#FWF Free Write Friday: Word Bank …

Welcome to another #Free Write Friday exercise from Kellie Elmore.

This time Kellie provided a bank of words. We could either integrate all into our free writing or select one and work with it.

Lazy … rain … perspective … glint … sombre … trinket … static

I enjoyed the challenge of using them all. 🙂

And I will be honest … I edited a little at the end, but the essence is pure FWF. 😉

Happy reading!

*

RainPenelope was feeling lazy. A glimpse at her old alarm clock (you know the kind — brass with hands that point at numbers and an alarm bell stationed on top) told her it had just turned 8:45 a.m.. She yawned and stretched and sank her head deeper into the down pillow beneath it, and closed her eyes. Penelope loved the sound of the rain against the window pane, a sound which always seemed amplified when she stared into her eyelids. She wasn’t particularly fond of the grey-coloured sky. How could the steady sound of cleansing rain feel so soothing while the dark, ominous clouds from which it descended weigh so claustrophobic? She sighed. It was all a matter of perspective, of course. Some people hated everything about rain but she, somehow, was able to see the bright side of it. Rain quenched the thirst of flowers, and flowers were beautiful. Besides, a break in the deluge and a gap in the clouds always offered a glint of hope for sunnier times to come. Flowers needed sun too. It was a balance. There had to be balance. Too much or too little of anything led to heartache. Heartache led to a sombre outlook on life. Penelope could never tolerate such a state. She opened her eyes and reached to feel her favourite Labradorite pendant attached to a silver chain around her neck. It was more a charm than a trinket, for it reminded her that though the perspective of her life might shift depending on the play of light and shadow, her essence, like the shimmering layers of this beautiful irridescent stone she loved, remained constant, but never static. There was a difference.

Wildflowers

*

Thanks for visiting …

Dorothy 🙂

*

Copyright Aimwell CreativeWorks 2013

Milestone Fifty

Horse MomFifty years ago today, in a hospital in Vancouver, British Columbia, at 3:41 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, I drew my first breath.

Seems odd that already a half century has gone by. Still, this does not depress me. I’ve been engaged enough in self-awareness exercises during the past several years to realize that my life is, in fact, just beginning.

I still have dreams and things I’d like to accomplish.

Sometimes I wonder, “Am I too old?”

No.

Age is more than a number. It’s everything behind it that has made me who I am.

So it is with gratitude and a burning desire to fulfill my measure here on Earth that I continue boldly along the path of my life.

Thank you for being a part of my journey …

Be well,

Dorothy 🙂

*

Milestone Fifty

Stand I now by Milestone Fifty.

Could be nasty; could be nifty.

Could depress me; make me cry.

Could hang my head with a heavy sigh.

Could devour my tender heart,

Yet that’s not how I wish to start

The waning years that fly so fast,

Engage, I must, to the very last

Inspired breath I dare to take

And gasp I give, for goodness sake.

For age is more than just a number

Can give us strength and fill with wonder.

Clouds with silver lining weep

For those who to their golden years creep.

*

Copyright Aimwell CreativeWorks 2012

Wake Up!

Most of my recent poetry is about the journey to Self-Awareness.

For a long time I lived the debilitating, fearful, exhausting life of the victim and survivor.

A series of wake-up calls over several years gently nudged me into a new reality, telling me there was more to life than had been my illusion.

So, one day I finally pulled up my socks, strapped on some sturdy shoes, reached deep inside to locate whatever remained of trust and started, with help, down the road to
my truth and personal freedom.

And what a journey it has been so far …

*

Wake Up!

For many years I had no choice,

I only heard another’s voice.

Another’s thoughts had formed my world;

Into their fetid vortex hurled.

Flailing, fighting every day

I tried to live in my own way,

But had no strength to be myself,

So sat, invisible, ‘pon the shelf.

And then, one day, awoke, did I,

To who I’d been, did say “Bye bye!”

Flung out the detritus of life;

Sub-conscious sources of toil and strife.

De-hypnotized old patterns deep,

To climb a learning curve so steep …

Just who am I? Why am I here?

Deep questions full of faith and fear.

But ask I must, and answer, too,

If I to my own self be true.

*

Thanks for visiting.

Dorothy 🙂

*

Copyright Aimwell CreativeWorks 2012

The Gift

As mentioned in previous posts I’ve been on a fairly intense journey of healing and self-discovery during the past several years. There have been times where I’ve asked the types of questions hinted at in this poem. Now, as I rise out of the valley of shadows that dominated my life for so long, I do indeed find myself able to dwell more fully in the light.

It is a glorious way of being …

The Gift

Deep in the valley

Where dark shades

Prevail I look to the

Skies where the

Feathered ones wail.

They dart through

The light as though

Blinded by hope

They don’t worry,

Nor wonder how

They’re going to

Cope. They call

Me, they call me

“Look heavenward,

See there’s the

Bright ray of hope

Shining boldly

For thee!”

They dance on a

Wing, floating high

In the sky to the

Tune of the sun

And the beat of

Their cries. They

Land for a breath

For a morsel to

Eat, then back on

The wing, flying high,

Flying fleet. No

Wincing or whining

No wondering

Why, just birds

On a wing flying

High in the

Sky. My thoughts

Linger longing

To know how they

Feel, so I climb

From this valley

To find something

Else real. I clamber

Up hillsides o’er

Rocks and through

Trees, and commune

With the living not

Lost in dis-ease. The

Sun gets much

Warmer, the wind on

My face chases out

Haunting demons so I can

Embrace what is

Good what is true

What is hope what

Is love. The gift of

The winged ones

That hover above.

*

Thanks for visiting.

Dorothy 🙂

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012

The Art of Veil Painting … Seeing with the Heart

“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.”
Antoine de Saint Exupery

Our material world, and its proponents, have deluded us into seeing only with the eyes, enticing and distracting us with ever bigger, better, shinier, more complicated “things” that we absolutely must have (or do) in order to embrace, in their eyes, the total life experience.

What a croc!

Be still for a moment and embrace being. In that quietude is the way to the heart’s eyes.

And, if you like, meditate your heart’s eyes upon this, one of my favourite, veil paintings. I call it “Wise Old Equus.”

If you feel inclined, feel free to share with me your experience. … Or not.

The world is too much doing, and not enough being.

I am. You are. It is enough.

Be well,

Dorothy 🙂

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012

The Pool

As poems go this is pretty deep, written a couple of years ago when I was staring into the dark abyss of my pain while involved in some rather gruelling counselling.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’ve been seeking help to rid myself of a life time of emotional baggage. Doing so has been one of the best decisions of my life.

Fortunately, I’m not teetering on the pool’s edge anymore. I’ve dealt with the worst of the agony. Now, with the support of some important teachers and mentors I am focused on living … thriving.

I am grateful.

*

The Pool

I am standing at the edge,

Staring into an abyss of pain.

One step, just one step more

And to the dark pool I drop

Like a stone heading for

Rock bottom. There

Impact meets emotion

And a swell of the surreal

Circles in ever-growing

Impulses around me,

Rising and falling

With a cleansing rain

Of tears

Until it makes waves

No more and again the

Pool is still.

Peaceful.

Waiting.

*

Thanks for visiting …

Dorothy 🙂

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012

Sit Still

I sit.

Healing requires it.

I sit

Still.

Resting.

Being.

Me.

I sit.

Still.

Reflecting.

*

This is really random. Hot off the grey matter press this morning.

I have spent a lot of the past few months sitting still. Healing.

I was a restless child. My mother never understood why.

But we know the truth now. With this awareness I can sit. Still.

At least … I’m practicing.

*

Can you sit still?

Be well …

Dorothy 🙂

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012 

Work In Progress

This is another poem I wrote many years ago as I was beginning my journey to self-awareness. A painful time, it was of some benefit to remind myself I was not the pain I bore, but caught only in the shadow of it. I began to think of myself as a work in progress. This made the nature of any discomfort more present and passing and far easier to bear.

Still does …

Work in Progress

I am a work in progress.
The canvas of my life
Stretches across the easel
Of time, anticipating each nurturing
Brush stroke by the Masterful Artist.

I am a landscape ~
An ever-unfolding vista of colours,
And shapes and light.
The shadows of clouds
Float in, and out,
Dispersed by bright sunshine,
Irreverent and true.

The Masterful Artist reveals
Mysterious patterns and
Miracles with a
Flick of the conscience, or
A long, deep stroke of thought.
The brush of a shadow ~
The sweep of radiant light ~
Depth to denote character,
And dappled sunlight to
Delight the soul.

The Masterful Artist’s strokes
Are sure, each measure
Of the art-child completed
In its time ~
Contemplated and recorded.
Mistakes are washed away,
Remembered no more.
Flaws are embraced to
Profess a perfectly natural appeal.

I am a landscape ~
Time rolls across my verdent fields,
Tickled by morning dew drops ~
Each tender blade of
Life reaching beyond
Tomorrow ~ to grow ~
To stretch toward the measure
Of its creation.

I am a work in progress.
The canvas of my life
Gradually reveals a story
Spun by the Masterful Artist.
I am a Masterpiece.

*

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012

Masks

In this world of masks
The velvet whisper of
Truth is muffled in
Coarse shadows veiling
The face of life.
Far easier, it is, to hide
Behind a mask than
Abide one’s own truth.
With too many questions,
And too few answers
We march on blindly
And uneasily into
Territories not our
Own; and never to
Be our own.
So much more inviting
It is to be what we
Are not, than to discover
Who we really are.

Sometimes we choose
Our masks, but often
We do not;
Instead placed upon our care-
Worn faces by others
And circumstances,
And never really knowing why.

* * *

And what masks?
Pretense-driven self-
Effacing vices to keep
Out the kind ~ to
Deny feelings, to
Bolster ego and to
Hide our truths from
Others, and from
Ourselves.

Sadness
Pervades the masked
Countenance,
And as much as we
Believe no one sees, the
Opposite is true.
Truth always prevails,
In this world of masks.

***

I wrote this poem several years ago as I was starting down the road to finding my truth.

While stepping out from behind the mask has been, and still is, uncomfortable at times, I’d rather see my self in the mirror than the person others unwittingly created in their own image.

I am more than the survivor I’ve been. It’s my turn to thrive.

The journey continues …


Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2012

Haunted

I see ghosts. They
Haunt me every single
Day. Drag me down a
Dark path; an old familiar
Way. Insisting that the
Past is where I need
To dwell, that the
Journey to the light is
Just another form
Of hell. “This is what
you know,” they
Whisper, “where you
Ought to be.” And I run
Screaming from their
Grasp. I want no
Part, you see.

But everyday they
Pester me, distract
Me from the
Light. Their misery
Wants my company,
To make their wrongs
Seem right. They
Say their way is
Easier; takes no
Effort; will be
Fine. But the price
To pay is far too
Steep — they want
Everything of mine.

So, everyday I
Struggle to show
Them to the
Door. Their presence
Isn’t welcome in
My attic anymore.
I’ll be no longer
Haunted by the
Pain they wish
To share, though I
Know they’ll keep
On trying since
I’m here and
They are there.

*

The ghosts of our past will never be faraway, but their influence on us, as we become attuned to our truth, will become less intense over time.

They may knock on the door to remind us they’re in the neighbourhood, but that doesn’t mean we have to let them in.

Just smile through the window … and wave them off. I don’t know about you, but I have better things to do than entertain a bunch of ghosts!

Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011