Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Begins The Crying Of The Guitar




My soul needs more than what is tangible in this foreign land. There are realms I may never experience, although I have fallen into quite a few, however, in times like these, the crying of the soul is not something I am able to taste or touch.

Federico Garcia Lorca understood when he wrote, La Guitarra or The Guitar: 


It begins, the lament   
of the guitar.                                                
The wineglass of dawn                                                        
is broken.                                                                                      
It begins, the lament
of the guitar. 
It's useless to silence it. 
Impossible
to silence it.
It cries monotonously
as the water cries,
as the wind cries
over the snow. 
Impossible 
to silence it.
It cries for 
distant things.

The physical body perceives a spiritual yearning, a natural state of being, as "sadness" or "something that cannot be placed" yet I am not sad, or confused, quite the opposite. I am an empathic creature, human after-all and am supposed to be feeling. There is no "one way" to feel or be, just as there is not one path to anywhere.

This pull is lasting for months. There is a blind spot in my field of vision. I am not supposed to see that far yet, although my soul knows. I allow my intuition to take over and walk along trails left by those that trudge before me. I trust my instincts.

Every evening, I stand outside, both feet planted flat on Earth and watch the sunset and wonder: How may times can I write about this? I answer: Many.

The clouds do not take rest in the sky the same way twice and the canvas is alive with colors that humankind has yet to create. At dawn, I greet the day. I give thanks for all that is, as well as gifts on their way. This is prayer. These times are mine and only mine. These are times I feel most protected and guided.

When I step out into this world, and it depends on the day, I view everything in either black and white or bursting with color. This is nothing new, yet can be maddening to the mind for the soul instinctively understands. The mind attempts to rationalize what is divine.

There are times I must create space between myself, this reality, you, reading my words right now, and the one I exist in as I write them. They are indeed, two different realms.

My tribe is scattered across the globe and I am, wide open.






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