Even unto this day, I am surprised when memory pops up to be dealt with though never a hint as to its depth. Where has it been keeping itself? No doubt in the catacombs along with my ancient self.
It is somewhere in the journals I am sure. I just spent too much energy looking for something that memory will serve just as well. It was a Sunday evening and we had just left an open house affair. It was a holiday affair with decorations still up. It was getting dark and foggy and nothing seemed familiar.
I really don’t know where I am, my mate said. David was in the hospital and soon they would be closing to visitors. Things remained unfamiliar and we were getting anxious. Out of nowhere appeared a vintage vehicle slowing beside us. I remember clearly was that the car was squarely cut like my drawing.
This spare looking man with a spare sounding voice asked need help? My husband answered that we were going to Ford Hospital but we were lost. He seemed to know that and said loudly, follow me. And we did. The vehicle remained in front of us, and in a short time the streets became familiar, lights and all, and we waved to the man with a salute and he saluted back and waved us on.
And with a swerve to heaven knows where, he was gone. Square vehicle and spare man.
In the course of living and learning, one knows when to keep still. There are some things that have no explanation and trying just further complicates relationships. To attempt to explain would need more explanation of what makes you think that and how do you know?
Unless life has been one of sharing thought, some things are better left for self revelation. And in time, all things are revealed.
My Father’s House. . .
I lumber about the edges of my father’s house.
The corridors stretch empty before me.
Doors stand ajar, impatient for my knock.
Yet I hesitate, for I live in a familiar room,
knowing its nooks and my constructed partitions
yield only to my touch. I know too,
where the edges are not tightly sealed,
where winds sneak through
disturbing my zeitgeist.
I know at what time of day to avoid those edges.
But woolen socks do not a winter break,
nor spring tempered by autumn winds.
Here in my father’s house are rooms unexplored
with answers to questions man dares not ask.
It was promised once that a room
would be prepared but went unexplained
because the question went unasked.
No one wondered how these rooms differed.
Shadows follow, casting patterns
similar to our habits, dressed in symbols
disguising our thoughts.
Furnishing the rooms will be the shapes of our days,
colored by glass prisms reflecting us.
The heart’s yearning impresses the mind’s eye
and doors swing wide. Worlds spill upon worlds,
breathless, intoxicating in their newness.
Yet in a moment, their familiarity is viewed
with the reaffirming recognition
of our god eyes.
3 responses to “Sometimes. . . words are not helpful. . .”
Beautiful, like the writer! Love, Connie
Connie. . .you join the ranks of my talented readers, not only blog writer but author of note. And reason always for convincing me that I belonged to your talented group. And I could make a difference. Yours was a reason To Be. Thank you does not cover that without an Amen. much love, veronica
Email from Suzanne giving permission to use her insights. She says if I can help even one person walk this path we call life, I am happy to oblige.’ I have so many good teachers, loyal readers that I feel they could all write my posts.
“Unless life has been one of sharing thought, some things are better left for self revelation. And in time, all things are revealed.”
The older I get, the less I feel the need to open up my catacombs of thoughts. It is enough that I know and can examine them within myself, on my own.
A happy and blessed New Year, my friend.
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