look at the light

There’s something about the way the light falls here. There’s something about the way it splits the air, and nestles itself alongside the shade. Like an enemy, and a lover. Like the keeper, and the kept.

But maybe it’s not just the light. Maybe it’s the way the light looks when I breathe in the air, touch the earth, hear the birds. Maybe it’s all those parts that make a whole, not just any one piece on its own.

But it’s always the light I notice first.

I had a few hours to kill in LA airport so I bought myself a cold cup of coffee, flicked through a few magazines and wandered airport shops in restless weariness.

Eventually I found the gate, and I waited.

The hauntingly familiar sound of an Australian accent drifted down an aisle, turned a corner and found my ready ear. Travellers exchanged stories of Vegas adventures, glitz and glamour, bright lights and late nights. They spilt favourite memories of the wild, wild west and told their best versions, leaving out the rest. Those stories would be told many more times, in the weeks to come. They would become precise, and well-delivered before they melted into everyday exchanges and what to have for lunch.

I sat still, and breathed it in. I giddily breathed in almost a year of it. I was comforted, sobered, rattled… and then it really hit me: I was heading home.

It had been a long time. I was coming back down from all those mountains I’d climbed, and I didn’t know if I was ready for it. Memories were frozen in time, like long-lost friends still by my side, but already fading.

Did you find what you were looking for?

I don’t understand this language.

Can you repeat the question? Can I phone a friend? Is there another lifeline?

“G’day mate.”

Two words fell out of the mouth of a passing guy in a red t-shirt and landed loudly on the carpet just before midnight. A man in a black t-shirt reached down, collected those two words with his bare hands, looked at them and replied with a simple…

“Hello?”

That lone word rolled off his tongue in a revealing American drawl, instantly reminding me of late nights glued to the television years and years before.

I watched the exchange through tired eyes. I watched the exchange with a smile. That one moment slipped beneath my skin, and settled there. It meant much more than a red t-shirt, a black t-shirt, a “G’day mate” and a… “Hello?”

And if I’d had something to say I would’ve said it. I had nothing to say, and I meant it.

Minutes ticked by, lost in watching strangers, who didn’t seem so strange. I’d resigned myself to my decision, there was nothing left to arrange.

As I boarded the plane, the pretty lights of LA seemed further than they seemed near. They glittered in the night, shimmering behind quiet tears. And as I watched out the tiny square window of that plane, those shining lights faded into the black of night.

And it was still for awhile, even though I knew we were moving. Then, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, the sun rose.

Sure, I’d found some things, but what I’d been looking for? Maybe.

Maybe I’d found more than I ever dared to dream I’d find. Maybe I’d learnt a few things. Maybe I’d left some things behind. Maybe I’d found a moment where I could be free. And wasn’t it worth it, if just for a moment I could be, all I could be?

Maybe.

But if one thing is for sure, it’s that I didn’t have to leave, to find me.

Fifteen hours later, I was back on home turf – smiling secretly at the novelty of the little things that make my home, my home. There is a language here, that speaks volumes in silence.

For me, it’s always the light I notice first.

heading home

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home. ― Edith Sitwell

And the pieces fell, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle – all jumbled and messed up. And there they lay at her fingertips. Waiting.

It was late. The air was cool, and fresh. It tickled her senses.

The music played – songs from way back when, songs that triggered memories in the early hours.

Six bottles – spilled on the floor. Six bottles – of what it meant before.

The stars shone down, with all their wisdom and age. And she danced in the kitchen, to the sound of rain.

And this was the ending – the ending of something big she began. But it was also the beginning – the beginning of a new grand plan.

Goodbyes rolled out like red carpet, flush with riches and warmth. For someone who liked words, she was speechless – silently grateful for the lessons of the earth.

So after all these hours, all these moments found, she was doing some thinking, and decided it was time to come around.

And the rain stopped falling. The sun spilt her rays. The jigsaw pieces fell together, to form the oceans waves. And those six bottles, that lay empty on the floor. They meant something different, to what they meant before.

And in the early hours, she let it all go. The day had come, she was heading home.

sliding doors

Her hair cascaded down around her face. The light bounced delicately from strand to strand, illuminating single pieces. She curled a long finger up and tucked a few escaped tendrils behind a pale ear. Then she looked up.

The train clicked rhythmically over tracks. One. Two. One. Two. He counted.

We slipped through a tunnel and fluorescent light splattered her in bright white. She sat there bathed in translucence. His eyes grasped her from beneath long lashes, hidden behind the darkness of sunglasses. He pretended to casually look past her, like he hadn’t noticed her. But he had noticed her. He pretended to look through her as she glanced at him. She looked down.

She fell into her book. He saw her tumble. The words swam around her, drew her into their story. He tried to read the title of the book, but couldn’t quite see it. He wanted to know her. He wanted to know what those words said, and hear her read them.

He let the softness of her melt him. Her eyes were black, like the night. They darted quickly from side to side as she read.

Her blue jeans hugged her legs like they’d never let go. He wanted to know what that felt like – to hold her, as though he’d never let go.

She looked up.

He glanced away. He let his gaze fall on a sign further up the train carriage as he scratched the stubble of his beard with a calloused finger.

She looked at him. She had felt his eyes. He felt her eyes. He pretended not to notice. He let her look at him.

His eyes were hidden behind a dark wall of glass. She saw herself reflected there. She couldn’t read him. She held him with her gaze and for a moment wondered. She wondered who he was. She wondered where he’d been. She wondered if he smiled often.

And then the train slowed. She snapped herself awake and closed her book. She pulled her brown bag onto her shoulder and stood just as the train jerked to a halt. She grabbed a grubby silver railing to steady herself.

He looked back to her seat, which was now empty. He caught the back of her with his eyes as she stepped out the door. And then she was gone, lost in a sea of faces. For only a moment he wondered. He wondered who she was. He wondered where she’d been. He wondered if she smiled often.

The door hissed closed and under fluorescent light the train barrelled off into the distance.

One. Two. One. Two. He counted.

He wondered what he should have for dinner.

turn it around

Take a chance. 

So we spent all these years, building walls between us, and our flaws. And we thought we were building them for protection, but they have become our own personal prisons.

Insulation – between us and the outside/ Liberation – we are longing to find.

And we try to explain through jumbled refrain, but instead of searching for solutions, we make the problems our game.

Confusion abounds, but still we do as we’ve done. Weariness compounds, but still we run.

There are a thousand reasons we can’t if we want there to be. And there are a thousand reasons we can if we are ready.

Our story is written by the eyes through which we see. But our emotions, and our ego, often make us think it can’t be.

We get what we give.

We feel negative/ we live negative ~ we live negative/ we feel negative.

Governed by rulers in far off lands. Governed by what we imagine we should do, what we should plan.

Those fears that become our chains, they can also free us, and smash the walls we made…

Walk into them, rather than away. Walk through them, in full colour, instead of grey.

They will be our teachers, if we are brave enough to change. They will be the very reasons, to embrace the mistakes we made.

Step into the wild. Let it all go. Go someplace you’ve never been before. Accept that you may never know.

Risk. Risk for love. Risk for life. Risk making a fool. Risk in the darkest hour, of the night.

Believe.

Seek, and you will find. Perhaps not what you thought you needed, or wanted, but you will – find.

Smash out those fears, and start something new. Today, make a commitment, to you.

be still

 

Stop.

Be still.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Don’t ask questions. Don’t give answers. Don’t think. Don’t speak.

Be still.

Seems we don’t always have time to stop, these days.

And when we’re forced to – stop – we get impatient. Like wherever we are going, is so much more important than where we are. So we’re waiting in line, or we’re stuck in traffic, and we’re looking at our phone, or twitching impatiently – because we’re uncomfortable being still.

What’s with that?

We’re in this age where we always have to be ‘on’ or ‘available’. We’re always connected, and yet we are more disconnected than we have ever been.

When do we take time to just breathe it all in? When do we take time to sit with ourselves and just contemplate, drift off, wonder and daydream? And when do we get to experience those grand ideas that were once born of boredom?

While we are standing in that queue, or waiting in that traffic jam we are being afforded time to stop, and be still. We are being given time to notice the little things (they are really big things).

Time is a gift.

If we let the peace of any given moment wash over us we might notice a stranger smiling, a child laughing, we might inadvertently avoid catastrophe, meet the love of our life… or we might just get to indulge in stillness, peace and our own happiness.

So stop.

Now.

Be still.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

two paths

Two paths converged to reveal secret truths splayed out like little forks in the road. They begged indifference, and forgiveness, in the cool morning air. And like a watercolour painting the colours ran and leaked into each other so it became unclear where one finished and the next began.

Trees jilted into the clearing that was the sky, their wiry branches reaching far, far away from the earth below. Their roots burrowed down with purpose and hunger, intuitively digging for survival.

As the road wound forward, it also wound back. And as those trees reached for the sky, they also reached for the core – somehow both strong and secure, and yet wild and free.

The crisp morning frost crunched under foot, as though nobody had ever walked that path before. There were no other footprints. The road was clear, the trees silent.

Dew-drops collected on leaves creating prisms of light. They reflected each passing moment on their tiny surfaces before eventually dropping to the ground, splattering all their secrets back into the earth.

The sun splashed its rays like gold across the road, the light dancing over shadows as the day began to break.

That was the moment.

And whether those two paths would run parallel, or veer off into vastly different directions, was irrelevant. The beauty was in the convergence – in that one splendid moment in time.

The road ahead would tell a different story, a story not yet known. And this was the very reason for being grateful for the here, and the now, and for recognising the beauty in the dawning of this brand new day.

Brand's Lair

Reblogged from a lifetime of lessons:

Does where we come from say more about us than we think? Is our journey pre-determined in a way that eventually sees us do full circle? Not necessarily physically, but metaphorically?

The land of our childhood speaks a language so intrinsically intertwined in who we are that when we step foot there, words do not always suffice as a valid form of communication.

Read more… 706 more words

Remembering the night I wrote this / inspired by a delish bottle of red (Brand's Lair) x