Sunday, November 23, 2014


Even if no one believes you, believes in you, I saw you fly.  I saw you feel the lilt of inspiration's bellows, take a step of courage, placing each foot on a word over the chasm of ShouldIShouldn'tI, and believe in...
Take heart, write and soar...
I only opened the door.

Seeing the blades of grass, seeing the clouds shimmer in morning light, telling of fairy glades...
That is what you're meant for.

I was thinking last night about those who are and aren't artists or poets.  In my mind, I never need to be rich or successful or acclaimed to feel like an artist.
I can be sitting on my porch when I am 80 and read a poem that touched my soul, and I would be rich beyond measure. 
To live deeply, unfettered by others' tight, manic, grasps, should be everyone's right.  You spread wings to lift your spirits, to lift those of others.
People who don't write or create, or appreciate writers and artists, have manacles.  I don't mean scientists without an artistic tendency are chained to a bolder, no, because if they are creating, dreaming, experimenting, they are alive.  If the accountant gets joy out of creating a perfect ledger and walks out of his office happy that he has made someone's life easier, and holds out his arms for his toddlers to jump into, his life is poetic.
When I garden or teach, that is the closest thing to feeling like I live an artistic life when I am not painting or writing.  I love taking care.  I love cherishing.  I love helping there be room to grow.
I see people fly, rarely, you know.
I see people with their head in their hands, more often.
I saw you, felt you, realize your wings existed, and I loved watching it all unfurl.
Wherever life takes you, keep them out, let those wings stretch, everyday, for me, for you, for all of those who know you flew.

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