Listening to every heart
This is, of course, for everyone who peers in, stays this long, and hugs this tight...
One way or another, after a few days' reflection [which I probably need a bit more of...] I have been wondering where to put this little vignette of a cavern’s light and dark, unseen if Edison fails [and of course, there was an original, still glowing Edison bulb, called, affectionately, a stalaglight]…in this little area, and for those of you who have not yet visited Colorado Spring’s Cave of the Winds, this area is affectionately called, “The Oriental Garden”.
As previously stated sublimely via a few poems in Open, my vacations tend to be rushed. Things to do/see are packed too tightly into one day. I have, in the last 24 years, relied on my camera more and more. When I heard the tour guide mention the name of the Oriental Gardens, and while my own eye could see some of this, my inner eye knew there was more…instinctively; and I knew that this was a garden for serenity’s Journal. And if you see what I do, you will know why this photo will not appear any other place than in here.
To the left, I see a huge face of a heavy man, sweating, his long nose portraying generations of toil, and who holds a very pointed opinion. Not quite Pinocchio, mind you, but one who has poked his nose into business not his own.
To the far right front, there is a guardian of sorts. I have tried to discern exactly what kind of guardian, but there remains a mist about him [who stands guard from those who would enter unwisely] and he is both a gentle giant, and a diminutive angel. I find great comfort in looking to the right, while wisely adhering the whispered words of the giant on the left.
But in looking inside, toward serenity’s garden, I see poets, philosophers, storytellers, and those who are wise enough to not speak, but just listen. Look at them. They glow in their abilities to understand, articulate, or just sense emotions that would be carved in stone.
Some are clad in white, some, visible in their golden auras; and some just appear bronze in color. I see races of people, coming together. I sense sorrow, and pleasure; I feel life, and death. It is a garden that says, “even in the dark, we can grow.” Even when there is no light…there is still life.
Somehow, since returning, and reading of so much sadness, not only here in PiP, but in my own real-time losses, I knew something like this would come about. I didn’t realize at first what would be said, or what might be taken from these few words, or this small photo…and maybe it is only I who will gain something from this sharing. All I know is, it is another birth, and if you were here right now, feeling my emotions, and kissing away my own insecurities and fears, then you, too, would know, that these words, and this photo, is exactly where they need to be.
In serenity’s garden. Where passions live…in poetry, in sharing, and in love. Oh…I hear a sound….