today’s Musing written and published from
Morning walk: -1C/29F, overcast, flurries forecast, strong north breeze suggests chilly might produce flake-age – Gusta, her fur coat rippling in the wind, loved it.
Little bits, little steps, miss-steps - I’d like some back – chance at do-over’s, re-do’s, some oops-reversals. But I regret little; not much, just a little. I didn’t stumble, did I? I didn’t fall. I didn’t slip off the trail, did I? My big toe, my big mouth, my big ideas – each get in my way, cause temporary pain, bring focus to the moment, beget silence - if only to find the slightest slimness - just a sliver shard of discovery – found there, when we stumble upon.
I would give just about anything to not have a sprained big toe today. I don’t know how it happened – or exactly when; it has only gotten worse, hurt more, become inconvenient. I suspect it was a roll-over accident of some kind in my sleep or a stumble at the gym I missed - just a sprain, it will be fine, but this morning it won’t stop throbbing.
Good reason then, to walk slower today – to stop more, see more, gain some insight to the power within; need to turn the heat up on ideas, make them bigger, clearer - an enabling power source, to combine things that haven’t been combined before, people who have not been combined before – an experiment recipe, to taste flavor results, to see thoughts on a page, like a performer strutting on an improv stage.
Leftovers may feel and look like a creation, of something new, but they are simply a rearrangement – one that fills more space than it did before . . . much like steam molecules being further apart than water molecules. This happens when people expand our understanding, stretch our limits, cheer us on when we struggle through pain.
Whatever remains – when we put things/people together, and then, pull them apart again – is like digging a hole in the ground, then refilling it with what was removed; there is always more - emotion, frozen in thought, lumps in the throat, put on canvas or page punctuated with love and pain and finding something; these leftovers are real growth.
Let me ruminate thereon, I will respond to you: ‘Hmmm, what's my pleasure?’. Whatever remains, when we are done, is what we are and who we are – to ourselves and to each other.
SILENT SPACES
Just between you and me.
I enjoy every day, just a little bit more
than I did before.
There are silent spaces between you and me,
they contain large measures of empty,
short ones and long ones.
There is a reason, this is the season
you are pleasin’ me.
Silent spaces – in time will not be spaces
but memories, of these times
Just between,
you and me.
Mark Kolke
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RESPONSES/COMMENTS ALWAYS WELCOME; send to: musing@maxcomm.ca
March 21 Comments
March 21 – PADDLING – It may be a little egotistical of me ... one reader in 10,000 ... but I believe you wrote that poem for me. Thank you, PG,
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