Rooted in Our Truth

Made With Love, Photo by BradensEye featuring faithful artwork by Lisa McFann

Your truth is your love language. That home within you that isn’t the usual constructed walls and doors. The place that rushes like a cool river or cheerful sun throughout your body when you know you’ve hit the mark totally on point. It’s security tipping you to sniff a wide orbit if you care to hearken the advice. But, the bulk of us rest hidden beneath the hierarchy of externally pleasing. We’re pounded into round holes, even if we have edges that barely breathe such seizure. I believe that the foundational fantasy of everyone wishes to operate with genuine efficacy. I credit ourselves with an authority for deducing our conditions. Although, I feel we rarely allow veracity to lead the charge. When rooted in our truth misfortune is replaced with adventures. All we’re ever waiting for is a chance to be real. Really seen. Candidly uncuffed in all of our halo’s distinctions.

My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant. ~
May Sarton, Now I Become Myself, from Collected Poems 1930–1993

Governments are a peculiar beast. Modern era jobs have proven to be mainly mercurial at best. Families aren’t far behind. Intimate relationships are often the detonation girdle cinched so tightly for ages only to be liberated obscenely. Mostly, the cause for tightening a hold on viciousness is typically based on a fear of the assumed known. But isn’t that freakish? As if those on any side can firmly predict what they will get (ahem, not receive, ‘gain’ poorly, awfully, traumatically). So goes for umpteen of ‘us’ with anyone skippering save ourselves initially. While history, with her capes of gold or red to inventions or else, is here to remind us she’s well-versed at repetition. She is patient at lobbing the same lesson. A kind school marm realizing several should be taught the duplicate message time and again until they ‘get’ it. Maybe new words shall suffice this round. Possibly mortals can craft our deliverance.

I’m unsure to what depths of this intensity anyone can take. Yet, I’d prefer to intend that we take it all. I want the transformations to fully burn the seemingly immovable fortresses of stressful characterization… very not me or you. The peeling back of facades. Irradiation of pleats, scum, and counterfeit tiers. Each masquerading as coats so well-worn they appear comfy. However, which no longer fit to keep us seriously warm. It’s downright odd how long this comparison train has been parked in our pathways. I do applaud a ‘we ought not worry’ motto favoring roosts of leisure akin to the famed midwinter ice bubbles in Nukabira Lake. They muster happy ironies amidst all of our havoc. Their ideas beckon the solace of safety my current small plot of land floating in a giant ocean evokes. A babe in the womb of Mother Earth before entry into else provokes. Tucked in a paradise of ponderings has so many layers of meaning!

That we’re surrounded by the comfort and protection
Of the highest powers, in lonely hours ~
Darren Hayes / Daniel Jones, Savage Garden, Truly Madly Deeply

It’s a riddle that ends in an epiphany and begins with heartbreak. Dare not to react without all of your faculties intact. I’m not sure I ever stopped searching for your approval. Nor his, or hers, or theirs, or God’s. From that era when I twirled in tutus for a living or cast countless rocks along the water’s surface aiming for more skips than the boy I craved. In order to grow the wilds of love as strong as a tree, as entrenched as the Mariana runs deep, or as limitless as the skies turn to orbit, then outer space, then galaxies ever far away, we’re faced with the madcap human race. Wherefrom hatred emerges sprigs, that shoot from saplings to stems to branches, trunks, and crown their reach towards others with open arms. Just as readily as they hug the skies or the guys making out below them. As passionately reminiscent as the elderly couple touching noses on the heirloom blanket from their first midnight show.

A positive one can do humble things: aspire, pray, gnaw, snooze, romance, rinse, repeat. Sometimes I weave words simply to pass the aching hours. It’s rarely that I’m disinterested in them so much as it is considering them swaddles me better company than a host of alternative machinations. Trusting the very nature of wasteland not to swallow you whole in lieu of connecting you to the shine that beams bankrupt of harm, seas that break without leaving one broken, or divining in the pleasures of fresh air blooms. All, if we grant long-awaited integrity enough strength. How, if I could spread the joy of peace as easily as many do panic then it’s plausible I wouldn’t have a need to write here today. It’s the way that you bend my ears until your language becomes the nightcap I require to fall asleep every evening. Let’s think about valuable things. Who are we truly? Gather the hankerings our appetite madly lusts. Go after those! Living honorably is the way.

May you be the cause to champion karmic goodness saluting you.

LOVER of life. Especially people, places, philanthropy and photography.

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