A mere tourist

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I walked to the Alamo to learn some Texan history and because I find Spanish missions some of the most magical places.

My experience there has been life altering, I am certain. To what degree remains open. Never what I expected, but that's Spirit's way.

Arriving by a circuitous route, I was disappointed to see something official about to happen: a podium, semi-circle of chairs behind, audience rows, people gathering and a woman touching my arm to hand me a program. "We're presenting Segways to veterans injured in Afghanistan and we'd love for you to stay."

And, so I did – somewhat uncomfortably as a peace-seeking Quaker. It's where God planted me, I understand, in the midst of soldiers.

I was mesmerized as each of the 31 young men and a sprinkling of women zipped up to the presenter on their new Segways. I'd always thought of the two wheels as a lazy way to tour a city. They stood or sat tall, hiding emotions. When each was assisted disembarking, I grew heartsick. All had leg injuries. Many were amputees; some doubly. They were bionic miracles raised from the still-raw battlefields.

One of the dignitaries, Air Force General Hal Hornburg, noted, "In the past, they would not have been here today. The Segway is to give them some degree of freedom taken away" by war.

Segs for Vets founder Jerry Kerr, himself injured, remarked that the vehicles "empower vets to take back their lives. Today is all about showing commitment to our nation's heroes. Not enough can be done, but today's present brings them much closer." To independence, I think he would have said.

When seated, the semi circle of steel parts, shortened pant legs, canes and braces was stunning. More so when you recognized such youthful faces.

What are we doing to these young men and women? my heart cried.

I had a hard time stomaching a Marine colonel's challenge to "think of what we've accomplished." Again, my heart answered: broken young adults ... on both sides.

Then, we were invited to congratulate the recipients. I was near the first in line, looking each person directly in the eyes, grabbing whatever hand was available and simply saying: "Thank you." Almost without exception, each responded, "Thank you, mam." I could tell they were not used to people looking them straight in the eye. I wanted to recognize their wholeness in God's eyes. I connected with the young man from Maineville ... just minutes from my house. He got a good chuckle that I just happened to be there. Farther down the line, I grabbed a very young hand and almost could not let go. Neither could he, I suspect. I don't know what it was, but it was beyond me.

Afterward, I fled to a private area unsure whether to throw up or cry. I was numb and under some spell the entire rest of the day. I looked at others differently, still haunted by the encounter.

I attempted to tour the Alamo under this fog, feeling connected to the fact this ground is a shrine. First as a church community, then as a testament to the Texan fighting spirit and loss of life. For me, however, it represents the place I got up close and personal with the ravages of war.

I will be piecing this lesson together for a very long time, and, as I do I will continue to carry those 31 soldiers in my heart. I really did not want to wash my hands yesterday for fear I would lose that connection.

• When have I felt placed somewhere by God?
• How did I respond?
• How was I able to surrender to the experience?
• How did it become part of me?
• How has it changed me?


just a mere tourist,
passing through a new
city on no particular day

arriving at the biggest
attraction, annoyed
that something else
was transpiring

though quickly sensing
some higher purpose
in my being there

spun way out of
my comfort zone,
but automatically
immersing into
that discomfort

as a peacemaker
confronted by
the harsh realities
of war

and yet,
finding a
special room
in my heart

one I had not
known existed

In the stinking middle

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The honeymoon must be over at Artsy Fartsy, the monthly arts-exploration I hold for at-risk kids in my neighborhood. I'm not saying I'm not deeply engaged with these kids; I still am – maybe more so now than ever. I'm just saying some are comfortable enough to not be on their best, at-attention, behavior.

What is really happening, I believe, is their relationship patterns from where they live are showing up here, on neutral turf. We've always been clear there's no bullying here. I did not anticipate reverse bullying, which is, still, bullying.

One of the girls came to the party a session late for whatever reason. We were warned at last summer's on-site registration to stay away from that family; "they're trouble." But we couldn't because this young girl was eager to join and her mother, whom we awoke after a late night in jail, was just as eager to sign her up. It appears they wish to break the cycle.

I never gave it another thought until just before the first session when I visited to hand out van-permission slips. I came across a boy I tried hard to recruit. When he looked at my list of kids, he said "I can't if she's there. I'm not allowed within 100 feet of her."

Oh, a restraining order, I thought. This work will not be a breeze. I had to tell the boy that the other child had signed up first and he would have to do what he would have to do. I could not kick her out. Boy, did my heart ache over this.

Two sisters, who were my first recruits, slunk back when they, too, saw this girl was a participant. "Were not allowed to play with her," they said. So I paid their dad a visit and said this group would be highly supervised by adults. He felt it would not be an issue; that is only was one when the kids were unsupervised and playing at home.

Since she was a no-show the first time, everyone settled in comfortably. The second time, she arrived and was an absolute angel ... no issues of any kind.

I didn't think anything of it as I set the "Thanksgiving" table with wooden discs for plates, chalk, markers and scissors for utensils. I made the seating arrangements, marking each with an envelope containing a personal note of gratitude and their name fancily printed on the outside. We were having two new boys, so I sat them with our faithful volunteer and lone boy. I put the new girl from outside of this community with a more mature girl and a playful one. I paired two older girls that seem to be friends, two younger ones the same way and placed the girl in question with an quiet, older girl. They got along fine. And everything went swimmingly, through the introduction and constructing of the finger labyrinths. Though I notice this child seeks much one-on-one attention. Fortunately, a very experienced teacher-volunteer worked with her.

Everything was on track until the kids, three at a time, had turns experiencing the Christmas-light labyrinth in the empty room across the hall. My older daughter was chaperoning and making sure kids stuck to the guidelines. Of course, they're kids, so I did not expect stillness and quiet.

After everyone had completed their projects, we let them all experience the labyrinth, which had become a game of who could slide into the pillows in the center and actually get a pillow. A sort of musical chairs. Not what I had anticipated, but is it ever? Naturally, someone got left out and came to tell me. She was called a snitch, which I heard, and told because she bullys at home, she couldn't here ... this from some other girls. Interestingly, there was a video clip of the incident and the so-called bully was not bullying, but neither, was the person who slid onto the pillow first. It was more of a miscommunication. However, because one tattled, the others felt they had to retaliate.

It was quiet, not overt, and others, I think, may have missed it. I had naively hoped that these girls might establish a new pattern here they could take home. I still hold that prayer, but I was unsettled that girls I thought I could count on turned somewhat vicious on this younger girl. I understand, but am clear there isn't room for that at Artsy Fartsy. Especially, in the MIDDLE of the labyrinth! They knew it was a sacred place for centering and were even writing their own gratitude notes there. I guess temptation was too great as it often is for most of us.

The session was still really wonderful overall, but this really stuck in my heart. Perhaps because, when the younger girl found a stray bead in the labyrinth materials, she brought it to me and said, "I know way this means: What would Jesus do?" I was taken aback because it seemed like she really did. This was before the labyrinth incident. While reading the notes of gratitude afterward, two spoke explicitly of Jesus and I wondered if these had been her notes, not that the source mattered.

I slept poorly that night, stewing about what to do.

Sunday in worship, our minister spoke about the true meaning of Jesus' command that we love our enemies and turn they other cheek. He encouraged radical resistance, so radical that it displayed the idiocy of oppression and, often, he did so with humor. HUMOR, I thought. That IS the answer to what's happening with these girls. Kids always respond well to humor.

I don't know more than that now, but it sure feels right. I plan to prayerfully discern what role I am to take, if any, between now and next time. I'd appreciate your holding all of this, especially the three girls, in prayer as well. They have good hearts, just old patterns. Wow, doesn't that hit home?

• When has behavior between others upset me?
• How have I responded?
• If I invoked prayer, what was my prayer?
• What response did I receive?
• How do I model Jesus' radical teachings?


projector wouldn't work
thermos full of
hot chocolate imploded, 
we'd arrived late,
the kids came even later
one who pledged to be there,
rode his bike off somewhere else

it was an inauspicious
beginning

but we muddled
through

and once the group
was creatively
engaged,
we all settled

for good, I'd hoped

even the three-at-a-time
through the labyrinth seemed
on target

enough so, we let them
all walk

and, in an instant,
something turned

words were exchanged,
feelings were hurt

including mine
because it happened,
for God's sake, in the
stinking middle of
the labyrinth

the sacred circle

and then I realized
the awfulness occurred
in the palm of God's
hands, in the middle,
nestled up close

and it will be
alright

Bound in love

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It hit me between the eyes this week: the family pattern that rears it’s ugly head less frequently, but with no less intensity, than it did 10 years ago. My husband’s off in another room; the girls and I, together for whatever reason. It’s just how it happens. The older one and I are typically engaged in something, singularly or coupled.

Lillith energy/pastel on paper

That’s when it hits. My youngest can’t help herself; she has to do something, anything, typically to garner negative attention. Often, she reels me in and I over react, yelling, exhausting myself and giving her my power.

This time, however, I didn’t and that is BIG news for me. I simply had had enough and firmly told my children to leave. Of course, it didn’t happen automatically or easily. The younger one bounced out as if she’d behaved the entire time and my eldest dawdled, which is her nature. They were pushing my buttons and boundaries.

As a result, I told them they could forget the family lunch because it required behaving. The oldest one stormed out and ran away. Before she left, she said it’s always unfair that her sister’s behavior ruins plans. I wasn’t in the mood to hear this. The youngest began to show a bit of remorse, but only after blaming her sister and because we thought she was lost.

Fortunately the oldest is not rash and just took a walk to blow off steam. While we awaited her return, I spoke to the youngest about her behavior and she confessed that she doesn’t know why she acts this way.

The next evening was my monthly archetypal-astrology class and I shared this incident when we each checked in. It was still with me. I want to understand my child and help her. I always have. Techniques work, then everything is fine and we tend to forget. And this generously compassionate and wise group understands the Lillith archetype far better than I though they know I live with it (her).

More Lillith energy/watercolor

Our group was wrapping up the topic of astrological aspects, the relationships between the planets on one’s birth chart. Gratefully, we began with the more challenging aspects like oppositions and squares, moving to trines, sextiles and, that night, conjunctions. When we began to look at Pluto and what aspects we each had in our charts, I noticed something quite odd; that I have a trine between Pluto and Lillith. A trine. That’s the one that comes so naturally and easily that we often don’t know it’s not that way with others. But dark, underworld Pluto and Lillith, the dark moon for goodness sake? Ohhhhhh, but it began to explain so many things on so many levels. “Another reason why you’re Lily’s mother,” my dear friend and group leader Charlotte pointed out. “You understand.”

I couldn’t wait to go home and Google Lillith. Of course, I had known in mythology and ancient Judaic tradition that she was Adam’s first wife. But she expected equality and, not getting it, left. She’s a passionate energy focused on fairness. She’s also anger. Hummmmmmmmmmm.

My Lily’s real issue is that she feels she is always slighted … in so many contexts. “It’s not fair,” she’s constantly whining about home, school, friends. Lest you get the idea she’s a complete pain, she is also the most empathetic, creative, caring child I have ever met. But this feeling cheated drives her.

Over the years, my shaman has mentioned that, in his experience of working with fibromyalgia, the source is often repressed anger. I never connected that to me. Til now. Lillith’s anger at not being equal. Lily’s same issue and, to a lesser degree, mine. I do expect things to be fair and get angry when they are not. Always have.

So many dots are connecting and more questions are forming, but it is comforting to see there may be an archetypal energy at work here that explains the seemingly unexplainable. It feels as if it is key to some opening for me and Lily.

Funny, in the astrology group, they asked me how I named Lily. “Shortly after Autumn was born, I met a beautiful newborn named Lily and knew if I had another girl, that would be her name.”

“So you chose her,” they collectively sighed. Yes, I did and it’s even clearer we are on this journey together.

• How do I handle it when someone I love gets under my skin?

• Can I look more broadly to see if there is a lesson?

• To see what role I have to play in this relationship?

• What’s my experience of archetypal energy been?

• How has that opened meaning for me?

she makes her

presence known

noisily, often

without regard

for needs other

than her own

she’s my wild child,

one I am to tame,

but also one from

whom I must learn

to unleash my

wildness

you see,

we have an

agreement

bound in

love

Rooted in the holy

pastel and paint on paper

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Ever think about spiritual currency? I hadn't, not in those exact terms, until last Sunday when our Quaker minister gave a brief message on the subject, along with a reading of Jesus' parable of the talents.

My entire being flooded with relief when she outlined the concept. It freed me to see all of the positive in my life and myself instead of the deficits that gauging oneself by secular money can bring. It has enhanced and given a different dimension to my practice of gratitude. When I account for spiritual currency, I am a very rich and very blessed woman.

ahhhhh .... I just need a minute to let that soak in. What about you?

Can you re-imagine looking at life from this perspective, instead of the out-of-whack way we're taught in society? I am so tired of being judged and valued for what I do and how much I earn. Often, the first question one is asked when initially meeting another, after a name introduction. is: What do you do? I'd much prefer: What do you believe? What matters to you? What are the good things in your life? instead. 

I try, these days, to have those sorts of encounters. They arrive, I understand, not by my own hand, but, when grace is present and I am open. Open to knowing others deeply and showing myself in that manner. There's nothing more frustrating to me than to meet someone and desire to trudge deep, knowing they may not. Sometimes, I know I can take that risk. Other times, I realize it will be wasted or misunderstood energy. On the other hand, is showing someone you care to know more about them a mistake?

Sometimes you can feel the spiritual current (cy) no matter what. I had such a rich first-meeting conversation over the summer at a wedding. Instantly, we both recognized a kindred spirit. I have been surprised by the opening and depth of strangers and disappointed by the intellectualism within my larger faith community. Alphabet-soup credentials don't impress me. Warmth and speaking from the heart do.

Sitting high in bleachers at an athletic arena the other night, I was awed at being in the minority. Not afraid or intimidated. I wanted to connect with people, not just focus on the event and its stars. Spirits were high because people wanted to be here. Mostly, they were polite as we waited for hours in cold lines. But it was colorful, whimsical and, finally, I did connect with a woman seated behind me at the arena. I have no idea of her background, where she lives, what church she attends (if, indeed, she has any faith) or what she does for a living. We bonded over her laughter. It was inviting and infectious. In fact, we could hardly say goodbye when the lines were finally exiting. The last thing I cared to know about her was what she did or how much she earned. I could clearly see God had given her the gift of a terrific sense of humor that quickly spread to others.

Talk about rich in spiritual currency!

• What is my wealth in spiritual currency?
• How has that perspective changed my thinking?
• What have I exchanged with others?
• What have I given? Received?
• How am I a better person?


counting pennies,
keeping an eye
on the bills and
savings account

planning ahead,
putting some
purchases off

living in this
world drains
me, shifts me
into looking-at-
what-I-don't-have
mode

I am far richer,
taking stock
of blessings and
spiritual gifts

they
last 
longer
and root
one in
the holy

In the Spirit to notice

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Yesterday, I began to count my blessings – one a day during this thanksgiving month – inspired by the practice of friends on Facebook. I don’t intend just to acknowledge them, but to revel in them, absorbing their goodness and expressing true appreciation.

After a cold and stormy few days thanks to Sandy (but nothing like the East has experienced), I gratefully walked to work in the bright sun and brisk air. It was invigorating. I noticed a neighbor reeling in a spider web from the night before and asked her how Trick or Treat had gone, assuming, like many of the rest of us, it was a bust. On the contrary, she’d had a blast handing out treats and wreaking havoc by lowering the suspendable spider on those unaware. It was Joyce’s first Halloween in our neighborhood. She had no idea that her street typically hosts over 500 costume-clad kids. Her enthusiasm was untainted. I also discovered she has knowledge to impart to me, an old-timer, about the neighborhood: a great replacement-window company and specifically whom to call at Duke Energy to get covers for annoying streetlights. She was eager to share and extol the virtues of East Milford.

Often we forget what we have right in front of us. This morning encounter set the tone for the rest of the day – most especially Joyce’s invitation to join her some evening on the front porch by the fire pit for a glass of wine. Turns out we’re exactly the same age and she is a massage therapist. I told her all about my shaman.

I enjoyed a splendid morning and afternoon in my studio, re-organizing after last week’s mask workshop and anticipating Nov 10’s Artsy Fartsy, winterizing around the air conditioner, recovering from endless days of grant-writing and just hanging out in this beautiful space. I decided to make a few Artsy-Fartsy-related drop-offs on my way home. First, to the wonderful man who provides our transportation. I owed him copies of the kids’ permission forms and an invitational packet for his son. Yes, that means I may have boys next week! While Kelvin wasn’t home, I met his neighbor, each of us smiling as we basked in the sun. I rounded the corner to make another delivery and heard my paperboy’s rooster crow. Reminded me of when I’d gather eggs from my grandparent’s chicken house and shanghaied it for a playhouse.

Next on my list was a stop at the home of Dorian, a fifth-grade boy anxious to become part of Artsy Fartsy. I’d met him in the school parking lot last week and invited him to the program. His second-grade brother, Dalton, tried to convince me he was old enough. In two years, I told him, though his winsome smile and charms almost weakened me. They were with two other boys, sixth graders. When I checked their interest, one impolitely told me “art sucks.” I explained, that as an artist, that was somewhat insulting. I then asked what he was going to be for Halloween. With somewhat more interest, he replied, the Scream. I promptly Googled an image on my phone and told him it was a famous painting and that art did not suck. He remained unimpressed. That’s okay, I told myself, I’ve got Dorian. Dorian is a sweetheart and so eager to be engaged. He’s the oldest of five living in a three-room house with a father who’s really trying to parent and a mother battling cancer.

Though I heard crashing just inside the door, I knocked anyway. One of Dorian’s younger brothers answered. I handed the information to the father, who said he’d make sure it was completed and Dorian could drop it by my house, just down the alley.

I walked home to my own children, said hello and set out, on foot, on a couple of quick shopping errands. As I returned, Dorian and Dalton were buzzing down the street on scooters. Dorian was elated when I said I’d dropped the forms off. All he wanted to know is “When is it?” A week from Saturday and you can ride the van with Kelvin. The van belongs to the church next to Dorian’s house.

I adore my neighborhood and, yesterday, felt that God truly placed me here … to live, interact with, learn from, nurture and be nurtured by my neighbors.

• How is this season tapping into my sense of gratitude?

• What are some of the blessings I take for granted?

• How have others helped me see those blessings?

• When have I felt in sync with Spirit, belonging where I am now?

• How have I expressed gratitude for that?

a simple urge,

really, just

to get out into

the sunshine

and walk

with a destination,

but not a

timetable

the luxury

of making

it a

journey

letting

the gifts

unfold

and being

in the

spirit

to notice

thank you

Jumping off the roller coaster

Jumping/pastel on paper

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My dreams focus on money, two in the last two weeks, in fact ... the only ones I can remember. My heart calls one way, to ministry, and my head, the other, toward earning a living. It's also the dilemma of having a sun in Capricorn, the grounded, loyal worker and a moon in Pisces, the watery, ethereal creature who prefers to live within the heart. Of being spiritual and practical. Of being contemplative, but wanting to act. Of having a mind that wants to accomplish NOW and a body that requires daily tending. Of living outside of the norm and embracing that.

In my practice of gratitude and abundance, I have been viewing my personal abundance as seeking and receiving grants [for rent and supplies] for Artsy Fartsy, the arts exploration ministry I do for under-served local kids, and through my husband's business. It is not an easy place for me. I want to earn my own way, but I have limitations. The fibromyalgia has pretty much wiped away a traditional career. I also had my kids later and they still need me. I am not ready to abandon them.

I write this blog as an outlet, to share myself with the hope of nurturing others and speaking to their condition, to keep my skills up and, hopefully, to aid in the time when I publish a book. I've intentionally kept the space free of clutter and ads, but seriously wonder if I should consider it as a source of income. Maybe add a donate button, but, sometimes that sounds tacky.

For 12 years, I've facilitated small groups, workshops and retreats. Once I was paid an honorarium.  I've had some good stints at longterm freelance writing/marketing jobs. But, not in awhile. I tend to forget that I had successful careers as a journalist and in corporate marketing BK  and BF [before kids/fibro].

I have a book I've put my soul into, and even taught from. It's been put away to season. I keep thinking it's time to take it out again. In a funny way, it's morphed into the work I am currently doing.

All of these things have been buzzing in and out of my brain for some time. I haven't really paid them much attention. Until Sunday,when the message in worship focused on the Quaker tradition of unpaid ministry. Our minister, who is paid, struggled with that. Unpaid, I struggle with it as well. That option worked in a time when the faith community supported its ministers and an agrarian society supplied dormant periods for ministry.

Years ago, after a wonderful retreat on stewardship at our Meetinghouse, the facilitator's words that we should be supporting individual ministries kept ringing in my heart. For months. Until, when the congregation easily agreed to spend a large sum on new windows, I couldn't contain myself. "What about supporting ministry?" I was compelled to ask publicly, not really meaning my own, which was unformed then. The community responded, over time, by dedicating an endowment with just that mission. 

For some reason, I haven't applied for my Meeting's funds for Artsy Fartsy, though two other Quaker organizations, including the one to which that wise retreat facilitator belongs, have funded my work. Ideally, I want someone to fund me, my salary.

A few years ago, during a clearness committee, a Quaker process of listening to where God is working when an individual seeks discernment on a specific issue, I said that out loud. I got no response. Silence is pretty standard among Quakers.

I think I knew then that I was supposed to ask my faith community to financially support me. Only it wasn't time yet. This inner struggle is pushing me in that direction. I am afraid, however, of asking. Afraid of the cold silence as a response. Afraid that I won't be judged worthy enough. Afraid of a negative answer. They have been generous with supplies and time, really anything I for which I have asked.

One of my dreams revolved around my father telling me he didn't approve of or understand my working so hard for no financial gain. The other was a conversation with one of my models of faith, a deceased aunt. She and I were chatting about her career as an opera singer/teacher and how easily money had come to her. She made it sound like it works that way for everybody. The comment filled me with doubt and I said that was not my experience.

I have to confess I recently applied for a job, one that I would have loved when I lived in the regular work world. I was upfront about not having full time flexibility.  It's just so clear to me that I need to work, but on terms that work for me.

I keep thinking about the congregational query in Sunday's bulletin: 

How do we live in solidarity with those who are called into a ministry that demands their primary focus and makes paid employment challenging?

• What splits me apart?
• How do I reconcile my work life and my spiritual life?
• How do I join them?
• What about others for whom traditional work is not an option?
• How can I take my work role into my spiritual life?


on the roller
coaster of the
regular work
week for a long time

no big deal,
just what you did

until you
couldn't –
for some reason

now, 
the dilemma

if you're not
jumping back on

and are called
elsewhere

how do you
do that
patiently?
with integrity?
wholly?

and what do
you do in
the interim?

Magic of the red glasses

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RED has always been my favorite color: shiny, red tricycle; warn and well-loved red sailor shirt, kids' size 5; college colors, red and white; binge car, 1996 red Jeep Cherokee with black, leather seats.

And now, alas, I have to say goodbye to my all-time favorite red glasses that have adorned my face six, maybe seven, years. They're plum worn out, surviving through two lens changes and new ear pieces. I've been heading toward a new pair for several years, helping these limp along because I can find nothing else I like.

So, it makes me wonder why I am overly fond of this particular pair. They're loud for one thing, announcing that I AM wearing glasses ... no blending in. Their rectangular shape suits my square face, an astute hair stylish told me once. They're classic RayBans; though I'm not name conscious, I am very appreciative of good, timeless design. And, obviously, they're red. For some reason, I feel like they make my personality sing. To me, they blare artist.

I've tried other pairs on and off, mostly on this week, for a good year and have not found any that speaks to me in the same way; they should considering the cost of my prescription is pretty expensive. The red was an impulse switch at the last moment. After purple, then the beloved red, I have wanted orange. All optical stores, save one, think I'm odd searching for orange. I wish you could select the front of the frames, then side pieces separately: an orange face, purple and green side pieces, Now that would sing.

I wonder what Carl Jung would have to say about all of this. He was a colorful guy.

I understand the time period in which I have worn these bold specs aligns with me emerging from the early mom years into my own again. I went back to school, developed my spiritual nurture work, took up freelance assignments again, graduated from an art table tucked into my kitchen to a garage studio and now one in a former classroom and am feeling my way back into the world. No more hiding and letting the fibromyalgia dictate who I am and limit what I can accomplish. The red glasses screamed otherwise. On truly trying days, putting them on gave me strength and helped me reclaim my identity pre chronic-disease days.

I can hide behind them AND show myself. They're sort of magical.

How do I replace that?

I'm not sure that I do. Perhaps the platinum-and-orange pair I finally discovered signals a new phase. Red symbolizes energy, vitality, strength and strong emotions. Orange denotes balance, warmth and enthusiasm and is less aggressive than red. In terms of the chakra energy centers, red stands for the root, instinct, security and survival. Orange is the sacral chakra and governs relationships, creativity, emotional needs, pleasure, joy and spirituality. Wonder if I don't need the red to scream for me anymore and I'd rather bask in the warmth of the orange because I feel secure. Hmmmmmmm ...

• To what am I clinging lately?
• What message is there for me?
• What colors speak to me?
• How can I interpret those?
• Where am I currently on my journey?

I grabbed them
instinctively

have held on
tightly,

hesitating to
completely
let go

have the outlived
their purpose?

am I ready
to move on?

from what?
to what?

what have these
red eyeglasses
hidden?

and what have
they uncovered?