Misty Morning

This is one of my favorite mornings, ever. Originally posted in March, 2015 on my "Simple Words" blog. I thought this is one of the few things that needed to follow me here.....


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Misty Morning

"We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature – trees, flowers, grass – grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence… We need silence to be able to touch souls. -- Mother Teresa"

Silence. Nature. 

The sky was grey. Puddles ripple violently against the calm haze. The sun not yet at it's peak. A heavy mist covering everything. A dampness in the air that chills me to my bones. My eyelashes like nets, catching each drop. I didn't turn around. I raised my hood and kept walking. Angels looking down on me. Moss like tear drops. Tree branches swaying and creaking. Birds fluttering around me, trying to seek shelter in the cracks in the stones. They climbed through iron bars. Nests, shared for generations like the hallowed ground beneath my feet. At the top of the muddy hill I'm surrounded by the remains of people who were close to God. Who believed. Who died at peace. Babies, fathers, mothers, Priests. Their energy surrounds me like a blanket. The mist stops. All I hear are the birds. The branches. The distant hum of cars at the bottom of the hill. No words. No people. I walk and I pray. With every step I feel more warmth. I read names. Dates. I get lost in my thoughts. I get lost in the beauty of peace...

that time I met a stranger

(Fiction, influenced by reality)

I'm at my local coffeehouse. The vibe is different. It feels foreign. I'm in my usual spot, against the old brick wall, with the hotel on the other side. To the right, old arched windows from when this was a train terminal. The view outside is of Market Street. This area has recently been "gentrified". A word that sounds good in the media and to politicians, that basically means yuppies have whitewashed the area and rental prices have skyrocketed. The hookers and crack dealers moved around the corner, instead of the stoop outside. At least, during daylight hours.

My spot is in the middle of a communal bench, dotted with two person tables, separated by just enough space for people to pass through sideways. You can see the terror in their eyes as they contemplate "do I give them ass or dick"? My spot has a power outlet. I don't have my laptop with me so I'm getting envious stares from college students and young professionals. "Covet thy outlet"

The floor beneath my $6 thrift store boots is polished concrete. Something old and worn that has been made new and pretty. Glossed over. Gentrified. The tables are walnut and reclaimed pine. Simple wooden "antique" chairs pulled up to them. The bar has taps of local brews and regional favorites. The menu contains lots of avocado. Lots of "grass fed", and "__blank___free" options, for prices that keep increasing as more cars park outside and more boarded up buildings become glossy and hip. Hipster.

I'm not a hipster, and I'm honestly not sure what that means. But that's what I get called. Along with "Millennial". I'm 40. I'm not a millennial. But I guess I dress like one. I refuse to wear sweater sets, dress shirts, and carry designer handbags, like my peers. I wear jeans, boho clothing that I've had for decades, and 1920's jewelry. Rhinestones and peacock feathers adorn me.

I get looks, I get whispers. I also get stares, over more than just the outlet. I'm alone and I'm not on my phone. It's on the table because I'm waiting for a text from a stranger. A man I've never met, who appreciates the same eccentricities as I do and who has a bowler hat as a wardrobe staple.

We have talked for weeks, hours at a time. Sharing stories of growing up in small Southern towns, and being only children. We talk about our hopes and dreams. He's a writer. A good one. Not like me, a sketchbook scribbler who accidentally inhales too much sharpie. He develops characters. He enjoys my ramblings about the sideshow freaks at my work. The hookers, drug addicts, and angry old people. He laughs at my stories of working retail in an un-gentrified area. There is nothing hip about a regional chain grocery store. I have a polo and khaki life. That's probably why I try to express myself on my days off.

**I stopped writing because he came in. I will continue it at some point. I'm just posting it so it won't get lost.

the ridge

Written in my journal, messy and fragmented, sometime in February: 

Shadows fade to the valley below. 

Fleeting, fleeing, from burning light. 

Your face is bathed in an amber glow. 

Our new day is starting off right 

Take my hand and lead the way, 

The leaves rustle as we escape. 

Now our shadows mix into the night.

As halos dance around the lights, 

of cars and lamps below our feet. 

The ground is dry, 

the air's fine mist tickles my skin, 

like a cool touch with soulful grace. 

As my silhouette hides your face...

I never finished it...maybe one day I will.