Tuesday, March 16, 2010

On Midnight Bike Rides

My favorite thing in life, right now, are midnight bike rides. I just finished another, my longest in years, and while two hours isn't very long, sometimes they seem to last forever. Sometimes, I'm glad that they last forever.

I should confess that I did, in fact, sin, tonight. Jesus told me that it was okay, and Karma still favors me because I shared my secret pier with a wandering couple. Though no words were spoken, I knew what was up, as did they. Because I own this neighborhood.

... I do.
I freaking own this place.

What's that like, you ask? Well, most nights, I'll weave back and forth, crossing doubled yellow lines, and I smile, knowing that it's just for me, when I pass flickering street lights, as they turn back on. This is usually right after I provide those vicious bunnies some entertainment. Occasionally, I'll even pedal with no hands, toss my head back and embrace the skies with open arms, as I pray that I'm not writing a sequel for "City of Angels".

I also frequent Sherwood's forest, I'm always curious to where the people on Roanoke have disappeared, and I frequently pass cop cars like it's nothing.

Okay, that's a lie.

They pass me. However, as they do, I wish -- I pray -- that they'd stop me. They don't, of course, because I own these streets.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Of course, there's reason for my ride. There's just something so peaceful in the stars; something so reminiscent of the belonging that one will experience as she burrows herself into her bed at night. These stars, they tell me where I've been and where I'm going. Their stories are my stories. The moon's reflection, on my lake, it hints of another world where I can be anyone that I want to be, and I wonder if my reflected self might want the same.

I take part in this timeless ceremony with little more than a grin and watch as two become one, and that one becomes me.

Tonight, as that Karma giving couple left, a thought and a friend remained. "Nothing is more natural than the moment, and the recognition and appreciation of what is." Contentment was there, a closer friend today, than yesterday.

He's been coming around more, as he finds me wanting no more than he can give. See, his home is in the moment and his doormat says, "Aloha", which is appropriate, I think, as it serves both my greeting and farewell. The doorway to his home, it is a gateless gate, one that I enter, finding everything at once and a crossroads to and from eternity.

Tonight, we sat together and knew that, tomorrow, the ceremony would continue. So, I left that moment, as I'll leave this one now, breathing in deeply... pedaling, both to and from my pier.

Dum Spiro Spero

Monday, March 15, 2010

On Winter

Winter is such a peculiar season. As much as I love the sullen, dreary days that it brings, the days are often filled with an empty sensation, a necessary evil that ripens the soul.

Every season has a such a way of affecting me, and like biting arrows, Winter's wind and her never subtle, poisonous reminder of timing will always penetrate my every layer. No winter has ever found itself the exception, even in a state of perpetual sunshine. I may ignore her for as long as I can, but I am no stranger to the stillness and the quiet nights of a time, where even the most formidable of beasts seek comfort.

It is a time for reflection and a time for sowing. Reminders of yesterday are coupled with reminders of tomorrow, and together, they impregnate today with promise and possibility. For Spring will come, Summer will follow and I will find my color with the maples and the poplars of Autumn.

I will be the scene that I've promised to make.

. . . . . . . . . . .

So very mad is the restless heart of a vagabond! Hidden behind a stoic facade and his wind battered face, there is a fervor that burns, burns, burns. It grows in intensity and in hope for tomorrow, for adventure and a story, making him "mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time..."

But, today? Today, he dreams and he writes. He writes his scene, finding purpose in the day, for it brings forth tomorrow. The seeds that he plants and the labor he bears; the cold, winter days that he endures in the process, they serve and remind him of the potential of an open road.

His feet itch, all too often. They are insufferable and he dreams unceasingly of letting go, having the current take him wherever it may; for yellow bricked roads and another blank page to govern.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Momentum is such a difficult thing to find in the cold, dark days of winter, but my journey is light. I carry nothing more than my pen and paper, maple seeds and soil, my dreams and routine. I want -- rather, I need -- to know and to be Love, to experience a life of change that can fill the many pages that I'll write.

Life and Death.

The New and the Old.

Ebbing seas of Pain, Joy, Bliss and Sorrow.


... all these things, I want pouring from my heart and dripping from my pen, as I write letters full of stories and send them to everyone.

I mean, there's just no room to hold onto anything else.