writing prompt

Redbud Winter

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It was so terribly cold.  Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Dark still.  The early morning sun yanked away.  The early spring taken too. Winter.  Full blown and the calendar reads March 14th.  Not too late for cold and snow, but there had been such hope.

I hope the daffodils survived.  Early and glorious this year.  A field of yellow outside my kitchen window.  I kept meaning to cut some for my office.  Today is the day.  If they are not frostbitten.

Photo by Dulcey Lima on Unsplash

There were hard frost warnings last night.  Which winter does that make this?  It’s too early for Redbud winter though the dogwoods are already blooming. Or are those pear trees? White blossoms on the hillside. 

A soft winter.  A warm winter.  No snow to speak of.  Climate change is upsetting the rhythms of our life.  Wait until it really gets going.

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Dante: The Divine Comedy

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“In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.”

The Divine Comedy

Well.  As you can imagine, I was quite startled.  Imagine meeting yourself in a dark forest when you’ve lost the road?  Or found it, depending on your perspective.  The two of you, literally, standing there.  Both in shock.  Mouths open, staring.  The one a hunter and the other a gatherer.  Would there be nervous laughter.  Both of us are me so I imagine there would be.  With a divine comedy, laughter is essential. 

Talk about a midlife crisis.  Two of me.  The adventurer and the homebody.  The urban dweller meets the hermit who lives in a large tree trunk.  Both me, neither me.  We need to integrate.

Photo by Niels Dewulf on Unsplash

Or do we?   Can’t there be two?  The introvert and the extravert?  Yin and yang.  Ego and Id.  One for desire, one for need.

Should life be a straight Roman road?  Sunlit and laid out before you?  Or a winding country path verdant in dappled shadows hiding and seeking. 

Is it a conundrum or a dream?  Sacred or profane?

Questions. Which of me will ask the most questions.  I imagine the hermit mostly silent, observing and taking it all in.  The traveler babbling trying to make sense of the few details I’ve noted.  Like two of me.  In a forest.  Lost. 

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The Coming Home

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Are you a tourist or a traveler?  Is it a trip or a quest?  A journey or a destination?

These days, I’m a tourist more than a journeyer.  I did my journey early in life.  I was on a quest for years before coming home to myself.  Coming home to my heritage.  Coming home to my genetics.

That sounds kind of sad, but I don’t mean for it to.  A year or so ago, maybe two, I was playing around with some video software and did a digital story about my house.  I often don’t know what I think, until I start writing.  The montage needed a script and so I wrote one.  In the course of writing, I discovered I had reached my destination.  The journey was over.

Now when I leave home, I’m a tourist.  I’m not looking for a place to live or find happiness or fulfillment.  I’m simply out seeing the sights.  Kirk Judd wrote:

I thinks
one reason
I be leavin'
alla time
is 'cause
the comin' home
feel
so good

–Kirk Judd

The comin’ home.  Yes. 

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If Only

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If only what was said could be taken back, I could sleep at night.  Completely taken back as if the words were never uttered, never broke the barrier between thought and vocalization.  If only.

Julien May 29, 2022

If only what was done could be undone, I could move forward.  Completely undone as if the deed never provoked an outcome, a clean slate.  If only.

If only the thought could be lost before it sullied my heart.  Forgotten before it was acknowledged, never to leave its stain of discord on my psyche. If only.

If only, I could be a vehicle for harmony and peace.  Never to sow sadness or anger or criticism.  To be a nurturing soul to all I encounter.  If only.

If only, I could get to the core me, I would be perfect.   Radiating love and hope, a person of perfection in this imperfect world.  If only.

If only, I could return to the beginning.  Without scar or wound. Prejudice and temper, ego unfettered.   If only.

If only I could return to that state of grace of the newborn – one of wonder, content, suckling only love.  If only.