The Crow

Past posts

I am still. Motionless.

I am still. My eyes are closed. I see nothing. Motionless. I hear nothing but my heartbeat. A rhythmic pulse, my beating heart, reminding me that I’m alive, that I’m awake. Attention is drawn to my breath. Air filling my lungs, my chest expanding, reminding me that I’m alive, that I’m awake. I try to move ahead. But I cannot. I am still. My eyes are opened. I am standing. Motionless. I see a path ahead. Images ahead which I cannot recognize. A collection of color, of light, of dark. I feel a calling. From the path itself or what’s down the path, I cannot tell which, but know I must go. Forward, into the unknown. I try to move ahead. But I cannot. I am still. I raise my hands. Palms faced forward. Motionless. I feel a barrier which I cannot see. Like a glass wall. Clear yet solid. I feel the coldness of the barrier. Like an ice wall. Frozen and numb. I try to move ahead. But I cannot. I am still. My will is there. I lack momentum. M

Petals of Emotion

Like a blooming Dahlia, opening wide to the sun. Each petal opens, boasting its color, creating sheer beauty. Warmth in my bosom grows, tightening my chest, shortening my breath. Filling me with excitement, a burning passion, pure bliss. Love. Like a wilting sunflower, after darkness falls. Weighted down by the center of its being, tearing its grounded roots, leaving a gaping hole. A painful ache inside me grows, a hollow echo crying, vibrating throughout me. Welling tears burn my eyes, a knot in my throat, pure despair. Grief. Like a wild rose emerging, finding the light after a forest fire. Peaking through the ashes, looking up at the sun, vibrant color emerging from the dark. Love and experience feed me, a new me emerges, pure intrigue. Life.

A letter to my biggest critic

For most of my life, you’ve been by my side. A quiet whisper in my ear. Like a part of my shadow, you were there as I navigated through the decades. Where did you come from? When did you appear? And why? I look back at my earliest memories and remember a happy, energetic, inquisitive girl. Eager to try new things, make new friends, almost fearless at times. She wanted to belong. That little girl would be one of the first to volunteer, was willing to share and even brave enough to volunteer to read a poem by herself at a school assembly. She tried her best even though sitting still and paying attention was hard. She wanted to do well. She tried so hard to read letters and numbers. She wanted to make her parents proud. She had an imagination. She loved to create. She loved to play. She was a child. But you were not there. I feel a sadness wash over me as I continue to reminisce. The torment she endured, the cruelty, the names echo through my mem

The Trunk

In our family “the trunk” is a metaphor for the unspoken. Be it a wrongdoing, an embarrassment, a taboo, or a secret, it’s best to “just put it in the trunk” where it’s hidden, safe and sound; to be forgotten, never to be spoken of again. In my mind’s eye, the trunk is old, like a large steamer trunk that my grandparents would have brought over from the old country. Held in a cold, stone chamber, this worn wooden box, wearing marks from a long, hard voyage’ sits in the center on the cold, wet floor. Its rusty metal clasps hold the lid hiding its contents. Inside, it’s dark, damp, deep. An ominous vibe oozing from cracks and crevices. Secrets quietly humming, anxiously waiting to be released. The protectors guarding the trunk vary, depending on when one enters the chamber. Dressed in long dark hooded robes, the elders have inherited the duty to guard the trunk and all it contains. Should those approaching speak to the guards, they would be urged to leave, to ne

To my 80 year old me

As I write this letter, I’m in a state of uncertainty. I’m grieving the loss of my Walter and am just a shell right now. Knowing that I need to move forward, but don’t yet have the energy or will to dream, feel and redefine who I am. It will come in time. I’m writing you this letter in hopes that my wisdom, experiences and regrets have shaped my future in a positive light. I assure you I am trying to realize my capabilities and celebrate my successes so that the next thirty years are lived to their fullest – filled with confidence, happiness and stability. There are a number of things I hope you’ve accomplished over the years. I hope that you’ve remembered to see beauty around you, that you’ve celebrated and shared it – be it by word, pen or paint. I hope that you’ve forgiven those who’ve held you back, caused you pain or sadness – most importantly yourself. I hope that you’ve learned to see yourself through the eyes of those who love you – and truly see your beauty

Grief is the price of love

Walter Kennedy, My muffin. My love. My life. As we approach five months since I last touched his hand, kissed his lips; I still feel empty, numb, lost, mundane. Each day takes me farther and farther away from him. My calendar is filled with 'first without' and memories 'last time with'. Life feels surreal. When this reality hits me, it practically takes my breath away. Mo ments where emotions are overwhelming, physical pain, crushing my chest, my broken heart. As time moves on, I become more familiar with this new existence. Gradually there are more m oments whe re my smile is genuine and I do have a sense of 'normalcy'. His presence gave colour and vibrancy to my life. And his loss dulled it to a monochromatic grey. In time I'll add color to my palette, but will never match the verve we had. h Waves of emotion appear without notice. Some arrive with a crash shaking my foundation. Others like a ripple...slowly enveloping my

Musings of a Meandering Mind

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