The minutes slip through my hands like reigns I’ve lost hold of. There they go, making off in the mouths of horses, within seconds worth of freedom. Why must they be such runaways? Feral moments: I can’t manage or keep you, one bridle or bit.
Chasing. The days are full of chasing. My soul can feel beanpole thin. How can I ever make gains if I’m burning it all off in this crazy car-tail-light-joy chasing…?
I imagine myself pausing time with each grateful moment. I hear a delicate little voice squeak out accolades and…
Cut that minute out like a paper heart, and hang it high. Display it.
Tender whispers from deep within…
Jot it down.
Fold it and seal it with a kiss, then keep it someplace safe from the hurry and hectic.
Life can whistle through us like we’re harmonicas, and yet never compose a pleasant song. Just blasts of sounds that make us grit our teeth. But, if we are intentional to breathe steadily, and keep time, we find there is a rhythm there: a song buried between frenzied breaths.
The pauses are what differentiate bellows from melodies. Aptly placed space is as pivotal to life as the use of white space in art. Pauses are the still frames of the static we want to capture.
What can I really carry with me, anyhow? I’m too threadbare a dress to hold all I’d hope to. I suppose this is why we lay up treasures elsewhere. High up, on shelves, to pour over for eternity. What a scrapbook that will be.