Please Pause Your Day and Read the Following

He Said ~ 

“One day to a new beginning

Raise the flag of freedom high

Every man will be a king

Every man will be a king

There’s a new world for the winning

There’s a new world to be won

Do you hear the people sing?

My place is here, I fight with you

One day more”

– Les Miserables 

“Our life is March weather, savage and serene in one hour.”

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

This month we call March is a mystifying one. We rejoice in the lightness extended by nature, while we struggle with relinquishing the self-imposed darkness we embraced for security. We long for one last, brisk day while we dream of a tempered sun providing enough time to stroll amidst the trees. We collectively shed the catacombs of solitude and attempt to embrace the security of shadows cast by colloquial companionship. We struggle with our newly discovered freedom from frozen mourns to delight in the forthcoming eves of copper-infused sundowns. We rejoice in the permanency of change, while longing for the nostalgia of whimsy. 

A writer writes from a precipice of passion; she is a purveyor of prose; he is a poet of profundity; she is a political performer; he is a plaintiff for perfection; she is a portrayer of purpose. Their responsibility is to protect the purity of expression.

As the spring awakens, the deluge of a winter of discontent attempts to cloud the horizon. It is within the edges of sanity, we conduct our actions. It is outside the guise of stamina we complete our endeavors. The equinox is determined by tides; the internal clock responds to exhaustion. Neither is a choice; neither is an option. 

Having always abided by the altering atmosphere in the Northeast and its perpetual provision of frivolous fortnights, this April offers no forthcoming reprisal. Instead, it is being entered with the thirst for a continuous hibernation from the opening of new wounds. The unrelenting, unwinding, cavernous thoughts bleeding from consciousness crave comfort; yet will succumb to acceptance. There is a forbidden feast of insecurity growing wildly embarrassing the weeds of imperfection. 

So, as our days prolong and our nights cry out for justice, our selective solutions seem superficially entangled in chaotic refuse. It has fallen upon all to plant seeds of forgiveness; to bend into the circle of a forced narrative; and to decisively proceed with a fresh cautionary tale.      

She Said ~

There in the plenitude of everything there was nothing to do. The stench of stagnation permeated the air and a sugary mixture of ignorance, acidic-resignation and defeat swam with the fishes – in my mind and belly.

At this age, my throat still spoke unfiltered truths. The weight of the world and the myriad of its complexities had not yet sat upon my shoulders.

There was still a place for me at my mother’s kitchen table, to sit and contemplate the world through the lens of white laced, sunlit, kitchen curtains. 

Time stood still as my mother’s voice rose and fell with questions or commands. 

I thought to myself, there was time, time enough to appreciate the inflection of her voice and laughter.

I thought to myself, there was time, time enough to understand the joy, heartache and strength in my mother’s eyes.

Life had other plans and only now do I understand, time is elusive, secretive and stubborn. It does not bend to an egoic will or delay what is fated.

I wish for never ending winters and springs and laughter and talks at my mother’s table.

Did You Know? Every year, March and June finish on the same day of the week; and the full moon in March is traditionally called the “Worm Moon” by Native American tribes.