I used to write all the time. Used to write these poems, these descriptions of life. Don't do it much anymore. Still jot down various prayers, explanations, rhymes, but not much story anymore. Why not tonight.
It's funny, all of you who may read this, I have no idea who you are. I have never met you, never seen you, never shaken your hand or given you a hug. You are a mystery to me. A faceless person, with only a name to distinguish you from the others. Maybe I wonder what you think of me. Maybe I wonder if you enjoy the way that I write. Maybe I secretly desire your entertainment; perhaps I wish for you to forget about life as your eyes pass over these words, computer screen glow washing over you there. In confidence, all of this is true. I hope that for one second, as you read and comprehend, a sliver of joy finds its way into your heart.
Let it happen. Every day, happiness sits at the edge of your doorstep, like a homeless child, fearing the elements, with shoes too small and a coat too big. Accept him into your home, watch him transform. His face lights up, warm like the heat from the oven when you open the door to check if the cookies are done. Allow him to remain: feed and clothe him. He walks through the house, wonder in his eyes, beholding all there is to behold. His hand grips the railing as he ascends the stairs. He jumps on the beds and runs the faucets. A new adventure awaits. He will ask questions to which the answers seem so obvious, but with patience, as you speak in response, you will realize just how much you never knew. Happiness has not lost its innocence, and he will remind you of your own.
Beware. Each moment, a dragon lies dormant in your heart. With deep and rumbling breaths, he slumbers, dreaming of the open sky. Chains attach to his ankles, and they clink as he moves in his sleep. By the slightest noise will he awake, and upon waking, he will tear at the walls of his prison, wrenching at his chains as he attempts to take flight and escape you. Rage and impatience are the noises to which he rouses. Your fury will startle and inspire him; your haste will rock and shake him. The dragon, with talons and flames, will cause injury. His wings are great leathery canvas, and his eyes are cold as January caves. His bones are hatred and grievous are his jaws. Disagreeable is he, and sorry is the man who allows this foe to reign in his heart.
Listen up. There is carried a voice on the vehicle of the wind. Words form themselves by touching nature in movement. Brush of the leaves, sway of the grass, glub of the brook, pat of the rain, skip of the stone. Percussion, all about; punctuality speaks. In rhythm, there is expressed a truth so vital, so beatific, our language is rendered inadequate. In silence, we experience true music, true nature, true life. Listen to the Earth, listen to her song. Though we speak not this tongue, there is no human thought that compares to her serenity. Rather than rig your thoughts of own, permit an host, thoughtless and sweet. Be my guest, she seems to say. And all her words ultimately merge, forming the mighty Word, spoken all at once. Hear the Word, and know the Speaker. Listen to this Voice, and you shall learn the Will of your Creator.
God bless.
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