exploration. the driving force behind now. fueled by the past. and propelling us into unknown. that little question of what if. a plethora of uncharted, undetected, unfathomed. waiting to be discovered. by my fellow fools brave enough to embark. news of distant globes excite our cores. we look up. see the tracks of humanity reflect back. and dare to imagine the next.
intertwined with inner exploration. when rudely interrupted. plucked by the giants of the world. pigeonholed into a corrugated cage. of expectation and labels. a confining box with seemingly no escape. but there are cracks in these limits. holes of hope. and inventive light protrudes. to reach above what appears impossible. my captor nowhere in sight. i surrender the only ceiling is me.
waves of shimmering leaves. grass awash in golden tide. the forest quietly opens in her wake. she calls a connection. to the body and mind. a flow of energy that knows when to move. when to slow. and take notice. light bearer. small in stature but not in practice. her glow is limitless. stands tall amongst the giants. and overshadows their cast.
the quiet awe of centering and alone. shutting off the noise and clatter of life. for a moment. to witness the beauty of daily death. isolation giving rise to creativity. a swell of energy in silence. i look down a road of unknowns, unencumbered, unfixtures. view the what ifs. and own that my truth is ever changing.
be humble. when the world respectfully responds with praise. be moral and just and kind. be the sun that guides and energizes those in proximity. inspiring. no matter how small a talent may seem. be wild and bound. elated and pensive. open and intimate. be daring when opportunities arise. be it all. in lows and highs. be.
under these shadows lie forms more beautiful than any mask displayed. a true human intricate with patterns of peculiarity. yet we hide. behind make up. behind enhancements. behind personas. our nature cloaked in layers of little lies. buried under competing glamor. ourselves forgotten. all for better views. we glorify the fake. so that in a world of unattainable, natural becomes novel.
native to the wind. alien to the shore. a weed in a wild garden. my wispy structure barely stable. in a field full of functional flowers. their collective bouquet resembling countless meadows before. we blossom together. but i look on to my lack of placement. and wait for a wind to seed on.
Here I have two sweet treats. One is a milk chocolatey replica of a comrade. The other is a creamy cheese dessert that I have to avoid devouring by the pound full. What do chocolate Lenin and cheese curds have in common? Nothing outside of my word mix-up moment at the market. I can not emphasis enough my inability to speak other languages. A kryptonite in my adventures. But that rarely stops me from travel or trying to communicate. And can lead to humorous anecdotes.
Like ordering cheese curds at the deli counter. Where I found a delightful batch of Tvorog (dessert cheese curd). In my infantile attempt to read the label, I ultimately asked the market lady for one Tovarishch (comrade). Which explains why she looked at me as though I just slapped her cat and then continued to scowl at me once I reverted to my fall back pointy-talky communication. Silly me had no clue why this woman was so off-put by my curd request. Until days later when I realized the translation error and could not stop laughing over what that poor lady must have thought. Humbling missteps like these always give me the perspective to try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. For in the future I may be that counter woman and wonder why some crazy is asking me for a container of patriot.