Heart is a Gypsy

Perfume and spices on the air as I wait in the string-lighted courtyard of our final banquet dinner. There are fires burning in the metal stand welcoming street strays. The smoke in my clothes and tearing eyes might as well be from sycamore limbs back home in Missouri. My heart is full and oh-so heavy knowing I might not see my new friends ever again. Wishing farewells and whispering fevered fantasies about moving across the globe to adopt new customs, cuisines and children. This could be my home. My heart is a gypsy. A Native American warrior heart nomadic as a tornado.

My heart so fragile. Powerful. Chaotic. Ready to rope out and lose its whirl at any moment. Yet overeager to jump and pump arteries-first into strange territory of emotion and relationship.

What to do with all this feeling? Love? Raw force of nature?

I love this country. I love these people.

Purple Balloon Boy.
Yellow Chair Girl.
Red-nose Rudy.
Pink-Jacket Joy.

I hope to share eternity with you, Friends. Stay with God and send Him with me and we shall meet again on different, distant shores. Still bright and glistening.

I saw a young girl in a hot-pink jacket take her first steps with the help of a pediatric walker. She strolled straight through our hearts with smiles and laughter into the outstretched hands of her own mother’s love. I got to see what love can do.

Physical therapists seating kids who need wheelchairs. Nurses treating gunshot wounds. Kind people ready to laugh and bring joy, handing out glasses.

Make the sick well. Give sight to the blind. Bind wounds. And make the lame walk to mother’s waiting arms. Miracles. In the land where Jesus walked.

Love did that. Love changed their world. My world. THE world.

“For God so loved the world…”

Please let me see this place again. Please let me feel this love again. This beautiful lump in my throat. Jumping unrestrained from my lashes. Down my cheeks in rolling, fat tears.

Don’t let me pass from this valley without your love, God.
How do I take this with me?

my prayers are

for i am gentle

103

sink stones

yellow chair angled

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Death Haiku and Poem

Death is not horror
Living through someone’s death is
Misery we fear


Don’t cry for the dead
Smile for life that has blossomed
To die is to change


Flower fades in time
The blossom is most precious
As first petal falls


Your tears are diamonds
Shed for my broken body
Heaven is my gem


My death is rebirth
Change in energy
Frozen to freedom
Difference between
Carbon and diamonds

Present to Myself

Last year, for my birthday, I decided that I wanted to upgrade my WordPress blog. It’s a gift to myself because this blog, and writing in general, has been the single most beneficial thing to my mental health that I have ever done.

It’s cheaper than a therapist.

I’m reaching out in a community of thoughtful people and plumbing the depths of honesty and reality. Exploring my creativity and ability to learn anything over 40. I’m a self-taught writer and in love with words. Mine and other people’s. I never knew that until here. This.

I always hated reading. I loved certain books, but reading was difficult for me. I would usually lose my place when I read, start thinking of other things (Did I just read an entire paragraph and think about dogs at the same time? What did I just read? I just read this same paragraph 5 times and I still didn’t retain it.) and never finish the 3 chapters of History that are due tomorrow.

But I love seeing the insides of people’s brains here on WordPress. Some of you are flat-out word Picassos. Thank you. Wish I had more time to read now.

So now, every year around my birthday, I’m reminded of the gift I gave myself when I renew my subscription. A lifetime of thoughts and memories written down like a book of love. Realizations that I have forgotten with day-to-day living. Measurement of how far I’ve come. And a reminder that I have a group of people who care what the inside of my brain looks like. ❤

Happy early birthday to me. 🙂