...it will be good for me.

fall apart again

Fine Lines

Fine lines. There are many. They wrap themselves around our hearts, tie knots, and sink in. When that heart finally breaks, we’re left with a mess to untangle from the rubble. Lines everywhere that must be sorted through and straightened out. There’s a fine line between forgiving someone because you’re strong enough to stay and forgiving someone because you’re too weak to leave. There’s the fine line between believing in someone because you see all the good they posess and believing in someone because you’ve forgotten how to believe in yourself. There’s the fine line of loving one another through betrayal, pain, and heartbreak because even the broken pieces of you can’t go one second without them by your side and then there’s loving one another through all of that because the shattered pieces are to weak to stand up and believe you’re worth anything better. And finally there’s the fine lines of going through the motions of leaving because you know that's what you should do and going through the motions of staying because you just don’t know how to do anything else. All of these lines shape the outline of our hearts. Sometimes we cross them. Sometimes we tie knots in them. Sometimes we cut them. If we could just learn how to string our lines together and tangle ourselves in love, respect, honor, and truth we would end up with a knot worth tying and the fine lines would be those made by the sun on the morning petals of promises.

they always know

The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering
aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days,
you can hear their chorus rushing past: I was a beautiful girl, please don’t go,
I too believe my body is made of glass, I’ve never loved anyone, I think of
myself as funny, forgive me… There was a time when it wasn’t uncommon to use a
piece of string to guide words that otherwise might falter on the way to their
destinations. Shy people carried a little bunch of string in their pockets, but
people considered loudmouths had no less need for it, since those used to being
overheard by everyone were often at a loss for how to make themselves heard by
someone. The physical distance between two people using a string was often
small; sometimes the smaller the distance, the greater the need for the string.
The practice of attaching cups to the ends of string came much later. Some say
it is related to the irrepressible urge to press shells to our ears, to hear the
still-surviving echo of the world’s first expression. Others say it was started
by a man who held the end of a string that was unraveled across the ocean by a
girl who left for America. When the world grew bigger, and there wasn’t enough
string to keep the things people wanted to say from disappearing into the
vastness, the telephone was invented. Sometimes no length of string is long
enough to say the thing that needs to be said. In such cases all the string can
do, in whatever its form, is conduct a person’s silence.”

— Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

Standing ovation

It's hailing right now. Little pellets of frozen rain are falling from the sky with such a fury that they're bouncing like tiny gymnasts when they hit the ground. The tin roof of my cabin sounds as if it's applauding the spectacular show and welcoming winter with a standing ovation.  There's something magical about this transformation from light to dark, from warm to cold.  No matter how many times I witness this transition, I still gaze in awe and wonderment everytime. The kids and I huddle up and stare out the window as Mother covers us with her white blanket of snow and we all breathe a deep sigh. It's a breath of comfort; it's a breath of reflection; it's a breath of gratitude.  The world will slumber. Our hearts will rest. The promise of new beginnings will enchant our dreams. 
So, welcome home, winter.  I've put the kettle on for you.

over the moon

sometimes my silence means that i've decided that my mouth couldn't possibly be qualified
to say all that my heart needs it to.
so rather than ruin the song,the poem, or the tender breaking that my heart strings are stitching together with deep breaths and deeper exhalations, i sit quietly and let the beating of my heart carry the words through my veins to escape through my fingertips.
i sit under a starry night and stare at a moon that stares back.
my heart beats wildly with an eagerness and desire to jump over that moon.
but, i have planted roots in the ground that tether me to the treet tops.
i share the wind with wood nymphs, sunbeams with the tips of wings and my heart soars with the secrets kept by the rivers...
but, i long to see what's on the other side of that moon...
the flutter of wings and the whispers of raindrops have me believing
that it's there that i'll find the other side of my heart.