Tuesday, April 28, 2015

When sometimes


I can't and I don't know sometimes.
But I do try.
To figure out this good life.
One day at a time.
Being joyous and living grateful.
It is a choice.  I know.

But there are so many.
And it makes my head spin.
To understand.
Where to go and what to do.

So much of the time.

When sometimes.

All I really want to do.

Is dance crazy with abandon.
Singing loud. The lyrics.
Like a rock and roll singer.
On a stage. 
In my living room.  My kitchen.
The dog cowering.
But dancing nonetheless.

When sometimes.
All I really want to do.

Is put on my smock and paint.
Bold strokes and big color.
Canvas large upon an easel.
Paintbrushes dripping hues.
Paint all over me.

And the final product.
Well. Could have spent more time.
On it.  Someone tells me.

What the dickens!

When sometimes.
All I really want to do.

Is run through a meadow.
And explore the streets.
And the passageways. Of a village.
Faraway.  Or here at home.
Snapping photos. 
Like a wild woman all giddy.
Thinking I've discovered.
This art.  And these places.

When sometimes.
All I really want to do.

Is sit in a beach chair.
Sand warm and breeze gentle.
Beach bag full; books and a journal.
To write.  To read.  Undeterred.
Pens and pretzels and pizza.
Gulls screaming.  Waves breaking.
The language of summer calling.

When sometimes.
All I really want to do.

Is paddle down a river.
With tributaries to explore.
All silence except the small splash.
Of an oar.  In a canoe.
Heart beating wildly for adventure.
Might as well be the Amazon.

When sometimes.
All I really want to do.

Is cook pasta. Chop up some basil.
Simmer some sauce.  A glass of wine.
Friends and family filling the table.
Laughing.  Sharing.  Supping.
And around that table; authenticity.
Speaking grace.  Freeing the soul.
To breathe deep and calm.

For I am a crazy wild romantic.
Kind of girl.
And I thank my man for loving me.
It's an ordeal sometimes. 

For him.  I'm sure.

Complicated and messy and just too.

But no longer making excuses.

No longer trying so much.
To march in formation.  Soldier-like.
At attention.  All tense.
And performance-like.

Just cause my dad thought so.

But he didn't live it.
He just commanded it.

From his place at the rudder.
Commanding ships around the world.
Chasing his dreams.  Chasing beauty.
Never marching to anyone's beat.

He never did; living to 103.

And I can't.  Either.

March to orders and fall in line.

That is because.

All I really want to do.
Is be the person the Joy-maker.
Made me to be.

And so I will.

Greet each day.
Throw open the shutters.
Welcome the beautiful. 
Being grateful.

For there is always. 
Something beautiful. 
Even in the midst of hard days. 
Something to be grateful for.
To appreciate.

It is a decision.  Every day.

To sing happy.  And dance.
With sauce on your face.
And to get out the paints.

And paint.

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