III

Suddenly the vastness of life's interactions started to unfold in front of me. A shift in consciousness; how good things happen to those who believe in the power of good things. The importance of patience and the power that comes with keeping secrets with yourself, allowing one to never truly grow dull. The vastness of what can be accomplished if one only tries. A gift given to all but received in full by few. The soul is a mysterious fragment held in time suspended like a marionette, to clip the strings is a daunting task, because in doing so we must relearn all that they once held so true.

II

I'm  going home to a man that has traveled 400 miles to see me, and I can't help but hope for the day you'll love me the way that I loved you.

I

Do you ever look to the sky?
I do.
It's always there, silently beckoning followers

painting the roses red

Roses are such a visceral flower. Thought of as one of the most beautiful plants, they shield themselves with spiky thorns. Almost as if they know that because of their beauty they'll be picked. I'm not a flower kind of gal. Using a plant to represent ones undying love for another human is pretty silly; when the mere act of giving someone flowers is in turn the beginning of the end for that plant.

The rose bush was alive and sweet when he gave it to me. Soil damp with life, petals blooming in the light of my bedroom window. It was Valentines Day, how cliché. "See it's a bush" he said; "I know you hate bouquets." I had to admit, he had me there. But with that realization came another. It's not the flowers that I hated, it was what they represented. "It will blossom and grow like our love" he said; I smiled emphatically as the rest of my body cringed. I don't want this. But why?

I called my mother on Valentines Day. Jokingly I asked her if my father had gotten her any flowers. "He did" she said; "I don't know why he did that". We laughed and joked and that was that. It didn't resonate with me until later, that I am truly my mother's daughter.

He left the next day. Telling me he'd be back soon, and reminding me to not forget about the plant. I stared at it blankly, as if I had never seen it before. A week went by and I must say I gave it a honest effort. I watered it, pruned it, moved it so my cats couldn't eat its leaves. It was a lost cause. My rose bush was dead. My love was dead.

I went home the next weekend. While talking to my mother I noticed out of the corner of my eye, a rose bush sitting on the windowsill. Just like mine back home, these poor roses had never stood a chance. Wilted, and getting blacker everyday, the soil that had once been full of life was now as dry as a bone. For a moment I felt that inner cringe inside of me again, as I did the day mine were given to me. When did flowers evolve into this empty meaning? Even as a little girl, I would lie in the dandelion patch behind my house, blowing every one I could get my hands on, wishing that my prince charming would come and whisk me away. I spent countless hours outside plucking petals off of my mothers flower bushes, repetitively asking if "he" loved me or not. Who "he" was I don't remember, and I really don't know if he ever really existed to begin with.

Now I sit here, as an adult, saddened by the fact that I never truly appreciated a flower for what it was. It is not a symbol, it is a living thing. I don't know when little girls are taught that flowers signify love. Was it from our mothers? If that's the case, then I feel bad for us both. All this love in our possession and we just let it die. Are we giving up on love, or are we giving up on ourselves?

History unfolds

Touched with time they are effortlessly beautiful. The purest forms of perfect imperfection.  Silence has become their best friend and their biggest enemy. Having lived through decades of life's highs and lows they are more often than not left alone with their own thoughts. The gatekeepers of our history, in a world that is constantly dying to be heard, we time and time again let them fall silent long before their rightful time.

Through World Wars, Depressions, three Feminist Waves, movements upon movements; they've been their through it all. Whether it be as innocent bystanders or active participants in framing our present day states.

The elderly are a generation that is too often forgotten. In many cultures they are held at the highest prestige, where here in the Western World we subject them to eye rolls, nods of the head, and empty remarks lacking any and all question.

I have learned some of my most valuable life lessons through my work with the elderly community. It is at first saddening to see their apprehension towards communication; especially with a 20 something such as myself. Though given the right settings, I have been able to in the most subtle of ways give a few back their voice. Black coffee and newsprint The evening news and black and white movies. The medium is and always will be the message. A comment sparks a memory,  which turns into conversation, and soon I have been given the timeline to someones life. What a humbling experience to watch these beautiful souls light up. Soon hours of silence are replaced with those of conversation. There are no bounds to what will be said next.

Communication is to humanity what water is to trees. Without either, none of us can grow.

Lucky are those who happen to find themselves standing in the welcoming atmosphere of the early morning. When a foreigner to these parts wouldn't be able to recognize the coming of dawn. The sky, still blanketed with the beady white eyes of the constellations above have stayed awake all night shining conspicuous spotlights on the peepers whose coos are becoming fainter, but still dancing to the rhythm of the night.It's hard to wrap your head around the notion that soon this moment will be over. Dark will become light as fast as light became dark. The cycle is down to a science but ever so unexplained. These hours, though seen by many are recognized by few. The air is sweet with newly restored energy. Soon all that will remain is the layer of fog that will descend from the mountains, closing and welcoming a new day.

Vielbongura

The room was blanketed in butterfly wings. Carrying in them the energies of all past, present, and future lives. Stories seeped through the walls, you could sense they were dying to talk. Tables ordained in ripe orange peaches; secreting virtue, knowledge, and beauty. Tantalizing thoughts opened and closed doors to the terrarium of my mind. Was this the end or the beginning?