An Eyelash

Sometimes in this bumpy life,
I feel like I've got an eyelash stuck in my eye.
It's a terribly helpless feeling, being blind and in pain.
Just one
little hair...
And as tears come into my eyes, to wash it out, I wonder what's the use of eyelashes at all.
They're supposed to protect,
To keep foreign objects out.
And they keep my eyes safe,
Till they turn and fall into them...


A good friend tells me when
I've got an eyelash
that's loose
and wobbly
and waiting to poke me right
in the pupil.

Sometimes I need to be told that my defenses
the nets I keep around me
are about to hurt me.
That the tiny hairs I trusted
will only cause irritation
That I need to wipe them away
And let the light hit my eyes
Let it in
All the way in.

No Turning Back

At some point in the curve, there's no turning back.

...

Like a sledder on a snowy hill. I inch forward slowly with my boots, the snow crunching underneath my blue plastic sled. Farther and farther I creep towards the edge, until I start to slide slightly. Gasping in fear, I dig my feet and hands into the snow to stop myself just before the drop.

The hill is tall and steep, slippery and terrifying.

I turn around, glancing at the little boy behind me waiting to take his turn. I feel silly. It's just a hill, after all.

Releasing my cold feet and hands from their snowy death grip, I prepare for the worst. But I don't move. I've stuck myself in the snow bank, and the sled won't budge.

I want to give up just then, embarrassed by my fear and afraid of embarrassment.

But ... but that's not all I want. Somewhere, down that hill, something is waiting for me. I want to go there, I want to feel the rush of cold wind and the thrill of falling, and I want to stand at the bottom, and turn, and laugh at the hill that frightened me. My eyes turn once again to the boy behind me.

"Can you give me a push?" I ask, hopefully. The young hero obliges. Crouching, hands gripping the edge, he gives the sled a tremendous push. And I fly. Oh, how I fly.

Squealing from pure exhilaration, I rocket down the hill. Snowy air stings my cheeks as the sled races along it's course. I may have doubted before. There's no fear now.

At the bottom, my sled stops with a crunch, and I flop into the snow on my back, giggling. Then, I stand up, and I do laugh at that hill, at my fear, at my joy. I laugh that I can somehow laugh at all three at once.

...

I'm there now, at the edge of the hill, feeling stuck and unmoving, but ready to go. Ready to fall. Absolutely fall. And there's no turning back.

A Look

If looks could kill, or save, or make you pee in your pants from laughing ... this could probably be one of those looks.

The Last Note

The beginning of a song is - in my opinion - the most enchanting part of music, like the beginning of a romance. With many of my favorite artists, from Train to Coldplay, Paramore to Alanis Morissette, the first few notes and the first uttered lyrics are what captures me. They pull me in, slowly and deeply, until I'm completely immersed. The notes weave in and out of one another, subtly including me in their design. All thanks to a deliciously cooked beginning.

But lately, I've begun to notice the end of songs more, or the lack thereof.

Well, how do you end a song, really? It may suddenly stop, the sharp silence more surprising than any noise. Or, the song may fade into the distance, repeating over and over for an implied eternity. Maybe the singer even whispers one last sentence in conclusion.

Honestly, I can't imagine ending a song in a way that seems right. I don't feel like a song should have an end. It could continue, changing and growing, leaving a trail to follow. I'm entranced, held by the notes, until they end. The music disappears, and I hold my breath, waiting for the next song, new music. It's like finishing a good book that I know has no sequel.

Maybe the ending bites me so because I know, somewhere that I don't often visit, that those stories the music tells, the feelings it reveals, never truly end.

The Beginning of an Adventure

As the dewy leaves drop water bit by little bit into the morning lake, I look out into the sky, at the growing blueness and brightness of morning. The beginning of the day.

The beginning of something is so incredibly beautiful and special, a sense of excitement at what's to come, a hopeful feeling that shivers in the damp air but holds firm.

So often we miss the beginning, preferring to sleep in late or rush through it completely.

But I love beginnings.

The beginning of summer: the first splash in the pool, the first waves of the beach, the first sting of sunburn, and the first afternoon thunderstorm, are as exciting as birthday presents. Why not? a birthday simply celebrates a beginning after all.

But now, summer's not what I'm looking for. Somewhere in the morning air, as I sit by the lake, I sense an adventure about to take place. A new adventure. A fantastic adventure. And I'm invited.

I treasure this moment, when no one knows but me. One day, my hard work will be noticed, my actions written, or my journey recorded, in the middle and end of my life.

But on this morning, only I can truly appreciate ... the beginning of the adventure.