Tag: dailyprompt

Family Secrets

..they travel in our bags and hair, in the lashes of our eyes, in the accents of our curries.The word “Secret” can make you think in darkish undertones, but an “ish” is an “ish”, a suspect emotion.

And Families are fantastic streams of discussion. That cupped with traditional plates and sauce of soul-chat, is sheer sweet goodness…

My Kitsa & her Strawberry Choco cake

we gather in a huddle - yesterday. There’s foodsongs & jabber,

but like a death defying Artery, there is always communion with the Creator. As a child I gawked at the Unseen in the Centre of our elbows and knees, presiding over Ma’s vindaloo

and Gran before her; He brought in fish from the seas He made along with our coriander leaf and rock salt, oh green chilli.

I stared and still do, at Him here, like the Silence of the Sun,

and it happened last night as nephew Sky (name equivalent) played the guitar like a prayer;

it made me think of a Bird-Shadow on sea, going past the night to breaking dawn: its Shadow plucking waves and earth, up a slope to dawn mountain

Pic RodLong

where Shadow & bird become one in the Light surrounding all.

Sky* stops playing; he and his gentle blue-grey eyed Eidd’m (name altered:) lock wrists. I tell them about Bird Shade.

Paint that for me, Neph* says.

Pic Anchor Lee

Eidda shows me her stunning Fluid Art Collection; we chat on Alcohol-ink from city ArtStore, we look at mediums of water colour & my oils;

there is the Family selfie/ group hug; how we’ve grown! How much more I look at Us, not as Yesterday but as a new Creation winging into Dawn soon enough.

Tradition can be a Purdah – veiling, shawling, shoving our innerbeing away from Freedom or

it could be speechless Chords nudging us toward our Unknown.

Fav Fam Trads. ? in the above mentioned & more in the fingerbones of prayers we don’t know we do; but like homing birds we go instinctively to Where the Light surrounds

.. in the Secret place of the Most High, in the Shadow of the Almighty Who will recklessly follow the human spirit to where our Trust is without borders, and we walk on water…

Bloganuary writing prompt
Write about a few of your favorite family traditions.
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Blog :WP& some Instag!

Been blogging for years, (love WordPress), before that FB, now Instagram; there’s email, WA, recently Daily Prompts saw me skidding to the next post. Its been fun, till I upgraded. DPs suddenly got shy of my posts. I’m not tagging DPs right? Sure am, always did. But all the kins ‘ mail, and all their Forum & hospitable engineers aren’t able to fix this. WP hon, what’s wrong?

If this one finally gets thru’ on Dp Reader, yayyyyyy!

Unsure what these faces are, but saw them this week in my city😅
Daily writing prompt
In what ways do you communicate online?
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“Hold on ! The best is yet to be!”

Is what I’d love to spread in a Billboard if that’s mine: cuz these lines never fail to speak to me.

Would be appropriate to wish you a Happy New 2024 whole she’s still new! A year of Blessedness too💜🌿

(Meanwhile, if someone would respond : why don’t my DPposts show in Dp Reader? )

Daily writing prompt
If you had a freeway billboard, what would it say?
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The Power of a Bruise

The Power of a Bruise

it lets go of visual comfort;

returning us, to when we were little enough

to sip the Sun

in clouds

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.Clouds: (not misunderstand these beauties) even when scarred with dusk: 

Clouds that are moon-drunk or

burnt

with night

oh bruised by dawn

& pregnant with Delivery: read Redemption

🌱

a River racing us back to Yeshu Friend of Sinners, (kissed by 4Opieces of silver: trading, weaving, grafting our Destinies together), here

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am offered a Cup that drinks

my wilderness:

Here I am

Held by What never lets go

till I

hold on.

…

with the Vine Whisperer

First /last week

Ita still the first week of Jan, tender – toeing out of ’23 into 2024 ✨🔔oh Joy & a little tremble😱✨Past Present Futurebwhich am I thinking on the most. Looking over one shoulder, with the rest of me in NewYear gear.

Yesterday, Now & Morrow mingle without permit:

‘Dope as usual ‘ set. Artist Deanna. Drastic GraphicsLA2020 & Marty O’Neill

I’m a Carol of the Tenses: (Read : A Christmas Carol)1843 to now, Mr C. Dickens’ character E.Scrooge is still playing it loud and clear. No Humbug:

So let me wander in and out of this Post, dizzy with goodies of the good. Joy surely outweighs the nasty bits. Another thing,

Net pic

When I’m on my knee-bones, praying, looking into the heavens, my ‘me’ gets Grace:

here, am strengthened by Faith in the Power that brought us all this far.

Did you read global news today? I did. Last night:

Red seas. Quakes . Dirty politics. War: Its babies. Columnists Analyists, Prophets of doom, Sunspots lookn’ nasty right at Planet Earth. There is no Plan B,

like the 3rd Spirit in that Scrooge Story* said, we better make good, forgive, be forgiven, accept each other, with TenderCare or else!

We taking down Christmas decor today– what the future will turn out to be, is everybody’s guess. Its still chilly here in our peninsula.

Our neighbour queenbee from local forest paid her respects like she does every Jan (why???). Lejh our pianist friend visited, still sleepy from a Gig. He’s miffed at the bad sound system he’s had to endure on Stage. We chatted on that, over coffee and home made bread and potato mash roasted in turmeric onion. Yona begs for garlic toast and pepper crab:) My mind is a cheerful tumble.

There’s still that Festive air though with undertone of Sad News. The girls and I plan an afternoon at Writers’ cafe: heard they’re closing down. Will wander down Zach’s, let’s see.

These are my thoughts: a scramble of January hungover from December. But if you ask, then yes, I’m thinking more on tomorrow than yesterday:

Cuz everything we were: the good, the bad, & the ugly, pales in comparison with the Joy that is to be,

now “we peer thru a glass darkly, but one day soon, face to face “ with Everything we wondered about.

As this day goes: I wish you Jesus: the reason for my awe & wonder. Whats it like for you?

(👇🏼 more on this, next Post) Have a great Day!)

Daily writing prompt
Do you spend more time thinking about the future or the past? Why?
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Joy

Not everyone can give you this one, regardless of the day. I know at least one person if not a few who have that innerspring of Joy welling up from within, a flood of well being,with it a faith that can move mountains.

The truth of Joy isnt a random emotion but security that spills like flowers and trees and mountain dew. So yea there it is. Joy. Nothing less. A gift, that passes all human understanding.

For sure its another word for Peace.

Daily writing prompt
What is the greatest gift someone could give you?
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2024 reminders: “you are loved!”

“Feeling loved” does not come easily to Jhali; she & her family are a quiet group of jewelers mostly pearl; their roots are from Mahe, Seychelles, Indian ocean. Odd that she wears no earring or pendant, just her earth toned khadi clothes with shawl and flat chappals.

Unsplash.europeana

The last time I felt love from an unlikely source was when this same Jhali sent home a dinner spread: her way of thanking me for the Christmas musical for the school her kids go to. She has four just hitting / nearing teens. Yes they were in it too, the Musical

It was a rough & tumble funny 45 minutes about an orphanage in a valley that ran out of food one Christmas, but they yelled and wailed in prayer till a Lorry tipped over nearby and managed to send down enough eats to last them till New year (taken from a true life account from the loved George Verwer of OM) credit was given to MrGW, all that.

Jhali for some reason took the story personally and told me how she felt while watching it. I felt an impulse to hug her but held back, a bit uncertain cuz we’d never gotten close.

That was all unusual! After the fatigue of rushed rehearsals, torn costume to be stitched, dance, the tension of memorizing lines

and Jhali later at our door embarrassed at her own sweetness as she uncovered her dishes, with a smile that flashed like a reluctant Lighthouse,

It was too late to abort: there it was –

a certain sisterhood, complex yet as relevant as the stars shining down tonight as I write this one.

We were born to be loved, nurtured, cultured. Yeah yeah, we are the dust, lets just say –

birthed in oysters, waiting our moment to be that special beautiful thing to someone, and in our own eyes. We must look in the mirror and see how we wear that emotion – does it sparkle our skin, does it give a sense of worth, of unspeakable joy and gratitude?

Jhali barely smiles, but she does when she means it. Thank you dear friend. I hope I made you feel it too.

My big resolution this year is to tell people they are loved by God. I tried that at a store, and the lady gave me a strange look. Another florist momma, she grinned it right back at me.

Am guessing a good way to feel loved, is to give it away?

Daily writing prompt
Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?
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Its hard to look at You

From Vinepress

turn me back to where there is no spoken word among the stars: but they stare down from Your eyes*

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its hard to look at You from my leperouz earth**,
but pl cut away the rot in the flesh of my global scream to erase You,

Unsplash: Europeana

Breathe into this bruise that binds me in Your Vine. I am that same ball of mud&mist called Earth You once spoke into. Speak into me, again ***

  • new wineskins

…in this Eden-Rock broke- broke broken. Here a Gardener cut His Son, to slake my wound

Pic: Europeana

in Your Tree. You – crushed as grape, smashing hell, perennial jars of healing cellars – breaking Light as Dawn, Dayspring! You,

quenching me with Restoration @ Resurrection.

Europeana

🎲

You, rolled like golgotha dice – You, rolled my grave away, casting me into You.

I, unfit to touch the sole of You** – You touching the soul of me,

“…follow, follow Me...” o’er & o’er You say like an Eden emptied ~ a forgotten House.

Europeana

Turn me back to where there is no spoken word, but they stare down from Your eyes like stars in my yards

of deliverance.

🌱Vinepress.

Impressions from

*PSALMS Chapter 19.

**GOSPEL OF MARK, CHAPTER 1

***GENESIS Chapters 1,2

Daily writing prompt
What are your biggest challenges?
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Awkward spotted giraffe

Awkward spotted giraffe

: Mascot.

The unlikeliest thing in the world is me starting up a Sports team, though I’m one for pranks.

Sports is a discipline, uh … less mindless game. You’re a team, you’re partnering: I’d love a skateboarding team: no petrol, no screaming tyres. Why the Giraffe: not sure . Sometimes we like an opposite thing: a stimuli that starts a smile, a hug in the sky. Amber spotted gawky giraffe in the sky : ring in the Child, like a whole new year of Joy. Colors like blue satin skies on amber.

I know. We’re not sailing pretty as an Earth. But there’s still God- given Giraffes and startling skies begging us to go play.

Daily writing prompt
If you started a sports team, what would the colors and mascot be?
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aha? ! The perfect den

aha? ! The perfect den

I’ve thought It would be a mountain-villa, ripe with sky, hands-free, minus gravity + acres of Time! But this happens:

PiCredit :Davidson Luna

the perfect Den grows for me – between Rock & Hard Place. Ask Anne Frank, Milton, Helen Keller, Mr.Beethoven, Spielberg, The Wright Bros., even Charlie the Chaplin:

I’ve read some great Blogs here and the best of them are mugged together on high seas, meaning, put together in breathless moments.

So, me: (maybe I have a few paintings worked in Joy), but if I built the ‘perfect’ location, maybe it’d fall flat in its nose, if it didn’t host a fire called “Deadline”.

That said, I dream of a hammock between rock cafe & shore. Hey I’ve been there, but each time, this face does hours staring at color, at Light chasing water, at sun crabs and how human toes need bare sand;

this week I caught a few hours of flu’ – and the laziness that follows. Here I am the uncombed sea, drunk with salt. Hehe, the Salt of Its beds. Nice; nice essays on sluggish ripe laziness.

With healing though, comes the leaving of pain, the dulling of throb. Gratitude. Absence of mess. A Void filling:

and in that Filling, is my Delivery Table, my Den. Here, my ears have eyes, and my toes grow arms. Here, in the departure of what intruded, my belly fills with appetite –

the need to hunger : for This Thing that eats gaps between Us & the Invisible Untraceable Springs: Its right here, where we nice people might be too comfortable to catch It;

or be caught in Its currents:

not a safe place my friend. Its the sweet grief of Adventurers and Travel-lusters. It bares witness to martyrs, saints, criminals, warriors, peace fighters and stubborn Prayerers:

This we humans have in common, that we are Searchers. Seekers. Most of us.

We got the Ache, then we got the Cure. We were Bored, then we wrote Books we Read when we search for what the Other wrote when they Wrote. We comb Paintings and consume movies,

in search of What must somehow gift us the gifts of beauty, youth, life, creativity. The day we stop searching we begin to kill our lights and shut our windows. The day we get the Perfect Plan for our Harvest, is maybe when we become a painting on the wall: a relic, a fable. Maybe.

Maybe I’m saying all this cuz I never got a “perfect writer/ art studio”. The thought crosses my head with steel tiptoes loud enough to scare my Muse. My Muse btw, is my Reality sitting square in the Centre of my clock: these are everyday courtesies between Neighborhoods, Children, Spouse, Spice, all these:

my new friend from across our eastern border, she’s 20 and married four ye ars. Older friends and new acquaintances: each with faces I study when they’re not looking. Shaya, Meju, Kian, Heba, each a Volume of Repair:

I’m thinking of my friend Tobia & her “snakes & ladders”. She plays people like board games. Sanballa her acquaintance however is as lethal: she is Pawn. These two I vow I will never be. But what if I’m a piece of a ladder myself, snaking in and out of dampeners to creativity?! What if – am staring at them between the hedges of my Eden, where

…I take quick sticky notes of God, of the Tree of Life, oh Cain, Abel, the serpent, the altar, every Sweet moan and umbilical pang of creative birth, where you and I congregate our selves to..

stare thru the glass darkly at Life, at What is, Is not, What can be, at Faith, Hope, at Love & games of war for peace, at Hate, at Laughter and the sound of festivals we celebrate: in corners where we unfold into an Eternity we extend into:

this dark glass is my Writing Den. (Reading though, is perhaps just another chair, same venue😅, else it don’t turn on any Lights!)

Daily writing prompt
You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?
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Influenced by the Light

..by Truth, and even by darkness. Or lies

Influenced by kindness, by hate, by mercy and by the profanity of the cheapened soul, so steep they forgot their priceless ness. These things influence me like fire and ice and stones and lesser winds, or storms. They influence me towards or against them – the dark always edging, shying the light. Like windows to the sun, they all, each, in their own inimitable way, whether they like it or not nudge me open to Christ.

This week.
Daily writing prompt
Who are the biggest influences in your life?
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Playing four legged- ministers of Joy

with my son Yona whose visual limits don’t stop him from breaking out loud. That with “D sharp” ( my new friend & donkey puppet, named after the musical note Yona and I both LOVE)! Had to face pup.him, cuz he’s not exactly camera friendly. NJ my husband is a Sound Genie and smoothed all discord, did my best though. Recorded in an hour flat, which is record for me. Doing anything for kids is rioting hard, unless you’re enjoying it, and we belly ache- laughed our way thru this one. Kitsy/ Vi, our fabulous girls ofcourse were there with every pat and grin. They know their momma is totally eccentric, but with Jesus.

(…soft toys from second daughter who’s chronically half a baby, and my own inner child that never grows up).

Every December esp, I stand in awe at the Act of Christ who loves us each in such impossible ways: reaching out to us, no matter the state of mind or personal aloofness to Him. I was three days deep in a hammering headache that refused to leave. Post that, this happened, as inanimate objects came alive. Condy Bear the Music Conductor, is really my dad. The scruffy angels : (Chicklet&Iizza the Ostrich), Winnie not the pooh, is decades old! Sheepie (my gift from dear Marija in Czech), Tiny (Giraffe from some street here), Petra rabbit (for our first born when she had her fifth vaccine to help smile, yeah😅) .. who else is who? Its in Description in this UTube upload ;

Repeat Video: but it declares my state of mind still: cartwheeling with the Joy of being loved, by the Christ,

cartwheeling out loud in every voice in my head. Gratitude for influences that gets me on my feet again, with joy & freedom from what can kill the spirit. Am running out of words; have a blessed season. 

(Apologies : messy post. Running to another city for a bit)

Daily writing prompt
What was the last thing you did for play or fun?
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eating Poinsettia

buying December- herb seasonings in my “Grace-ry” list: 

Joy- clusters of vine: deep in my soul where I’m trapped ‘neath the debris of a falling earth. I’m buying Time on eleventh hour mercy, listing reasons for glad-sizzles –

steaming spiced rices, cardamom in desserts, bay leaf roasted in fires ringing in sweet flags of salvation. 

Daily writing prompt
List your top 5 grocery store items.
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A thousand Billion faces I saw this year

and in each, I saw You again and again

Oh Lover of my soul, holding on in my deadliest, ugliest- only You could. You my greatest Event,

quenching my dark with Light, my death with Life. Whispers, Touches, Voice in my silence, Mend in the tear:

in seeing You up close via everyday life, You worked me thru’ inside out : new.

And I have seen hell in some, and me

but even there, that reminded me there is a heaven and His name is Yours

Abba Father, thank You, thank You

(negatives turn positive in Your Light, my Christ, my life).

Daily writing prompt
What positive events have taken place in your life over the past year?
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I used to be an owl

now am a Morning bird. How on earth did that happen? What arrived, what left?

12 was my sunrise, now I switch to 5am? Here the head is clean. Am rushing out to check my Light: the heart curious – a little like how 7 years old was, drinking Dew, touching the mist as if for the first time.

How does the body shift gear like that? Dec 2nd. Am grinning 360 °. Herbal Tea and Morning Med (meditation) does that?

…oh didnt that happen in my previous 12 AM midnight- owl self? Sure did. But after a whole day of images in our head, chances are we might be colored by events/ people, all that.

So yes. This morning WP Prompt kick-started a bit of Gratitude : that I’ve no more need to be begged out of bed. My beloved had to woo me to toothpaste most mornings. What changed?

Brain morph? Sure. I loved the quiet of midnights. Now its the stillness of dawn. Both have their story on our earth spinning spinning 1,038 mi/hr (1,670 km/hr):

I am still Left handed, but ive gotten ambidextrous. This Logical brain now met with the Creative? You tell me.

The Light Logical and Creative dispels the dark
Darkness tries hide It but the Light pierces shadows in room corners and hinges of doors. Darkness leaves when Dawn turns It off.

Are you too a Combo? My daughter says I’m an extroverted Introvert. Hmm. (There’s days I’d rather talk to trees than humans).

Then again, aren’t we a DNA pile, effected by Bloods, healed, hit, dying, made over, genteel, unkind, we are light and darkened, we birth/ kill, we are the salt, we are the tears that salt our seas, we the sands of the earth we walk on, we steal, destroy, plead guilty, play, whip, abuse, bless.

🌍r maybe some of us are Dight or Niay – jumbling words Day and Night: (googled👆🏼 these 2 kicked up words & found this😃)

DIGHT : adjective: Equipped. Verb: Prepare.NAIY Purpose, Personality)

What its like for you? Enjoy the hours ahead, in the Light of true wisdom. That’s what we ache for finally, na?

May the Light always find you,

Prompt WP & FMF WRITERS – Left

Daily writing prompt
Are you more of a night or morning person?
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FMFWriters

My Friend & Hiding Place

Pic: Milada Vigerova

To my horror I realized my growing addiction to Thrillers.

Exorcist though was ugly- boring. Omen more aethestically thrilling, clever. Sure I was nose-deep – in Love for the Sacred, but just about nose deep. Like a deep sea diver that flip flops with mere sand crab.

One noon, my 7 months pregnant self, watching a thriller, when sudden high volume- killer -bgm thwacked ear drum; our lil one inside kicked, like in fright.

Here we were: in our modest apartment: post-lunch, home chappals … yet visiting intimate angles with paid actors, ‘villians’, sfx, editors, cameras, soundtracks all chin- close with unborn babe and I,

for want of better words, this was a Getogether of privacies stripped, throat slit, blood darkening in bullet-plucked carpet of movie set: naked corpse & neat house constructed to be smashed in choreographed rage. What if like passive smokers, babe and I passively inhaled that, only to spill it out somewhere sometime??

This, my Sacred Friend began to convey back then and now as I write this Post:

“What makes you really tremble, Ray?” the Sacred Nudge nudges.

Trembly spirit feels lesser self – possessed, then stares outside Self, into unseen influence. It can sort Fakes from Friend.

A good Friend will call out the Bully, its mouth with hell cursing me to consume Its screams. Before I fully got the impact of Grace (God’s love and pardon for the undeserving like I):

Christ was from heaven ofcourse, but could we engage 24x7x n ?? What were sacred emotions? Its taken me years to get these next two words:

Eternal perspective: that’s the Emotion I share with my Sacred Friend. He’s no seasonal Block buster, or rented redeemer. The Blood here is real, the punches taken for me, ( 4D, ah 7D super virtuality?) No one else died for me, not like that: not cussing but blessing, not dead, but alive. Ay my soul ‘trembles’ here alone, like new leaf in a storm, unshooken.

i meet You here

Here You always wrote Letters to me, in the Grab of my total attention: these Notes, I understand best when there are no demands, no selfish prayer, no request, just Us;

We’ve lived in little and larger cities, villages, mountain, desert, coast, chatty spring, rowdy river to the sea, and bustling town..

& now in a concrete jungle, I meet You here, pre- Dawn. The light is low: no other voice, no memory as strong as You. Dawn: this Still Rush-

You are larger than the sum total of all I’ve been, am or will be. Here, it unsettles my earth, here there is no gravity, only You. Wider than all the horizons I’ve ever known, than all fragility, advantage or disadvantage, our sins of manipulation, blame, ignorance, narrowness, our essential appetites, and acquired loneliness, our assorted pain, our gains of greed & cultured intolerance, our pet rage, our rituals of consumption/ obsession with bias, blinding dark deafening differences, our partying with pop hate, our truce with war, our naked Crucifixion of the Love of God: we have married murder, we have raped human courtesy. We are Adam &Eve eating the palm of the serpent, we have turned our back on the last sips of free dew,

all we have sinned- who is there that is left standing on two sweet feet? All we have fallen short of the basic code of morality. Spell bound in bloodthirst, we gouge each other out, we amputate each other till all that’ll be left, be just one seeping wound –

that’ll sweep the earth into a corner It cannot hide from You. At Dawn, my darkness breaks. Here I open me, and hear You-“Rest. Abide in Me. Choose Life, not death. Breathe, inhale Love: look ! Watch the Light scatter night. Describe to Me anything man can do to annihilate death? Yes, little one, rest assured, abide in Me. All else will soon fade. The skies will scroll, and all the boasts of nations will be as a drop in a bucket. This too shall pass, in a very short while, the Day is at hand. You weep for white flags of men made of clay, now choose Supernaturality. Close your eyes to the visible. In the Stillness, here, Find me. Abide with Me. “

Chapters of Us

Dawn light shocks my drowsy cup of herbal tea, It fills my dregs, my emptiness,

It trails down my throat, my skin, finger tips, my pale blue sock,

It falls my floor;

Its Dew sips my trees, @ interstellar pace  186,000 miles (300,000 kilometers) per second 5.88 trillion miles (9.46 trillion kilometers) per year, zips the dark,

seeps my tiny potted Ivy: It makes Daylight from the very shadow that spells hell; no rock hides any crevice from Its search.

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Bold as noon treading water: It finds me. You, Me:

These Chapters spinning our universe, with Its Armour of Light:

It breaks, falls, fires, rises, shines, warms, my chill. Then It reads me.

🌿

More in this Site: ARRESTED BY REST , PRAY FOR YOUR COUNTRY? innerdialects

Invisible Instincts?

more than a thousand prints

our instincts can be blinded by visibility?

I am the Aftermath* of zillion family types we never saw; the map of them is in me.

We acquire our Environment’s smiles, streets: these we inherit / disinherit, this is what we instinctively fear, or dance with.

We hold what makes us feel less vulnerable. In pursuit of Social Safety we wear our hat how neighbour wears hat. We tut-tut any talk that ‘spirit never dies’ …what? Our spirit will not need Gucci?!

We build towers of Babel, and speak tongues of difference. We color the black & white Truth that stalks our nights & days : that all this will not pass the last sunset. Our mind is cucooned in Pop Intelligence:

Popular Instinct told our daddies that the earth was flat till they dared follow trail and then they knew its a globe spinning in a space we all still cannot decipher enough. Instincts of gravity told them man could not fly, we are not sparrows.

Basic human instinct makes us thieve, molest, dismember Ourself from the secret code that honours each other? Yes/No?

Our fundamental instinct is to bless and not curse: give not take, but we learn how to double lock our front door and not trust strangers. Our dearest Instinct begs us to smile, but we were taken for a ride, for that very quality:

now we fear our core belief that humans are good. We know we will eat each other to survive ‘better’. We hullahoop crimes, in circuses of our mind.

All This we subscribe to, but our most basic instinct is our need for that higher Code crucified fr our evil. We smoke, drink, drug, consume entertainment/ food/forms of human contact & some painkillers ….

to party with a form of a higher sense of goodness. We wish a dream, that we are beloved children of an Invisible Safety Lock. Through the riot we raise against that Longing, we glimpse a glimpse of the Trust that slipped through our fingerprints in this Aftermath* :

what Instinct do I trust:

this Secret stashed even in the shoulder blades of me, that there’s more in there than basic bones. Or curses. Bad DNA, these & Those Tags, or Borders. We are not School science Chapter #1– we are no furry paw and wolverine moonlit darkness: except on Halloween and twilight zones in a hell we play costumes at. Careful when you howl, watch your teeth, know Instincts can grow. And mortals lose birthright for a Love we hate.

It gives our best scientists a cosmic headache: This Reckless Love of God that hears our scream.

I heard It last evening in the eyes of a woman at Nexus Mall. A woman with jaw like an axe edge. He said, “Tell her I love her.”

I shivered.

“Tell her I love her,”

The woman was now glaring at me looking at her.

My Inside tipped: I became that woman in this deadly war for peace that takes our everything.

So I told her and saw hard : how we were sisters of broods of saints, vipers & kings, at how our Dna runs blanks to human perception,

but that we are watched, pursued by Superior Intelligence, towards Whom our core turns, like Chrysalis morphing into What we’ve had within, all along

winging it to the Light: against every stroke that tries to still crucify Him, over and over. This awareness of our own resurrection in Christ, is my most trusted instinct.

–

innerdialects

from rivers to seas, deserts and mountains

..my favorite place will always be the heart of God, found in the broken. You shy away the hurting place, but there I’ve found my oasis. There I’ve found refuge. There, breathe Secrets that the Living die for; there we stare down hell and damnation, if we would. Between a rock and a hard place, I find my Brook of Cherith, the Dew of a heaven we rummage for, in the debris of our doings. You ask how, uh huh, why? I’ll tell you what I find here- a certain aloneness that is de-clutters the brain from sensory response. Go alone three minutes, away from your usual, and you will see a new place even between your own eyes and the unseen, untouchable. Here, you might shed skin and habit, here we slow down to the stillness of our own spirit. Here, there are Surprises waiting. Here, ask, knock, seek, find. Then you believe, there’s a route right thru the desert storm, that mountain trail, that tide, these deathly tours. Yes, listen to the Chaos, listen like you’ve not done before, not to your mind, but to a Stillness waiting,an eye opening, in the Storm.

Net pic

Definitely November

last night after a long day, our son leaned his eyes in my arm.

Spot our Kingfisher?

If you’ve seen him, you know he cannot see, so the sensories are numbed in eye sockets. That’s a weird thing to say, but my tears & heart filled in a way it hasn’t: with no sensible words. I sat there, as long as we could, till he got up for dinner. It is November, thanksgiving. The air is chilly mist & pine. Dawns are thick with gold, with new bird visiting the trees outside- a kingfisher, a peacock family with chicks, crow pheasant, basic crow, sun birds, a visiting squirrel, myna, & bulbul going crazy with some new discovery. November has always filled my throat with tears – gratitude grows like an unruly garden. Negativity is asked to leave. The older I get, the less I care what negativity thinks.

What a year its been/ is. My prayers grow silent. There’s blind Hate today, worse than any pandemic we’ve seen. Till yesterday we were Gurus of religious decor, now we’ve spilt into people groups with nuclear tongues. How little we as a human race even know about each other, or care. How quickly we rape innocence, and murder sanity.

Am gagging at the choreography of Hatred, how it sweeps aside every blessing we’ve had from each other; at how quick our sweet lips can curse. We are hostage, the whole of Us, Hostage to envy & greed. Stript of the last garments of decency, we exhale venom enough for hell’s storehouses of the future;

but November still rises and sets each day; promising a new year soon. Here I sit, stare, whisper a need, a plead for Us each, a perhaps Last Chance at Peace with the God we exterminate.

‘Indian Picasso’ & the Saint of soup kitchens.

2 famous people?

Painting of Mother Teresa, by MF Hussain

I shared airport aisle with the bare footed MF Hussain at Mumbai,

& Mother Therese at a school public meet.

He painted her, she Nobel peace prize recipient twice. I was too young to know what to say to either of them, but their images stay: Remnants of fabulous Rebels;

Therese carried lepers home along with hiv babies, abandoned old & young: her face was the map of dry rivers and sunk seas. When she smiled it was a wreath. You stared. I saw her again after we exited the hall. She, in a yellow black taxi, we, in an auto rickshaw. I yelled her name, she waved a tiny palm at me with that smile again.

MF Hussain

He, MF Hussain, white hair, beard, Kurta pajama, a hush surrounding him as he moved with the self- assured modesty of a celebrity who didn’t ask celebration. I recall noticing the ease with which he moved barefoot, no apology, nor awkwardness. He was comfortable; this man used to be footpath Board painter, he hadn’t changed in a Society that morphed each season..

Over the years we saw his stunning work soar in prices and fame. He was a Brand that declared originality, a mortal at peace with sadness. You make peace with that? I don’t know; did he die happy?

Where do people go after they’re gone? Paupers, kings, criminals, saints, children, old, young…

This Post makes me think we all reflect each other like ripples on surfaces that grow lilies frog and tide;

Ay, you’re all famous people on an Earth going circles in the most demanding Age ever, screaming for Eternal fulfillment 😊