Hearts are like feet...

Hearts are like feet…

They start soft, unable to support one’s own emotional weight…which leaves one sobbing in tears or giggling to them at a moment’s notice.

At first they must be wrapped and warmed in simple things…others are left to tend for them, but as you grown they change.

They become stronger and take a form of their own, they can now bear more and stand alone longer.

But when unprotected they can be hurt, gouges can be taken from soul and sole alike

And when rubbed against life like sand paper both become calloused and hardened….sure over time that callous may lessen, may start to heal, but it takes far longer than we would like and although a calloused heel is good for walking along a rough road barefoot it is not good for a foot massage….with the coming of one you lose something of the other and to which ever extreme you tread there will be consequences…

And yet both fuel journeys, you cannot have adventures without both...the hardness to bear the road, the softness to dream of the end.

My heart is no exception, it sloshes back and forth sometimes like the coming and departing of tides, one is rarely sure where it is going. Although you may view it for but a minute and think it settled, it is never quit still. Movement is required...so it is with all of us.

The ache of blisters and wounds of the road along with the gentle ache of the days accomplishments, neither has value without the other.

Today, today, today...

I went home recently. It was a good trip. I had been feeling the callous, it is still there, softer now though. It was good to be home with people who value me. To remember I am cared for and that I am not alone. It was good to know that though the road is long it is not done alone and although weary, travelers who travel together travel better.

Thanks,

Jordan

Comments

I Am Sorry

Family and Friends, To those I love, have loved, may yet love in the life to come…I am sorry. I am sorry this life is not what it should be. I am sorry for your pain. I am sorry that we are tired. That the U and I of our union is too often the I and U of our triune existence, the battle between the self – our secrets - and being seen. We are the loneliest of liars, even to ourselves. We are all caveats and cliché, busy being; that which we are, too often traded for what we are in the face of what we are not. I am sorry. I wish I could tell you I think I am a fool. That I am sinful and scarred. I wish I could tell you that I need you to think I am beautiful, that I am powerful, that I am strong. Dad look at me! …That the words I am sacred, I am holy, only ring true to me in a hollow distant way, the way words spoken of others can be pretended over oneself…a remembering and wishing simultaneously. I wish you could tell me you love me and...

Fall

Fall is not an ideal time. It is gray and with more rain comes the morose veil of clouds that usher in the impending quiet of winter. Down cast days to down cast eyes. The colors on the trees visibly play herald to the time of year, the bright reds and gold of the newly lain carpet which wraps the earth in its yearly brilliant burial shroud reminds us, the sharp hint of ripeness on the air, the cold and silence of the nights. They all obstinately lay claim to the undeniable truth, the summer is over, death is come. Alber Camus one said that: In a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or hope of a promised land. The divorce between man and life, the actor and his setting is properly a feeling of absurdity. Camus’ here speaks of the painful knowledge that comes upon a person when hope is gone, when a world, once explained seems explained away, th...

Art Wins in the End: The Ooey Gooey in Exile

I once heard someone say “Art wins in the end.”…that after rings, and veils, and birth… after maelstrom, and shrouds, and death …. that the words that remain most true are those we remember in our skin, the stories that give us the sights and sounds of a younger us, that stir the cavernous quiet of our souls below the surface. There is a part of me that thinks this is the stuff of bad marketing, poetic fluff of the kind of romantic who never lived up to his predecessors, Keats and Shelly…but I can never quit escape that I might be wrong; that the way a thing appears may only be the smallest corner of a much larger picture.… When this happens it is like being stirred by a touch of something while in deep sleep. These are the times when the winds of remembrance blow so deeply, past the hustle and bustle of the day, past the many distractions of the hour that they rustle the surface of the deep places in our hearts, where we know there is meaning, and not just for us, b...

This Is What Happened...

Search This Blog