![IMG_1431[1]](https://polysyllabicprofundities.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/img_14311.jpg)
Angels leave their fingerprints,
on morning skies while I snooze.
Reminders that, though bodies have gone,
connections to souls we never lose.
And while I sit and ponder those,
who were taken in their prime,
my heart is filled with silent sadness
and a yearning to turn back time.
But their hands gently hold my heart
mending the chronic ache,
and they leave their fingerprints upon the sky
for me to gaze upon when I wake.
Wooden walls around a big kitchen,
a man in jeans and bare feet,
dinner is cooking and the wine is poured.
This is where I want to exist.
The room is my refuge,
the food is my sustenance,
but he is my home.
His fingers slowly graze my arm
and he reaches for my hand.
We sip our wine,
the conversation dwells on nothing
but never seems to stop.
The world outside of this moment
may continue to exist,
but my world is here,
in this moment,
with a man in jeans
and bare feet.
I am a thinker. I’m not like the bronze statue perpetually perched on bent hand in a state of posthumous concentration but I am equally consumed by thought. I never give things a second thought, I give them a third and fourth thought until I am satisfied that I can think no more. Maybe Winnie The Pooh was on to something.
I never do anything on a whim. I have to examine things from many angles, deconstruct the complete picture and piece it back together while thinking of all the probabilities and possibilities of that situation. I replay conversations in my head thinking about what words were uttered even examining the inflection in the words that were spoken. I don’t have an eidetic memory but I can certainly recall conversations, sometimes verbatim, and I will analyze those words until I am satisfied that what I heard was what I was supposed to hear.
My brain likes to disassemble moments or conversations, examine each piece and then slowly rebuild that moment until it is once again the sum of all of its parts. I don’t know why I am the way I am. There are moments that I would like to be that duck that allows the water to bead and roll from its back, just lets it go, but that is not how I am built. I need to analyse – I need to dwell on an idea until my thinking has left me satisfied and content.
I am a thinker. I am a re-thinker. Potentially, I am an over-thinker. In any case, I can rest assured that I have exhausted every angle before I’ve come to a final decision and that thought helps me sleep at night – until I think I may have missed something and spend many early morning hours thinking about what thought may have eluded me.
Where are you on the think scale?
My walls crumble
and I sink in sand that is unforgiving.
Illusions surround me,
confound me.
The core of our existence,
carved from the same sorcery.
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With no curtains for protection, the jagged streaks of moonlight spilled through the bedroom window across my duvet. I had awoken only moments before, trying desperately to talk my body into falling back to sleep before my brain woke up but it was too late. In the same time it took me to blink twice, my brain had formulated twelve simultaneous problems that it was determined to solve before I was allowed to return to slumber. And, as an afterthought, those cranial neurons began formulating ideas for new blog posts and I was scrambling to record them before they evaporated into dream dust.
I have lost count of the number of times I have awoken from a deep sleep with a great idea for a post. But between the darkness on moonless or cloud-covered nights and my inability to locate my phone to document them, those potentially great ideas vanished into thin air.
There must be a gigantic vault of lost ideas – a safe so large it contains all of the great writing ideas that were unable to come to fruition because they were never forced from our subconscious onto our keyboards. It hides in the vacuous space of our imagination and traps wandering thoughts as they escape during those wee hours in the morning. If only I knew how to break into that vault.
As my late-night Kathleen Turner voice gurgled out incomprehensible syllables I tried my best to recall and record the latest gem last night but, as I replayed the audible gibberish this morning, I couldn’t really comprehend where my thought process was taking me.
One day I’m going to crack that safe and I’m going to need a lot of Red Bull to keep me up long enough to record the wealth of ideas that is trapped in its metal casing.
He asked for my forgiveness
and in my continuing silence
I found an abundance of long-buried strength.
~
Daunted by the conviction of my strength,
and with no more interest in asking for my forgiveness,
he returned my stare with his silence.
~
There was nothing golden about our silence.
But in that quiet, there was no weakness in my strength.
And because of that, never will he receive my forgiveness.
~
Forgiveness should never be assumed. His feeble request was met by deserved silence and fueled by my inner strength.
My first ever attempt at a Tritina for YeahWrite.Me
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” ~ E.E. Cummings
It is a rite of passage and a fact of nature that, when we grow from a child to an adult, our voices change. Perhaps I hadn’t realized when I began my blogging journey that I was a child of writing. I was a mere toddler grabbing at words like they were all mine but contrary to a toddler’s way of thinking I wanted nothing more than to share those words.
Recently, I have been going back through the moments of my childhood. I have not been pouring over photographs in family albums but I have been going back through the early stages of my blogging days and I am amazed at how dissimilar my writing voice is from then to now. The nuance of my phrasing is a far cry from what it once was and my voice has changed to signify the growth in my writing.
Contrary to going through that awkward teenage phase in life, my progress as a writer has been uncomplicated and relatively steady. I feel comfortable in my writing skin and I walk down the hallways of the writing school in my mind with great confidence. There are no cliques to contend with, no teachers to please and the only club I wish to join already has my name on the roster of its members.
I want to write, plain and simple. I want my voice to continue to develop and be able to show the experience I gain each day by simply writing more words on a page. I want my voice to whisper. I want my voice to sing. And I want my voice to yell at the top of its lungs when it has something to say, anything to say.
Maybe this is the puberty stage in my writing. And just maybe I have reached the cusp of adulthood and I can finally embrace the voice that will truly represent who I am as a writer. There may a be a few breaks in the inflection and the tone but I think this voice is here to stay.
The Christmas Spirit has ruthlessly stalked me, once again, and dug its talons into my inner-elf. Yesterday I spent the better part of the afternoon spending money that has been generously donated to our 3rd Annual Toy Drive at Shamrock Lodge and strategically placing those purchases around our tree in the front office.
![IMG_2455[1]](https://polysyllabicprofundities.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/img_24551.jpg)
I have never been a big fan of Christmas shopping but the last three years of managing this toy drive have given me a reason to slightly alter my thinking. My dad was a big fan of fighting holiday crowds to shop at the largest malls in Toronto. My traumatic experience with that is described in this post. But I now understand a bit of the glee he felt.
I became immersed in the spirit of giving and the outside noise of the store slowly fell into silence. I was in a holiday bubble and the more I shopped the happier I felt. Feeling like a pinball in an super-sized Christmas pinball game was a minuscule annoyance compared to the immense reward. A few hours of doing something I am not fond of to make a child smile at Christmas was well worth the discomfort.
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