The Word

It is dark…the dawn rising from slumber in the winter sky…why do I write this words? Does anyone care to find them?

Words come relentlessly to mind, not always meaning what I want to say or convey my true feelings.

Is it not clarity the elusive thread I wish to spun? Or truth the related cousin of deception?dsc02392.jpg
I play with words and mock myself, yet I love them, even the imperfect meaning they convey. Is there another way to share one’s soul, lucid and free of doubtful adjectives? What is a mind wrestling with its content?

Or a soul where words miserably fail its true expression.
The simple, enjoy the daily ramblings without regrets, and others give free rein to their
venting. I doubt that words are meant to flow like waters seeking a place to pool, rather as a river held by its edge, even falling from the mountain peaks they seek the course of least resistance to claim a path to the open seas.

The merging of the rivers, the rivulets, the overflowing rain all claim their path to the deep ocean of our soul.

Is there a time where words will be erased from the conscious knowing and as
the wind unseen caresses the earth, the soul in silent awe, will embrace truth, clarity and a meaning we will not doubt.

Arise my kin to the inward calling of a blessed day of liberty where free of matter
and blood our soul will rise, ascend to a wondrous world of eyes that see
beyond its own reflection to depths and heights ever imagined, a mystery
revealed of eternal beauty resting in the soul and forever mute.

Copyright @Madeleine

My father’s hands

I went out on the deck with tall oaks surrounding me, a full moon shining above  and remembered my father. I remembered when I was tall enough,  my nose barely reaching the table top, watching his hands making gnocchi; I loved the small dumplings.
His hands were strong yet gentle rolling the dough and cutting little pieces, rolling his finger over them. Later we would spread them on a clean cloth on the bed to dry a little, before we cooked them and then covered them with a great sauce only he could make.
I thought these are the things children remember, a father hands doing something good and delicious.
He taught me how to play checkers and I would watch those big hands moving the pieces, paying attention and learning while he nodded to signal a good move or not by shaking his head a little. He did not talk much, he let me correct my move in silence, it allowed me to think and process my move in my head, developing my strategy. He was teaching me without a word and I learned fast, feeling acceptance not judgement and approval not rejection.

How many children miss that, a father who cares, is gentle, loving and patient.
I was fortunate, he gave me time, love and told me great stories. He told me real stories of his life and  when he was 16, a stowaway on a ship bound to America, spending 3 months in Brooklyn waiting for a ship to take him back to Italy. As I got older, I wish I had realized the wisdom of his gifts and passed them on to my children. Patience was the greatest.
It took awhile to realize that education does not equal wisdom and that his ignorance of some things I had learned counted little compared to the wisdom he had.

I am grateful to have known someone with a heart of gold and gentle hands who could love deeply.

copyright @Madeleine