my book

This is a link to my book.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=this+is+where+you+belong

the little bird

The little bird has returned to the nest. She is so frail and tired. I can see her tiny heart and it appears as though it will burst through her chest. Some days she flies so high and I am so proud. Flitting about from flower to tree, testing her wings on the air currents. On those days, in my soul, I think my heart will burst through my chest. She fills me with such pride and I say to myself, "There's my little bird. All of those worms and bugs I brought to her have made her strong. The flying lessons we did together have made her strong. She flies with the best of them."

Sometimes the best of them are not at their best; they tease her and pick at her so she falls. Her wings falter and she comes crashing down into the nest for comfort and solace. She looks so fragile despite her adult body lying there with little tears welling up in her eyes. I do what I can, say what I believe, hoping it will revitalize her so she will fly again. Slowly she collects herself. I brush off her wings and we both get ready for her to go again. A part of me hopes that I won't have to do it again but my mind knows that we will repeat this ritual again and again. Some birds can leave and never return others stay close and a community is sprouted from the original egg, a community of birds that stick together, a network of birds that never leave one behind alone.

My little bird needs to be close and I love her. I love her for her strength and her weakness equally. It is her weakness that keeps her going, her desire to fly above the Mocking Birds and the Vultures. Where they are ugly she is beautiful, a tiny, delicate Humming bird in a world of boring Sparrows and vicious Blue Jays. She continues to fly her own path, tuning out the roar of the others. When the roar is too loud she stumbles. Wobbling she will return to the nest to fluff her feathers and receive encouragement.

Some nests are abandon after the first year but this nest is continually reworked and made larger for all the fledglings.

creation

From my current perspective I can feel a sense of relief. While some struggle to recover, still, after years and years I no longer struggle. I am grateful for your love. I am happy that we could share a part of our lives together. I learned so much about myself. I learned about my dark parts too. The couple is a mixture of two worlds, sometimes colliding and thrashing about. It isn't always smooth and comfortable. The illusion of 'happily ever after' is so rare. That does not mean it was bad.

Couples are the sculpture they create. We can judge from the outside other couples creations. "I would have made it this way." or "I would have added a little of that." But they are not our sculptures. That couple created what they did from within themselves. They dragged a little from childhood, a little from teen years, some from a job, parts from books, items from friendships, nonsense from the world outside, added a lot of heart and blended. Yet, the project is never finished. Until one leaves.

You left. You didn't want to, but the cosmos called you to their collective so our sculpture was finalized. When I look at our creation I see smooth, round curves and spikes and colors melting and I see limbs reaching for the sky. It is not bad art or great art it is OUR art to be appreciated by us and those who know us best. I can now look at our carving and see the beauty in our design, sometimes it was haphazard sometimes it was artfully crafted. It is done.

So now I am holding it reverently in my mind, turning it over, admiring and wishing I could have some a little different but it is not to be refashioned. It exists for all eternity as we created it together.

And it is pleasant.

temporary madness

“Love is a temporary madness; it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of eternal passion. That is just being in love, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Those that truly love have roots that grow towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms have fallen from their branches, they find that they are one tree and not two.” ~Louis de Bernieres

This is a painting by Jean Baptiste Huet, entitled Lovers in a Landscape. I love how happy and healthy they look. Their cheeks are rosy and they seem happy in their idyllic setting. I think most of us envision ourselves like this; which is why I prefer the images in my mind and have never photographed myself in the passion of lovemaking. The image I have in my head is so much more beautiful.

old man

There are many people in the room, talking, laughing, walking about, sitting together, the usual meeting of people that attend events like weddings, graduations, all other manor of human gatherings. I am just an old man sitting on a chair watching the crowd mingle. I used to be that crowd. I was the one with the funny jokes. That was me asking all the pretty girls to dance. The drinks and food were offered by me. Now, I am content to sit and watch. Let them have their fun.

Fun is different for me now, I enjoy life from an alternative perspective. I am not waiting for death I am simply slowing down and enjoying the show that was my life and the new ones evolving around me. There is that 3 year old boy giving his mother trouble. Oh, she is so mad but I am laughing inside because I know that it will be temporary, soon she will be tucking him into bed, kissing him on his tiny, soft cheek and thinking he is the most wonderful child that has ever lived and isn't she a lucky woman.

Also, I have been looking at that middle aged woman over there who keeps adjusting her hair, her lipstick, checking to make sure she is still the beautiful woman she used to be. Of course she is. To me, all women are beautiful. I love to look at them and talk to them. Still. Here is my nephew's girlfriend looking for a place to sit. I signal to her that a place is empty next to me. And she walks across the room to join me. So graceful, yet so timid. A small doe carefully choosing her path amongst the swilling wine glasses, children running, people mingling.

As she sits I smell her flowery scent. I feel the light wisp as she tosses her back. She smiles at me and tells me how tired her feet are. Now, if I were young I might offer to get up and get her a drink but that isn't my job anymore. It is my job to sit and listen and look. She is telling me of the fun she is having at the party, how happy she is that her boyfriend brought her to meet his family. I warn her that the family has been known to be crazy but she laughs. I wag my finger at her teasingly, saying that she has been warned. I see her lovely lips encircle her pearly teeth as she smiles at me. She asks me to tell her about my nephew, what he was like when he was a boy. I could tell her that he was a mischievous brat but I lie and tell her that he was a wonderful boy. Well, it's true. He still is a wonderful boy, all those incidents were just playful learning experiences.

The sound of her sweet voice I will roll around in my mind tonight when I fall asleep before I revisit my nightly fantasy of my wife. She has been gone for 5 years but every night I think of her just as if she were still falling asleep beside me. I even have a pillow there beside me so that I can pretend she is there. Soon I will see her again. Very soon I think. It is almost time. I am not afraid. It is the way of things.

But for now, I am enjoying this sprite of a young woman who has no idea what life has in store for her. Tonight, I enjoy the sound of a woman's voice on my ear. Breathing in her scent, gazing at her pretty face, noting that strand of hair that rebels continuously against her repeated attempts to put it back. I take her soft, delicate hand in between mine and hold it gently. Tapping it lightly, I hold it. I don't want to frighten the little doe. I do not have lecherous thoughts. I do this to stir my own memories. I hold her hand and think of another.

Once there was a young man who loved a fairy like this. To her it such a long, long time ago but to me it was just yesterday. In my mind I am twirling around the dance floor with her. That is what I have now, memories. Lots and lots of memories. No, no, don't feel sorry for me. I am not sad. I had my times and adventures. I have no regrets. This insignificant encounter with my nephew's lady is a gift to an old man. It recaptures my memories, rewinding the movie of life so that now I only have to watch the good parts.

I so enjoy being around people, especially women. It takes all the women in the world to recapture the one I will see again soon.

what you say

Words. Your words, they affect me. They roll around in my head for days, and months. Each time I bring them forward in my mind and relive them. Sometimes they affect a private smile and no one knows why. I sit in a bored, crowded room with silent people as we pass time waiting for something, some appointment, some service and I smile. The mundane event is now a repeat of the place and time you first spoke your words to me.

Some words tickle me on the inside and I blush. Other words caress my inner ear. Often I feel them rolling around my belly. Sometimes they even tingle. I love what you say. I love you.