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Hopscotch

She laughed as she jumped over seams in the granite flooring, stealing a moment of joy from the somber occasion as only a child can do.  One two, buckle my shoe.  Her shoes clacked against the floor as she began an improvised game of hopscotch, and I remembered.

 

“I can do it myself,” she said, pushing her mother’s hands aside.  She sat on the floor, wiggling her left foot halfway into her right sandal.  The sandal had a strap for the heel, and two for the rest of the foot.  She was curling and uncurling her toes, struggling to tuck them under the final, angled strap.  So far, she wasn’t having any success, nor did she show any interest in getting help.  If the sandal had been on the right foot, she probably could have gotten it on just fine.  But on the wrong foot, the angle of the strap was all wrong.  As it stood, half her toes landed on top of the strap, and the other half just didn’t seem long enough to reach under that same blasted strap.  A few more moments passed as she tried rotating the sandal around on her heel, but with the first strap over her foot, there wasn’t a lot of room for adjustment. Continue reading “Hopscotch”

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Binary Nature

I’ve got bugs to fix, programs to compile, and users clamoring for features, but this morning, it’s just me and you.  Digital paper painted by the hammer of the invisible typewriter, keys clacking silently beneath my fingers.  This is what it means to be alive.

In the darkness of the morning, before the rhythm of the day sets in, I establish my own rhythm.  One character at a time, converting analog to digital, the innards of my soul to ones and zeroes.  And these are my binary patterns, not the ones that the world demands when it awakes from its slumber.

Right now, the world is asleep, and I am alive with creative electricity, pulsing through every nerve, every neuron.  Poems come alive, painted in impossible hues against the pitch black that surrounds me this morning.  The lights of the city cannot reach me in my forest home, nestled in the hills of the Ozarks.  They are my firewall, my analog to the digital firewall that protects my art.

The city, always moving, always consuming, always boppin’ to a never-ending beat – it gives inspiration, but it doesn’t give rest or solace.  You don’t feel the breeze, you don’t smell the earth with every breath, feel it under your feet, clench it with your hands – in the city everything is always moving, but everything is always concrete.

Out here, there is stillness in the ever-changing nature of the flora and fauna.  You learn to move without moving, freeze while walking.  It’s an art of its own, a life of its own, a blessing of its own.  In the city, everyone sees you and you see everyone – but does anyone ever notice one another?

Out here you may not see another soul, but you’ll always see yourself for who you are.

A wonderful, beautiful, fearfully made being, the image of God, surrounded by His masterful artistry.  Free to create as you were created, free to be as you were intended – fully human, fully aware, fully connected, fully free.

 

Photo by Kat Jayne from Pexels

 

 

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Winter’s Splendor

winter's splendor

Snowflakes float gently through the air, covering the ground and trees in winter’s splendor.  I do not know the names of these white trees – I am not of this land.  I know sidewalks, tall buildings, automobiles, soot, suits, and wintry faces.  But I do not know winter.  Its frigid breath competes with the warmth of the humble fireplace.  I know that if the fire should go out, the splendor of winter will become as inviting as the grave.  Still, I am safe behind these wooden walls, and so I watch winter in peace from the warm side of my window.

 

Original photo by Gratisography

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Breakfast for Charlie

Eggs, swiss cheese, mushrooms, and spinach.  It was one of the few things we actually agreed on, and I figured it wouldn’t be the worst way to start the day.  As the scent of melting swiss filled the small studio apartment we shared, I realized there was something missing.  Onions.  I tiptoed over to the refrigerator and opened it as quietly as I could.  I had done a good job sneaking around so far.  I had even cracked the eggs inside a kitchen towel earlier.  Sometimes you just want to do everything right.  Or at least close.  The kitchen towel now laid in the hamper, covered with egg yolk.  And now that I had the refrigerator open, I realized there weren’t any onions in the vegetable drawer.  I found a half-eaten bag of fried onion chips tucked away behind a jar of pickles, but I thought that would be a bit too tacky for an omelet.  Well, too tacky for her.  I’d try it.  I’d try anything.  Continue reading “Breakfast for Charlie”

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Tea Time with Mrs. Lewis

Tea Time with Mrs Lewis

There was a silent strength in the way she poured her evening tea.  Her hands moved with a grace that betrayed her age.  Her soft smile should have accentuated the folds in her cheeks, but somehow the lines in her face all but disappeared.  Her silver hair turned jet black, the weathered wrought iron table turned ivory white, and the sun shone on rolling fields of green grass and blooming flowers.  The cool autumn morning faded like a memory.  It was spring.  It was tea time.  A moment forever locked in time for Mrs. Amanda Lewis and anyone who sat with her at the little white table adorned with two chairs.  The humble dining set filled the entirety of the small patio outside the back door of her blue wooden house.  Most people didn’t know how it happened – how the years melted away or how spring burst forth from any season during tea time with Mrs. Lewis.  But she told me once, when I was young. Continue reading “Tea Time with Mrs. Lewis”