Wednesday, August 3, 2016

The Gift

A DAY OF NEW

is HERE for you

what WILL you DO

with THIS

PRESENT?



The GIVER came
that we might receive
His Blessings Abound

For without gifts given

we have nothing 
He can retrieve

BELIEVE









Saturday, July 23, 2016

A Rose is A Rose


As a thorn pricks your finger while gardening, does it not protect the plant from what it believes to be a hostile environment?  



You may curse the thorn for its existence 
and yet it did nothing wrong.  

It served its purpose.  
It let you know it was there.  

You felt the pain of it, 
it drew blood after all. 

But did you 
stop to reflect on its beauty?






















As a thorn pricks your finger while gardening, does it not protect the plant from what it believes to be a hostile environment?  



You may curse the thorn for its existence and yet it did nothing wrong.  




It served its purpose.  It let you know it was there.  You felt the pain of it, it drew blood after all.  But did you reflect on its beauty?

Breathe mom, just BREATHE!


Breathe Mom, just breathe.  A long lingering breath is taken, as it tempers the fierceness of the moment, she finds relief.  Given in jest but found intensely profound, the decision to carry on is made in that moment of comfort found in the solace of those four loving words.  So many unspoken in that simple phrase, but heard, giving her the gift of desire that moves her through so much uncertainty. 


Pausing to reflect on how often that has carried her to this moment in time, a moment to be cherished is truly beautiful in and of itself.  The magnitude of the gesture, truly amazing to her how something seemingly so minute could afford her so many minutes in her journey.


Closer comes the song of the birds as they spur her on in their way, as her story unfolds before them.  Their joy is not lost on her.  She finds much pleasure in their delight.  

No longer captive to the plight of the loss and destruction around her but eager to truly thrive.           

                 


A rose is a rose is a rose.
It grows on the home of the thorn.
Its beauty is guarded there in its bed
as it blooms from where it is born.

She can feel the thorns protruding
as they bring forth 
the gift of life.  
She is the bud thought never to bloom, 
seen now as a source of light!




From the planted seed its source of life runs freely within just as blood courses through your veins. 








Look in the mirror, are you not like the rose?  
What color will you be when you bloom? 






Orange Rose: Desire, Enthusiasm and Passion. A literal mixture of yellow and red. Orange roses, seen as a combination between friendship symbolized by yellow roses and love represented by red roses. They are meant to be an expression of fascination, or a gift to say 'I'm proud of you'.






Thursday, July 21, 2016

REFLECTIONS


Forgive them father, for they know not what they do”…


Actions speak louder than words


Your words can cut like a knife, if misplaced. 




Catch phrases lost on deaf ears.


Too much in a hurry to realize that a stitch in time does save nine?

Designed to cause ‘pause for thought’
yet
translation eludes the mere skimmer!

Sunday, July 10, 2016

METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING

METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING


From the depths of destruction in the aftermath she floundered, unsure of her place in this world. 



Met with indifference she lost the desire to be true to herself.  

Like a hitch-hiker she road on the tales of disparaged souls and their battle cries from wartime.  They had found their escape and took her along for the ride.


Much younger and not of the same anger, without understanding their purpose, they would still feel lost and left along the wayside. 


Discarded, wounded, a sense of inadequacy took root. Not knowing then that they would need to find their way to her, again.

Many would come to ask why, but she knew she was experiencing things that would be of value, if that is, she could bring herself to survive their pain and sorrow.


Caught up in the sorrow of what other lost souls were experiencing she felt unable to conjure any semblance of balance.  To her, survival was at best, a fleeting obstacle.
 

Where was the wisdom, why was it not shared?  Where did it go?  None of these questions managed to surface until many years later as she slipped through the cracks of their chaos.



The world is full of creation, yet we as creators are in the dark most of our lives.  Stories that have never been told lost as campfires and elders were put aside.
































Stories that kept so many cultures in sync for centuries, somehow seemingly lost their heightened significance are in fact lost treasures troves of shared knowledge.





But first, let’s visit the issue at hand.  The knowledge was always there, within reach.  But it fell on numbness.  Like that of a dear in fear, seemingly frozen in an instant of uncertainty.  The initial shock that appeared to be lost was actually recorded and retained.  Only to be then reused similarly as refuse that tends to become caustic if not processed properly.




If we recycle the waste to ‘make the world a better place’ why do we then fail to see the wisdom in the thinking of someone who has experienced life on life’s terms simply because they appear to have nothing we would find of value?






Our hunger for visual stimulation has left us unbalanced in its haughty purpose.  In our haste we fail to record the moment for its true significance.  Have we forgotten our purpose or did we never feel we found it?  Why do we try to define something that is so multifaceted and pigeon-hole it into a neat little package?