Those things which matter most

Those things which matter most: family, bread, clothes, a roof, clean water, a few books. Threads of the fabric we wear our lives around, knitted together with the strongest of bones: blood, and the saltiest of tears: sweat. We put these things down in a tale, in a tome, in our home, on the mantle: the cradle of our being. Etched with broken fingernails, each bite and blow: bedrock in the bosom of our beliefs. We claw our way into the light, blinking and thinking of the darknesses we have left behind, breaking and building always. We forget what boredom is because we find beauty in emptiness, we fill those voids with love and little bits of time: sewing a patch, watching the flight of a bumblebee, listening to static in the wind.

We write our paths by walking and walking we write of dreams and so we walk them and wake to them.We write of nightmares too and the woes of the ages press down upon our pens. Weary we still write, walking our way over a mismatch of fears and fantasies, waiting to be spellbound by the right combination of words to unlock our purpose and set us in motion. Our blood flows from our rivers of veins down, down thru time and trouble, a bubble here and there halting history in its tired tracks and saying: "this fork, not that one."

And so we learn to drive in automatic, steer by intuition and find joy in the setting of each sun. Obstacles arise along our path and we manuever around them or destroy them with words or magically befriend them, seduce them, bribe them with great truths whose opposites are also true. We walk around writing spells with our eyes and opening doors with this burden of blood. I bear history in my heart and tomorrow in my hands and in the tiny, grasping, thirsty hands of my daughters. I am but a river flowing to their ocean. My words and walk may resound in them, by them, become them. I carry what I carry because I must and I will give everything to get where I am going.