Chasing the Sun

I think I’ve had a thousand beginnings.  And each one is slightly less scary than the one before.  I used to plan ahead, remain perched upon what was supposed to happen, instead of feeling what was actually happening. I’m less obsessed with the future now, as I understand it will always remain slightly out of my reach.Chasing the Sun

I imagine the earth feels this way about the sun…Always rotating trying to feel its warmth upon its face.  I must have thought the future held some contract of dreams fulfilled, lies untold, promises kept.  But the future keeps rotating…changing, always just slightly out of my reach.

But the sun remains a steady companion.  It greets me each morning, wakes me with a fresh promise.  Things are going to keep changing…but what was once old, will be come new again.  The beginnings will keep coming, and the endings are yet another promise. There is certainty here–a comfort in the process.  If losing love is like a window through my heart, regaining it must feel like a moment stuck in time.

I’m starting to sense that it is the present that offers the real possibility.  No longer searching for dreams fulfilled because I am too busy fulfilling them. I don’t question the chance, the inevitable opportunity that comes with new beginnings.  And I do not fear the end. This place used to feel like hope abandoned. Now, it has become a consummation of possibility.

The wildness, that must occupy this space, is palpable.  I feel it with each passing decision even as I abandon all logic.  I can both articulate it and forget it all at once.  And if I remain here long enough, sunlight on my face, my past will be wiped clean by somebody else’s  dream.  And with each lover’s touch, not even the fingerprints will remain.

Naivety of Flying

There is a naivety to flying, as though I thought the wind would never change.  I can’t remember how long I’ve been up here, or what I did to find this place, but I just realized how far I have to fall.   It seems it’s been months since I couldn’t find my breath, and now I find myself choking on it. It is both my vessel and my obstacle at the same time.  Flying

I think wind must be like the seasons. It’s tides change with the earth below it.  As though it is urging fall forward, bringing with it crisper nights and mornings that seem newer than the one before.  I watch my hands desperately trying to harbor it.  I want to hold the wind in my hands. I want it to urge me forward. But it keeps tricking me. It comes and goes, dances and waits.  It is teasing me.

There are moments that it urges me upward, tossing me into new atmospheres that tickle pieces of me long forgotten.  Pieces never rounded, still jagged with youth, expectation, and dreams.  Here I want to take a chance, and I forget there is no one left to catch me when I fall.

Other times the wind pushes me downward. Reminding me I have no wings, that I am small but heavy.  The pieces here are more familiar.  Their edges have been worn smooth by my hands.  My fingers and thumbs tensely working to smooth away the broken promises and lies you still won’t admit.  The irony, I suppose, is that the sleek edges of these pieces no longer fit together.  They slip on each other and fall away.

Down below…with my feet on this earth, I dance on the broken pieces and wait for the wind to catch me again.

Yes, there is a naivety to flying…as though the wind will never change.