Coffee with Mom today was a treasured time.
It’s a bit strange to get older together.
We hug more and longer with age.
*
Releasing the familial and historical blame is its own form of wisdom.
Even now, I let go of the past or a need to be right.
Even about a faith in the unknown anymore.
*
Being with my Mom often centers around her spiritual beliefs.
Regardless of our different philosophies, my Mother is a best friend.
A soulmate.
A counselor.
An advocate. Mostly.
Jesus is often in her sharing. She prays through a Holy Spirit.
I pray with gratitude for a Spirit with no name.
One (1?) without a family of ghosts or a ‘holier than thou’ spirit.
*
(Tinkerbell?… j/k)
*
When the Ouija board gives me a name, I’ll let you know. Maybe.
At this point, the marker hasn’t moved itself on the board.
I’m definitely okay with staring at the alphabet and a simple Yes/No instead.
*
Faith in an unknown is still a difficult task for my mind.
I remember rejecting the possibility that we don’t all get to heaven when I was five.
Hell still makes no sense to me.
Unless, perhaps, this is hell.
A purgatory where all our Souls get to live out many lives and learn life lessons on repeat.
So far, I’ve decided the frisson chills I get often are from… the unknown.
Somehow, it usually ends up passing through me when I think about all of my Soulmates.
My Dad is one of them. The man who was a God to me for a time.
His holy ghost remains ever present.
*
When I feel heavenly, everyone is there.
No one has a face.
Nor a body.
No wings.
We all hang out there in the dark, contrasting the stillness like blessed porch lights.
No one speaks.
*
Of course, I don’t speak up or share this weird philosophy with my Mother (or most people). What’s the point in philosophical debates?
I’d rather listen, stay present, be quiet, then paint or sand something.
Or write about nothing.
Like ‘I am’
doing
here.
*
Is ‘writing yoga’ a spiritual practice? I don’t know.
Do I need practice?
For life.
That’s life.
As I sit up from shavasana and stand today, I’d rather not think so much.
The less I say, the more I feel.
*
The skin knows what silence feels like.
In my skin, I am home.
Home is both a heaven and hell. These places are available within my body of thoughts.
I choose which spiritual place I want to live and in every thought or story that I hold.
*
Every one of the thoughts are becoming like sand that sifts through my fingers.
No need to build endless sand castles with stories of becoming perfect or walking on gold streets.
The gold is the sand between my toes.
*
The waves
take our
stories
with them.
*
Caking the sand
is what salty
waves of
tears are
for.
*
Laughing tears
in the endless
light of
silence.
*
I mostly live in
Silent heaven
about God,
Jesus,
Spirits
and hell.
*
I am simply:
Still. Here.
Now.
*
Waves of
this life
well
lived
move
through me.
~~|||~~~~||||~~~~|||||~~~~
p.s.
bh ~ sometimes I wonder how it’s possible you want to read the words of such a horrible writer. Me.
I still feel like there’s no one point…
It’s truly random
Shared Beliefs
in memories
that fade
like
sand
and go
into Drafts
as quickly as
they are published.
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