a puddle on the sidewalk shines with a nostalgic glimmer.
the taste of pavement and chalk so hot an egg could fry. the oppressive warmth needs escaping. doors creak, opened by sun-stickied fingers. the air-conditioning inside smells like fresh water and feels like an embrace of ice prickles leaving bodies punctuated with goosebumps.
a hose in the backyard could be a source of hydration or a toy while running barefooted across the grass and clover trying not to step on any bees– the danger only adding to the fun.
those days pinned down by sea salt headaches, leaping from shade to shade, erroneously convinced the best days lay yet ahead.
It is there for us to seek– that’s what I thought when I pulled into the driveway of your brown home. It is there for us to seek. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew we were after the same treasure, whatever it was. It was there for us to seek. I honestly thought we might find it, you and I. But we sought and sought, and it wasn’t there at all. Because it turns out that it was lost from us before we ever got the chance to hunt.
The world is wide and wild. When traipsing through the trees, echos of the beyond often filter through the underbrush. The walker feels both known and unknown.
Birds call, squirrels rustle. The canopies above let just enough light trickle down to the ground level where twigs may crack under bootsteps. Humans are often seen in these woods but only along this path. That is just the way things are now.
The walker matters little to their surroundings. This is how things should be. Leave no trace, make no impact except for on yourself. The wild is meant for memories, not imprints.
The walker’s mind is open. They hear the noises. They see the sights. They think the questions:
Who am I? From where did I come? And, most importantly, where would I like to go?
When I set out to find answers, it was like how the sun sets out of the sky– firstly illuminating, then fading slow, slow, slow, and finally plunging into darkness.
It’s not that the answers were unexpected– in fact, quite the opposite. As it turns out, seeking fire and brimstone leads you to fire and brimstone.
I still have an ember from that inferno held under the tightly woven treated threads of fire-retardant fabric. I miss seeing that ember, but the smothering is necessary.
The only way to gather new light seems to be first extinguishing the old, but never forgetting. No, never forgetting.
There is nothing here for me now in the thick brush where the light is tinged yellow by the leaves of the canopy above, nothing there for me now in the desolate desert where the vast sheet of stars overhead overwhelms.
Silence is impossible to fully express in the written form. Here is my attempt:
Here for but a moment– an inhale, a comma, a pause, a break, full stop. . . . Maybe it’s not a blank space. After all, a musical rest is conveyed with a symbol– a hat for a half-rest, an upside-down hat for a whole. Maybe it’s all about rest. . . . And maybe silence is hope. It’s hope that my words may rest by you in your quiet moments, alone, at peace. Hope that my words offer their presence, not their voice. . . . I hope you find the silence you’re looking for.
C. D. Anders wrote this poem about silence and how difficult it is to write about. I wrote on one form of silence, the calm kind, but I would love to see other people take up his challenge of either capturing silence in words or writing on ideas that are difficult to put into words.
Fires may receive their fuel Daisy petals may be counted Sandcastles may be built and destroyed Branches may break Clay may transform to an urn Thunderous chords may be played Delicate chains may be repaired Fortune may be uncovered Children may be soothed Inky pages may smear Plants may be pruned Knots may be tied Candles may be snuffed out Lemonade may be sweetened Water may be cupped and flow through cracks in fingers Chocolate may melt Needles may make gorgeous embroidery Paths may be blazed Bones may be set Goosebumps may appear and disappear
I do not find comfort in taking up space in the world, but I was not made to be comfortable. I was not made to ford rivers, I was made to swim across their widest parts and emerge dripping and shivering, full of energy and tenacity, ready and excited to do it again and again and again.
I watched my mother pull the stem through the honeysuckle flower and put the petals up to her lips to taste the sweetness. She was always so cautious, and as kids she taught us to be so careful. My brother and I never would have deigned to pick a flower off a random bush and taste it. Who knows what other passersby have done to those saccharine beauties? But in that moment, she was too caught up in the nostalgia of her childhood. She threw caution to the wind and tasted that luscious liquid, remembering what it was like to be youthful and free.