postcard from michigan (august 1, 2009)

(front)

Sliver of bright burning fuschia sneaks through grey plus white puffy, thick pillows as the lake tosses and trips below.

(back)

The wind pushed through me today as I stood atop the bluff. Pushed and threw me as I watched the gulls float instead of fly even though they pushed to move through; the wind pushed back as they soared in one place. Like me with feet planted, no grounded as I soar with each push and pull, as I float while grounded.

postcard from indiana (july 31, 2009)

{front}

sunbeams dancing through summer-heavy oak leaves dripping from reaching branches

{back}

they say you can never go home

again

but in this moment,

i believe,

you can find yourself

relaxing inside comfort and laughter

and breathing in the unexpected moments

of being the you

you never thought you might be

in this home.

postcard from indiana (8.1.08)

{front}
an ant's eye-level view of endless timer-sprinkled green suburban grass.

{back}

(often)
being quiet
being still
being present
and breathing
is the only answer.

postcard from lake michigan (7.29.08)

{front}
light blue with white wisps fading into pale blue fading into white fading into gray fading into sparkling, bright rippling indigo.

{back}

if you were here, we would record the sound of the waves curving, pulling, swishing, climbing, pushing, tumbling. we would record the sound of the waves so that whenever we were apart, we could each listen to the curves and the pulls and the pushing forward, forward, forward and remember.

(can you hear them?)
(do you remember?)

postcard from indiana (7.26.08)

{front}

humidty-soaked towering oak trees awash in early-morning soft, blurry light serving as a perch for chirping cardinals and one insistent blue jay.

{back}

i feel the space around my heart grow
inhale
exhale
let go of
the need to know
hold on
to quiet truth