toronto – Market At Dawn

Five AM. My eyes open to a crescent moon. I listen to birds welcome Dawn outside my window. Few are awake at this hour, but the ones who experience the luxury of an empty market.

The potential of stillness.

Where street sweepers sweep yesterday’s news into the trash and bundles of stories are wound up and rolled out at each new day.

Soon these sidewalks will bustle with life: feets of people, children, dogs and bicycles. A place where: the scratching of beer cans on pavement is background noise and normal. Where pigeons argue with sparrows for crumbs of roti, and the Rastafarian grill serves scorched red meat for breakfast. Where melons and squash are stacked high in piles waiting to tumble or be carefully picked. Where the scent of hazelnut coffee roasted at the Moonbean Cafe filters through the air. A scent that is almost seen – as mist is through rays of sunlight. A barista cuts mint and parsley from a terracotta pot on the patio. She reaches down to smell their freshness and wipe the dew between their leaves. A place where the streets glint shoals of silver fish in the sun. And my coffee breath is steam in the morning air.

Where packs of hounds have become packs with their owners and both are stray. Where toothless warriors rest beside grinning Pitbulls and let pigeons eat from their hand. Always, they are friendly – the children of the market.

A place where: the sun glints orange on glass window panes, reflecting the colour of the minds that live here.

Orange. The colour in between: caught in a mesh of society’s stark red lines and nature’s golden allure. The shade of misfits, artists – those who seek to paint something brighter but are caught in the middle. Who know not where they’re going or who they are. But where they belong? Only in the streets of the Market.

Orange. Misunderstood stands out. Searching, seeking, looking – up, down – which way? Up if you’re thinking and down if you’re feeling.

Up. Above the birds on the wire, because my mind is wrapped around it. Curled along your tangled edges even though they do me harm sometimes. I do not break, but take the dark look and turn it to light. Because inside, I shine too bright – and darkness will never be left alone here. To brew or fester, like beer that is over-fermented – I turn it to gold.

Such are thoughts in the Market at Dawn.

New Mexico – Glimpse Out of the Cave


LE MOT JUSTE

“What is this?” The Professor muttered upon gazing down at the manuscript. “Funes? I don’t believe I’ve encountered that word before.”

“You wouldn’t have, I made it up. Funes are those tiny silken hairs that grow on a beings’ body; on a child’s head at birth, after losing hair during chemotherapy, or on the belly of a puppy.”

“You see, writing is about finding the perfectly appropriate word for the situation. Flaubert called it Le Mot Juste. It’s an endless quest; an art you will develop over time.”

“Sure – but what if the one you are looking for is sitting right there in the palm of your hand? And we’re all just too preoccupied with searching to see it?”

GLIMPSE OUT OF THE CAVE

Some say it’s not what we see, but how we see it.

She sat in the cave where they used to sit, smoke their fires and light their pipes. Where the dreams trembled through the hollows, leaves entered with the wind in autumn and fear and lust smudged the walls at night. The cave. This cave. The cave of her heart. Glowed with wonder.

Peering Through Light

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