Her Escape Plan

I was not impressed when I looked into her eyes for the first time. In fact, I dismissed her as simple-minded. She pretended that she was not interested in what I was doing. In the meantime, however, she was carefully watching my every move. In her dark eyes, there was a reflection of my hands opening and closing the hatch. Behind those eyes, there were well-oiled wheels craftily turning out an escape plan. I left the room after I thought she had fallen asleep. Then in the dark, when no one was watching her, her beady little eyes opened with a twinkle of mischief. She then climbed up to the hatch, pushing and pulling, and jerking on it as hard as she could; but her arms were not strong enough. Still, she struggled, “Why isn’t this thing opening?” she thought, desperately, “This is how he did it!” Outside I heard a faint commotion, her cage rattling, and I went to investigate. Light rushed into the room as I opened the door, catching her with a surprised expression on her face, and in the middle of one of her jerks. She grinned, in her way, carefully climbed down from the hatch, and then went back to bed, without uttering a sound. I had no idea that Black Bear Hamsters were so clever.

Dark Ketchup

Imagine my disappointment, looking down at a lumpy fried graveyard of potatoes and bloated raisins. With my own hands, I had ruined my work, and tossing it out was all I had left to do. Hot meals were not always easy to come by, but this day, I had found three raw potatoes at the bottom of the refrigerator. I decided to make French fries.

Not to rush, I scanned the kitchen for everything I would need. The cooking oil was on the counter, next to the salt and pepper. The iron skillet was in the sink, and an unopened bottle of ketchup was on the top shelf. I smiled, ready for phase two.

Next, I carefully peeled each potato, slicing them with precision, and put the pieces in a large white plate. Then I placed the plate on the stove while I preheated the cooking oil in the large black skillet. Hunger began to fade with anticipation.

Once the oil was hot enough, I poured the slivers of potatoes into the skillet, and washed the plate to the sound of running water and sizzling fries. Not to waste time, I quickly dried off the plate and climbed to retrieve the bottle of ketchup from the top shelf.

I watched the fries come to a golden brown, and then transfer them to the waiting plate. I had carefully laid out my plan; that I would enjoy my meal in front of the TV, but I should have paid closer attention to my instincts.

Something whispered that the ketchup was too dark, but I did not listen. I simply broke the lid, turned the bottle upside down above my fries, and began smacking its bottom. On the third smack, brownish-red ketchup and bloated raisins poured out over my fries.

On closer examination, my heart sank with the knowledge that the raisins were the bloated corpses of once imprisoned cockroaches.

The Apocalypse Riders

In this dreams, a representative from another dimension came to notify our world leaders that our world end the following day. While the leaders listened, I saw a portal open, and a large burly man peered from the other side.

“I can’t wait to kill them all!” he said, speaking to someone I could not see. He resembled a viking warrior, very large, rough looking, and with whiskers. He became so eager, that he fell through to our side – almost as if someone pushed him. Then, approximately fifteen other men that resembled him followed him through.

The men then gathered themselves into a military formation and slowly began to march. They almost appeared calm, but I knew that they were only waiting for the signal to attack. As they marched passed me, I wondered how such a small group of men could possibly reach and defeat everyone on earth in one day. Then the portal opened again; wider this time, and four horseback riders came through.

The dark hooded robes they wore made them resemble reaper warriors. Ominous they were, as bladed weapons protruded from their flowing garments. Their bodies swayed hypnotically back and forth to the rhythm of the powerful black horses they rode on heavy battle-weathered armor. Solemnly, they moved with slow, purpose driven strides, as the wind then whispered their name, “apocalypse riders”, and an eager voice sang out from the portal, “This is going to be painful!”

The Hen House

“Come on. You can trust me,” she said – and I foolishly opened the gates. Once inside, she became like a Tasmanian devil, ripping out the lining of my heart and devouring secrets. I was the chicken that let in the fox; then watched as it ate my peers. She brushed against me on her way out; fangs dripping, full bellied, and arrogant. Lost trust doesn't easily grow back. Time passed, but not enough. Her belly grew empty and she came back with the same words. “Come on. You can trust me.” I must look like a fool.

New Villains

Sometimes, while we are fleeing one villain, we stumble into another, one that is more calculating, sneaky, and unstable. This one is clever, how it clouds my thoughts with harsh words and stumps out my self-esteem. It is a love that has become my captor and a villain that knows my every secret. “Attack the heart and break the spirit!” it said, “He is vulnerable there!” Moreover, it offers, “Use my opinion of thee to measure thyself, that you are destined to fail in life because you are too dumb and ugly to change. It works to twist my loyalties, encouraging neglect and self-destructive habits. It knows that the best way to destroy me is to break my heart and then watch me self-destruct. “Fear is ever eager to replace confidence,” my angel then whispers, “Remember that I am with thee still and always.”

Something is Biting Me !!

It was spring break, and while my mother worked, we kids busied ourselves by roaming the new neighborhood and playing random games. Hide and seek was one of our favorites, and the house next door was vacant. That made it, what we thought to be, a perfect hiding place.

While Debra counted, Richard and I entered the vacant house and went inside the same closet.

“Hey! I was here first!” Richard complained.

“Be quiet,” I whispered, “It’s big enough for both of us… and she’s coming soon.” We tried to make ourselves comfortable, but Richard kept squirming. “Hey, stop moving around,” I complained.

He kept squirming.

“Something is biting me,” he said, “Stop touching me.”

“I’m not touching you.” However, I could feel it too. Something was crawling around. “I think something is in here. Be quiet,” I said.

The sound was faint, but definitely there, a distant scratching, but near, or the sound of raindrops striking a hillside. Whatever it was, it was with us inside the closet.

“What’s that sound?” Richard whispered.

“I don’t know,” I answered, cracking the door to let in some light.

“Hey… the walls are moving,” Richard said. I cracked the door further, until I could also see it.

Fleas were everywhere, like a dark blanket all over the walls and us. To say that chills ran up my spine would be an understatement. Richard and I burst from the closet and out of the house, out into the opening, patting ourselves down as Debra yelled in the background, “I see you!”

Desert Notes

I was looking through some old boxes and found the journal I kept during the Gulf War.

The pages called back many mixed feelings,

fond and not so fond

It reminds me of how my thoughts became more and more secretive as the weeks and months passed by.

So much so, that I began to write in codes.

In those months, I lost and then found myself.
Likewise, I found the meticulous keeping of these notes to be a needed outlet.

I am thankful that those days are behind me.

The Catch of the Day

One day Big Mama took us to a park near Benbrook Lake. I had never been there before. There were no rides in the park, but there were plenty of picnic tables, shade trees, and large fields to play in. There was also a large stream running through the park, and Big Mama had brought her fishing poles. I had never been fishing before, but I wanted to collect some of the tadpole eggs that were near the edge of the stream. Richard and I looked for a cup.

Nearly an hour passed and Big Mama had not caught anything. She then called me over to watch her poles while she went to the restroom. The restrooms were inside a white building, clear on the other side of the field. My sisters went with her, while Richard played over by one of the picnic tables. I was concerned, wondering what to do if a fish came, and Big Mama explained everything.

“Just keep watching those corks,” she said, “pointing at three small, plastic red and white balls that were floating on the water. “If they sink, that means that a fish is trying to get my bait.”

“What should I do?” I asked.

“Catch it,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. Just don’t throw anything in the water. That would scare the fish away.”

She then turned and walked away. My attention shifted back to the water, the floating corks, and the jelly-like glob of tadpole eggs I had collected in a plastic cup.

From my peripheral vision, I thought I saw one of the floating balls move. I leaned forward on the rock I was sitting on, and stared… hoping that it was only my imagination. I was excited and worried. I glanced over towards the white buildings to see if Big Mama was coming. She was nowhere in sight – and I looked back at the ball. It bobbed again. Then it completely submerged and popped back to the surface.

Part of me was dreading what I had to do. I remembered what Big Mama had said, but still, it was the unknown. Where is she? I thought and checked once more. Then I moved over to the pole. When I touched the pole, whatever was on the other end went wild. The pole jerked, and I had to catch it before it went into the water. The floating ball was not completely submerged and running all over the stream. It jerked me with the pole off balance, and that began a tug-a-war.

I yelled for Big Mama, who must have heard me from the restroom, and she came sprinting across the field. My tug-a-war continued, as I turned my back to the water with the pole over my right shoulder. I walked forward, away from the water as if I was carrying a heavy sack of toys. By the time Big Mama arrived, I had dragged the exhausted fish from the water. So strong and graceful it had been in its element. It was now the catch of the day.

Dead Man Walking

I hate this feeling; I hate its source; and I hate myself for allowing it to persist. Life is the most precious gift of all; born of passion. But what darkness that compels me to give it away; whether abruptly, or the slow sting of this curse, compassion for my enemy, where there is none for me. Who shall nourish a lonely heart; that while this skeleton possesses meat, my enemies shall feast. She tells me that I can do this. But the spirit is a heavy price to pay; that I shall gain what at the price of my life? Then when it is finally over; when there is no more meat to be taken; will I then rest in peace, or shall my bones also be pulled apart? Heavy eyed; yet I look upwards to my Lord in prayer; then forward towards the mist. Only faith sustains me here; for I feel no love. Now step aside! For this skeleton still has meat!

Trained Fleas

Resolved to take fate by the throat and shake a living out of her.
-Louisa May Alcott-

Sometimes to follow our dreams we must first wake up. For, the obstacles that bind us in poverty are effective, and sometimes calculated. Like trained fleas, many that live in this culture have learned false boundaries and have since ceased to dream beyond them. Discrimination once served as a stained glass ceiling around our communities. Evil it was; as a boogeyman that comes out in the day; and the residences learned well, where not to tread. Today, after the removal of legal restrictions, though glass ceiling are no longer stained, mental chains remain; sometimes through generations, for some trained fleas teach their young. We must resist and fight back, for the spirit of our lives is at stake.

Sanctuary

In my time, I have found sanctuary in prayer, dreams, and in fantasies. Somewhere between the aisles of my imagination; beyond the sands of distant shores, where there my soul caresses, sinking softly from warm to moist, and slanted sunrays across my chest; amid these shimmering sky-born lights, reflections old and new; amid these lonely days and nights, my fondest thoughts of you. Then, gently receives my gentle touch, my legs, my thighs commit; I softly breathe in heavens mist, and more I long of it. Full lungs of care, the sweetest air, submerge these ancient depths; where warmth shall fade as levels sink, and all our dreams are met. There lies the entrance to hidden caverns, to distant under shores, and sanctuary in ye whom I adore.

Pros of Fear

Clichés such as “The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree,” concerned me greatly as a young boy. Especially that the closer I observed my father as Mr. Hyde, the more convinced I became, that I did not want to follow in his footsteps. I worried that some genetic flaw, out of my control, would one day bring me to crave his addictions, and that I would lose myself forever. In response, I prejudiced myself against the things I feared; vowing never to use nicotine, illicit drugs, or liquor. I believed that each of these things hold the potential to destroy a life. Therefore, that which cannot be repaired should be avoided. Over the years, peer pressure would take many of my friends down a dark path; some never to return. For me however, peer pressure was no match for the fear I had of (1) becoming my father, (2) losing myself, (3) failing in life, or (4) letting myself, and the people that count on me, down. While the apple may not fall far from the tree, it has infinite potential to roll.

From Where Does it Come?

Whether it is of failure, loneliness, ridicule, harm, disappointment, or the unknown; rare is the soul that has not been touched by fear -of some sort- at some point in its life. Some people are able to rise above it much easier than others. Fear seems to wash over them and simply pass away; while in others, it is absorbed into the very marrow of their bones, where it then drives them to defeat. From where does this fear come? In 2 Timothy 1:7, it was Paul that wrote, “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” Therefore, fear must be an adversary of God’s will.

Breakfast is Served

In this dream, I am holding a rifle and sitting in a tall tree. I am inside a hunting reserve of extinct animals, and looking out at a dinosaur. The dinosaur looks vulnerable, so I choose it as my prey.

Using my rump muscles, I scoot along the branch and then leap out from the tree. Airborne, I began to fly and approach the creature from behind. It does not see me; but it quickens its pace, traveling to the far side of the lake. I want to put it down with one shot, so I hover above its head. I then fire a single round into its brain and watch as it crashes to the ground like an elephant on an old National Geographic show.

I then fly to the other side of the lake and watch until I think it was safe. Minutes pass, and I fly back over to the creature and land on a limb that hangs above its head. Its eyes are open; but lifeless; and its body periodically twitches.

Suddenly its nostrils flare. It sniffs the air and life reenters its eyes. In one swift motion, the creature springs to its feet and glares up at me. It has the look of a hungry man looking at a menu. Then, with pure aggression, it leaps at me, thrusting its mouth and bladed teeth through snapping braches. I scoot backwards along the limb; so panic stricken, that I forget that I am able to fly.

I fight vines as the creature violently bits the air, leaves, and branches around me. The sound of its sharp teeth coming together is dizzying, and I try shooting it once more. This time my bullets only bounce off its hard head, infuriating it even more.

Just as I run out of limb, I look across the lake and see the entrance of the reserve. The gate is tall and heavy, standing over thirty feet high. I jump from the limb and begin to fly towards the gate. The dinosaur chases wildly after me, knocking down small tress along the way.

By the time I reach the gate, the dinosaur is only a short leap and a bite behind me. I tug against the locked gate twice before running out of time. I fly higher and land on a rusted knob that is protruding from the gate, only slightly above the creature’s head-level; so I am sure it can reach me.

The creature then moved underneath me, looking up and sniffing the air as it speaks, “Umm, chocolate coco puffs!” and I am jutted awake.

Muzzle Flash

Courtesy of the thin walls, my siblings and I usually knew what was going on between my parents – and this night was no different. While we children watched TV in the front room, my parent’s raised voices fought in the background from their bedroom. The fight had something to do with daddy coming home drunk – and he was in his Mr. Hyde form.

“Leave me alone!” he yelled, not wanting to answer my mother’s query as to where he had been.

A scuffle broke out - and through the thin walls, I could hear furniture being knocked around. My brother and sisters could also hear it; each of us silent, wide-eyed, and hanging on to each sound. None of us were watching TV anymore.

My parent’s bodies slammed against their bed. The sound of the bed’s heavy feet dragging across the wooden floor was unmistakable – and then it’s metal frame slamming against the wall. It didn’t matter that the door was closed. I could see everything in my mind.

Suddenly, my mother broke away from him, and he knew that she was headed for the closet. That’s where he kept his loaded pistol. Daddy tried desperately to catch her, but he was too drunk and she was too determined. When he finally caught up to her, she spun around pointing the heavy pistol center mass on his chest. Her finger had already begun to squeeze the trigger. Shockwaves fired through daddy’s body as he leaped away from her. His bloodshot eyes were wide open and focused on the gun. It was almost sobering.

BANG!

Everyone in the house jumped. Especially daddy, as every hair on the back of his neck stood up. The bullet had barely missed him and gone through the window, out across the street, across the field to rest in high grass. Mama was already taking aim for a second shot, as daddy darted from the room. The door flung open as daddy's stumbling body slammed against it. He ran past me and out the front door, reeking of alcohol, with mama running screaming after him, pointing the pistol at his back. The dark revolver looked large in her light brown hands, as she and daddy vanished into the night. We kids could still hear everything.

BANG!

Another loud blast seemed to shake the house. It was the first time I had heard real gunfire, not counting what I had seen on TV. The tension in the air could have been cut with a knife. Something compelled my brother Richard and I to tiptoe outside in our bare feet, peering into the darkness with our unfocused eyes.

BANG!

Another shot fired… this time from the side of the house. It seemed to draw Richard and I like moths to a flame. In fact, I was sure that I saw a flash coming from the gun’s muzzle. Mama was holding the pistol with both hands, pointing it toward the dark alley behind our house. She had a hard time steadying it as she jerked off another round at daddy’s fleeing shadow. He was a fast runner, even in Mr. Hyde form.

Echoes of the blast bounced off nearby houses and faded as neighboring dogs barked. Mama then lowered the pistol, still staring towards the alley and breathing heavy. She then turned towards Richard and me.

“Get in the house!” she yelled.

We quietly and quickly ducked back inside, listening and wondering if the last shot had found its mark. It was silent. Even the crickets were quiet, as we had turned down the TV’s volume. Mama soon reentered the house, holding the pistol at her side. She took it into their bedroom and closed the door behind her. Perhaps she didn’t want us to know that she was hiding it back inside their closet, inside the old shoebox on the lower right-hand corner. Their closet was "off-limits" to us kids.

She poked her head out moments later and told us to go to bed. Considering her tone and expression, no one dared ask any questions. Daddy returned the following day, as if nothing had happened.

Beyond the Fog

Talking to someone who does not reply is like playing tennis in the dark with fog. You volley another ball into the scattering fog and wait for its return, hearing only nightsounds and echoes of the ball you have sent. You then reach for another ball; not considering that more than a court may lie beyond the fog, and that you may not be properly equip to receive a return. Check your self.

Eternity in Thee

Rockerbye in peace we slumber; thy silky wings caress. A moments clear then fleeing haste; in thee I am my best. Then wits they slip with courage fall, thy heart of love with none at all. We reach; we wait; we want – once more a soft lullaby.

Longing still these reaching thoughts and waters flow, we long to know not letting go. Thy tender calm embracing winds, a love of old begins again. We touch; we fall; we love – clarity and eternity in thee.

In earnest she whispers, “Self-preservation is indeed a master distracter; the root of cowardness and anchor from dreams. Only in its release may ye move forward and truly know what ye seek.” Her voice then softens; angel arms outreached, “Take my hand.”

The Dark Figure: Searching

Nearly a year had passed since my encounter with the dark figure in the alley. I was visiting with my friend Tong from Taiwan and had all but tucked the memory away somewhere between the Stinking Gum (a menacing creature from childhood stories my grandmother had told me) and Bloody Mary; somewhere between fact and fiction. I wasn’t quite sure how I should categorize it; but it was about to become clearer.

Tong had spent his early childhood in Taiwan, before his mother met and married an American Airman. They then came to settle in Texas.

During my visit with Tong, something prompted him to share a childhood memory. He described his school in Taiwan; how it sat in a forest surrounded by trees, and the winding dirt road that led up to it. The school was of simple structure, little more than four walls and a leaky ceiling, with a small wooden outhouse out back. It was from that outhouse that Tong witnessed something he’d never forget.

He had gone there during recess while his classmates played at the front of the schoolhouses. He could faintly hear their laughter in the distance, while he searched for a clean spot on the filthy stool.

The walls of the outhouse were weathered and full of knotholes, a small distraction from the stool’s moistness and smothering scent. He peered out through a perfectly round knothole that set directly in front of him; out into the thick forest that set behind the school.

Something suddenly moved at the edge of the forest, gliding unnaturally, a dark figure that appeared to be looking for something.

“I could hear it thinking inside my head,” Tong’s voice cracked, and my stomach sank. Memories of my encounter in the alley came rushing back… and Tong now had my undivided attention. He used his right hand to demonstrate in the air how the creature glided around the trees, fast and then slow. “It was blacker than anything I had ever seen,” he said, and my eyes began to well.

“Is this really happening?” I thought, not saying a word, “Is he describing the same creature?”

Perhaps the creature has a special interest in children; that with its ability to read minds and project its thoughts, it is also capable of entering dreams and planting thoughts – so that it may observe how the subject acts upon them.

Tong continued... describing how the creature searched. “I don’t know what it was looking for,” he said.

The creature then moved out from the trees… and suddenly halted. Tong could hear the laughter of his classmates moving closer. The creature had also heard it. Tong adjusted his forehead against the weathered wall and refocused his right eye through the knothole. Still in disbelief, he watched as the creature glided back into the forest.

Surging Spirits Restrained

This heat is suffocating; how it wells up from within my soul, silently… and longingly spilling out emotions that cannot be acted upon, quelled nor captured nay by my tongue nor will, only their salty wet footprints that soon evaporate from all but memory. My attempts to decipher them are pointless, for they are primitive and I am compelled by logic. In this crowded room of strangers and artificial surging winds, my passion burns lonely, while logic hushes in all sincerity I long.

The Dark Figure

Perhaps it was some sort of stalker with special abilities; capable of reading minds, moving at the speed of thought, and disappearing in the blink of an eye. With its ability to read minds, it could follow closely behind its subject, and then vanish at the instant the subject thinks of turning around. I however had a quirky way of suddenly turning without reason or thought.

Our encounter occurred one summer afternoon while I was walking in the alley behind our house. Impulsively, I suddenly spun around, and there it was standing before me. It apparently had been observing me from behind. And because my turning was not premeditated, my thoughts had not pre-warned it to vanish. I had caught it completely off guard.

It resembled a man, but it was clearly something else. It stood approximately seven feet tall, had broad shoulders, and was darker than any color I had ever seen. It felt as though I was looking into another dimension; that if I had stepped through it, I would have been in another place. I could not see its expression, for it had no facial features, eyes, nose, nor mouth. But it was clearly alarmed. I know this because I could somehow hear its thoughts.

“I should not be seen!” its thoughts cried out.

The creature then trembled before me; not because it was afraid of me, but because it had broken an important rule. It was suppose to stealthily observe and never be seen, and now it had to answer to something I could not see. It had a superior.

In disbelief, I stared at the dark figure - and oddly, I did not feel threatened by it. Through its loud thoughts, I knew that it meant me know harm.

“What are you?” I thought, knowing that it could hear.

It did not answer.

Instead, it tremble faster, vibrating from left to right. It was trying to decide which directoin to flee; and it appeared to be unaccustomed to making sudden decisions on its own.

It then began communicating with what I could not see - and I realized that it and I were not alone.

“What shall I do!” its thoughts cried, not directed at me.

I sensed that it somehow had the ability to erase what had happened, but it was not authorized to do so. It was still caught up in its dilemma, whether to go left or right. It did not consider simply vanishing.

The entire encounter lasted approximately eight seconds before the creature decided to flee to its left, into a green shed that stood to my right. It didn’t run like a man. Instead it glided through the wall as though it was cutting through dimensions. I ran after it, to the far side of the shed to see if it would come out the other side. But it did not. I then looked back at the spot where I had first seen the dark figure, and wondered if it had been my imagination.

Nearly a year later, another event would remove all my doubts.

Bitter Fruit

How many times will history repeat itself? How they maneuver; convinced that they are what they describe themselves to be, righteous because they smile, not due to their deeds. My wounds still ache from their last assault, and yet they return bearing sweet words and bitter fruit. Their eyes speak another tongue, almost disarming, that I might doubt myself. “They want that thy gates shall fall,” the angel whispers. They have never failed to strike my lowered guard; yet, I wonder if perhaps this time they truly want peace. But how can I trust them? “Seek ye not peace in soft words,” she says, “Nor in warm eyes… for they believe themselves righteous, while their deeds seek thy destruction. Look only to their deeds.”

The Source of Their Strength – II

I prepared my strategy, and gathered the tools I believed I’d need to confront my demons. The angel’s words “put them out” echoed in my thoughts and brought me sporadic comfort. But that was not enough. Not thinking of my demons would not undo their work. “They must be brought into the light,” she says, “Else they will return.” I finished preparing my tools – and when I was ready, I entered the arena of light. I was prepared for a confrontation, but there was none. My demons had been unjust; and sustained by lies that cannot stand in the light. Therefore, there was little need for me to speak. I put down my tools and my demons were undone.

The Source of Their Strength - I

Sometimes I forget how clever demons can be; their warm smiles and eyes that shed crocodile tears, how insincere they are, ever plotting for the advantage. No matter what they say, or do, they never forget their enemies, and I find myself bitter in their company, tormented by my own thoughts of them. “Must thee engage them in the dark?” my angel whispers, concerned that these thoughts clutter my mind. “Put them out - away from thee,” she says, “Show me thy mortal demons, that they may be undone by the light.” I gaze out the window; outside myself, and my concerns shrink. In the light, my thoughts are busied by good people moving about their day, the beauty of nature, and children at play. It is comforting – but my thoughts then drift back to the dark and the pain returns. “The source of thy pain is in thee,” the angel whispers, “Not in thy enemies. Put them out… and thy pain shall be undone.

The Servant's Path

I made my decision last night. I took a step down the path I have chosen, and I did not feel the pain she has promised. In its stead, there was relief. I looked inside my heart and asked, “Where is the pain?” I then looked up ahead and saw that my chosen path has other forks. “It awaits thee beyond yon junction,” she whispers.

Heart of Wings

Lovingly, she comforts me amidst disorder and troubled times. Soothing and confident; she whispers, “Have faith…” My thoughts have been weary and doubtful of myself; yet in silence she consoles. She knows my heart; it’s where she resides, navigating my dreams where hope and destiny collides. I suppose it makes sense, that because she knows my strengths weaknesses and fears, when I am doubtful of myself, I may believe in she who believes in me. “Yes…” she whispers, “Trust in thy heart…” her powerful wings outstretched, “For I am within thee… and through me, ye may rise above earthly fears...”

The Servant

Another disappointment pushes me ever closer to a decision, and she whispers, “What will you do?” I’m tired, and there is a lump rising in my throat. It feels good, these surges of emotions that remind me I’m alive, and the coolness that gathers in my eyes. I blink, and water rolls down my cheeks. No one can see; and how my spirit stands in silence at this fork in my journey. “It is time,” she whispers, “This one is yours.” In the past I have allowed others to decide for me. That is the coward’s way, and foolish to serve while thy own heart and spirit is in jeopardy. “Either path will bring pain,” she whispers, my guardian angel, my conscience, “Slow steady misery for yourself and others, or the ache of knowing that your path brings sorrow to another.” I don’t know what I’ll find down either path, destinations are unknown. I only know that my heart is heavy. Whom shall I serve?

Chasing Clouds

An angel approached me from behind and placed her hand on my shoulder as I looked out at my work. I was feeling down… but her touch was warm and uplifting to the spirit. It was a dream, and my mood could be described with one word. Lost…

“What’s wrong with me?” I asked. But she did not answer. She only watched with me, as more of my past deeds appeared before us.

I began to complain that accomplishing those deeds had brought me little gratification, and that I am seldom satisfied.

She interrupted.

“How do you select your deeds… your goals?” Her voice was strong and yet soothing… how it called me away from my troubles. I saw myself standing below us – and I remembered how I had felt.

I did not answer her question directly. Instead, I tried to explain that my goals help to focus my energies.

She interrupted again.

“Focus, or distract?” she said. I thought about her question as she continued, “If you commit yourself to chasing clouds, to the extent that pursuing them becomes your identity, you will be lost when they evaporates.”

I didn’t fully understand.

“Distract?” I said… puzzled, “Distract me from what?”

“It is important… how you select your goals and invest your energies,” she said, “United, they pursue higher objectives? Divided, they distract from one another.”

“The objective is happiness,” I said without thinking.

“Happiness?” she shrugged. Her voice then became stern, “If happiness is your objective, then why do you not feel incrementally content as you accomplish small steps towards it? Do you believe that your path true?” she looked into my eyes – her eyes were as deep as the ocean, “Does it follow the plan?”

“The plan…?”

“Yes…” still looking into my eyes, “I know that you know…” Then in silence we waited… while I wondered what she was thinking – and what she was thinking of me.

“Is it selfish to seek happiness?” I asked.

“Selfish…” her voice hauntingly echoed, “Would not seeking to make others happy be more fulfilling?”

“Yes…” I nodded… understanding and slightly ashamed.

“What is the meaning of life…” she said, “If not to nourish it? The plan is only that you should love.”

Pursuing a relationship is sometimes like chasing a cloud. If the relationship does not develop, the pursuer is left feeling lost. Like love, clouds are not to be chased and captured - and unlike clouds, love is always within our reach. It was Buddha that said, “When you realize how perfect everything is, you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky.”