A Collection of Sorts
I collected some things as I went for a walk. It was just a collection of sorts. It was a collection that caused for a reflection of my life.
It was there where I held two rocks. I held one in each hand. I felt the difference in their touch. One was rough, one was smooth. I was reminded about how time works. I was reminded that the beginning is always worse before it gets better. I had to remind myself that just because I am not yet where I will be that I shouldn’t let the present slow down my progress.
Progress takes time.
Rocks sink. They sink when tossed into water. Rocks immediately fall and seem to anchor to the place they claim. Harder and heavier than other objects, they are more pronounced in existence. Certain and sure, there is no questioning the reality of them. Stepping on one can be painful. I’ve been walked on quite a few times. Yet, I’m here. I’m here even though many may not notice. I’m noticed when I become obvious and unavoidable.
I picked up a grey feather. The color grey. It’s soothing, it’s calming and it speaks to my soul in ways that not many things do. Grey’s my son’s name and he proves to me in more ways than one that some things run deeper than the rest. And yet there is no part of me that can truly remember my life before him. Who I was without him. I don’t doubt who I am because of him.
Grey is my favorite color.
Feathers float. They glide with a kind of grace that other things don’t have. The wind carries them to where they will land – to a spot they have yet to arrive at even though that spot exists all the same.
Regardless of the weight we carry, we arrive at the places we should precisely when we should be there.
Time. Allowing all that has happened to come together makes a difference. Knowing that getting what you want takes time, reminds me that the desired result is always there, somewhere, yet to happen.
There were leaves all around me. Leaves drop at the year’s end. They whither and lose life after seeing all that could have been seen before falling. Leaves bring a beauty to each season though and each season holds its own colors. Beginning with brightness and vitality, thriving, then fading to natural hues before falling down when everything’s grey. It’s the same cycle each time. It ends the same every time. And it all comes back in the same way again.
Find a penny heads up, all day you’ll have good luck.
I’d rather find the side that no one else looks for. But then I can’t help but wonder if others are really searching, too. I want more than just luck finding me. I couldn’t imagine putting my day in the hands of luck finding it. It’s a game of chance I don’t want to play. Out of all the decisions that can be made, I don’t want any of them giving credit to luck.
As I stood on the small wooden bridge, I could hear the water around me. I place my hands on its edges. I remember splinters in my skin. They were irritating. No part of luck brought them to me, they arrived because I was careless. Carelessness causes pain. Just because something looks easy doesn’t make it so. Reaching out to touch something doesn’t erase the possibility of the damage it can cause. But even though something can dig so deeply into you, it does not decrease its buoyancy. Some things work that way. It’s all in the way they are handled.
Most things need handled with care.
I can rearrange my collection of sorts, but it would all look the same. I’m reminded that all of it matters, each little piece and part.