Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Angiosperm



- Angiosperm -

I’ve talked about angiosperm before; they’re blooming plants. As it turns out they’re blind. They are completely unable to see what’s happening around them. How could they? They lack the organs to see. They have no iris, no cornea, no retina, no vitreous humor, no optic nerve, and no brain to receive the electrical data and convert it into an image. What they do have is probably more amazing. By using a complex system of thermal and solar sensors they can tell when winter is over. Using a biological accelerometer they know which way is up, even while buried well beneath the surface. Then they race to be the first to rise from the earth. They race to bloom so that they sun will find their petals, and so the bees will find their stamen. But Mother Nature sometimes plays a dirty trick on these plants. After a month of warmth and rain, of lulling the plants into risking the journey into the unknown, a sudden frost rolls through the valley freezing the infant plants. Some will never recover. Their life cycle will be put to an end. For others it’s just an inconvenience. The late snows and sudden freeze might delay the flowering of the plant, but can’t stop its ultimate goals.

Mother Nature’s deception is nothing unexpected, nothing novel. Yet some will fall prey to her every single time. They’ll feel the warmth, they’ll drink from the sun, and when they believe they can take the step into the unknown, she’ll strike. The frost may be short lived, but it may even leave scars and wounds that won’t heal for years. Sometimes the damage will be all but gone, and then another frost may come, freezing water that had found its way inside, causing the seam to crack all over again.

But it must try again.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

It's Not About That


- It's Not About That -

It’s not about your body type. It’s not about you hair. It’s not about how well you’ve done your make up, or what blouse you wear with which pair of jeans. It’s not about the size of your top half relative to your mid section. It’s not about how well you fit into your pants. It’s not about dropping eighty pounds to look like some photoshopped model in the magazine. It’s not about your arms, and if they swing side to side or not. It’s not about the sunglasses, the bracelets, your earrings or headbands. It’s not about the low cut, backless dress that barley covers your pelvis. It’s not about the three hours you might spend getting ready to go to school, or work or the club. It’s not about Botox and silicon and lipo. It’s not about lifts, and tucks, and crimps, and pins and lasers.
          It might begin with a coy smile, and an alluring gaze. It might begin as we pass and smell something sweet on the zephyr flowing in your wake. But that’s not what it’s really about either.
It’s what comes after hello.
The women I’ve truly fallen in love with, the ones that have broken my heart into a thousand splinters, the ones I’ve written sonnets, poems, songs, and stories about and for, the ones who will always hold a piece of my heart, a sliver of my being, those are the ones who had what it’s about. It’s the way they hold my attention when they tell a story. It’s the way my breath catches as their hand grazes mine. It’s the ease of conversation. It’s about feeling comfortable with someone that the darkest parts of my soul see the light of day. It’s about feeling your spirit resonating, and undulating with theirs as you enter the same room. It’s about the nightly dreams that comfort during the darkest times of your life, being superseded by the whisper of their voice. It’s about being completely, and unashamedly honest, and never fearing ridicule or mockery. It’s about having a fight, but not stopping until it’s worked out. It’s about that burning in your chest, and the tingle on your skin, when you just hold each other. It’s about losing yourself, your physical existence, as you lay there, with only the sound of their breath on your mind.
It’s about bonding so utterly and completely with someone, that when it ends it cuts so deep that you believe that the hole can never be fixed. It’s about knowing what you had was real, and not some superficial, entertainment fed fling. It’s about realizing that they may not have been perfect, but they were prefect for you. So you cry out in pain for a while. You ache, and hurt, and burn. And one day that gash has healed. But you know your heart has lost something forever. And you wait. You wait for the one. The one that can make your soul sing again. The one that makes your heart whole again. The one that makes your breath catch again. The one with whom it’s not about making love.
It’s about being in love.