Chapters of Life

Lights flash and promises beckon.
Elation erupts as a new dawn approaches.
We all begin again at the trail head.
Peering down the trail.
Another book begins.
365 pages.

Begin writing.
Today.

Floorboards of Change

I have seen the torments rise in front of my eyes, rows of crackling amber flames aligned perfectly in unison for my even charred purification. I peer back down the path and witness a young boy trying to outrun his life, sprint past his own childhood, intrepidly reaching for validation. People ask why I shun love and comfort. Confidants wonder why I know not the ever lasting feeling of happiness. Friends question my inability to receive love for love sake. Tired, exhausted from pain, grief and regret, they depart. Attrition is all it takes to wear down the bonds of their unconditional love. Fibers of cotton, not hardened steel is what I am presented. Inwardly, I know their fortitude is insufficient to support the weight of their lofty convictions. For they have not walked in my boots, know not of the horrors of my travels and the suffering I have endeared both as an innocent child and as a contracted asset. Their resolve quickly lost upon the challenging, the abused, the tormented, the one who bears such potential. Losing interest, capitulating to their own survival and well-being, they scatter and denounce my existence to more perfectly balance their own impotent guilt and bereavement. They always depart when I hold out just long enough for them to recognize that I may never allow myself to feel loved again.

I explain that I recognize only brief interludes of solace, separated by long intermissions of pain.
Casually this is accepted and the once stray dog that show so much promise is now just a memory.
Gather up the leash and chain, transport them in silence, arrive to the shelter, click-the door opens, clack-the door closes. Guilt is suppressed. You drive away and the world will never know of your misdeeds, promises nor the intentions squandered. Fading in the distance, your thoughts will be the only reminders of your past.

Loose hair fibers, scattered from the brief commonality of moments, litter the once pristine floorboard. Everything settles eventually to the floorboard. Change, Promise and Hope. It is all trampled upon, lost to those who don't value its existence and demands. Alas, people cannot see the floorboards as we pass through our days, they know not of where our shoes have taken us, only evidence doesn't masquerade the truth. Regardless of what we show the world, there are always reminders of how far we have ventured off course from what our masking facades would tolerate. Bits of dust, substrate and blood release their imprints.

I reach down to the floorboard and stretch to pick up the change. The metallic coins briefly send a chill through my fingers and a startling jolt through my soul. It is a warm and welcoming reminder from where I once started, and where I am now headed.

Change.

"Somebody once asked could I spare some change for gas, I need to get myself away from this place. I said yep, what a concept, I could use a little fuel myself and we could all use a little change......"

Conclusions and Commencements

It is only properly fitting that 2014 begins and ends within the same bit of prose, the same blog entry.

For the first time in seven years, I have be strangely removed and silent within my journey when it transposes to the authoring of my walk. I have not been myself this year in all associations of that moniker, but I also have grown in ways that have been immeasurable. My heart has never known such pivotal pain, sadness, maturation, fullness, regret, guilt, elation and indecisiveness. My soul has swung from pole to pole in its arch of good versus evil, and I likewise have shouldered my walk with both angels and devils alike. I have held the hands of the innocent, the persecuted, the strong, the feeble, the loving and the dismayed and much to my own disdain, the blood still taints the creases of my flesh in each moment. I have pushed myself to the brink this year, challenging my body and spirit like a malleable vessel spinning recklessly upon a vintage pottery wheel. Stretching my limits, but unaware and inattentive to the foregone outcome of the chaos and intention of the moments, the undulating cycles continue to haunt my step and bring disaster to my doorstep.

I have deceived hearts through my absence of truth. I have rallied strength through war cries and lifted people out of their own pits. I have saved lives while sentencing others to die for their own displaced loyalty. I have sacrificed others for my own insecurities and pain and likewise been slaughtered to bring reprieve to the selfish. I am saintly to some and a sinner to others. It is the ever present dichotomy of my existence. It is the 2-face reflection that I dare hide from myself, the split down the middle image of who I am versus who I want to be. Who I am? Who do I dare choose to become?

It is same year that I have overcome physical obstacles, pain and injury to rise from the ashes of my paltry existence and gather my strength and resolve. It is the same year that I have known no greater sense of personal disappointment and regret within my heart. I have wiped my own tears, swaying in disparity from the depths of love & happiness to the bowels of deceit and despair. I have witnessed the torment and thrashing pain that demonstrating love to me has caused. I have occupied the minds and hearts of those foolish enough to see more than what I truly am. Never before have I known such a breath of emptiness. My daughter has failed herself, not me for she could never fail her father, never fail my love for her. She is now gone, departed from my abode, my life. Such promise, I surmise. Probably what countless others have said about me and my life when I crashed and burned a couple decades ago. I still carry the ashes from my own crash site. I emerged alone, judged, devalued, jaded but committed with an iron will to succeed against all odds. Don't bet against the dark horse.

I sit here typing. Reminiscing. Pecking at plastic keys, pouring out my heart on a glowing white and gray electronic screen. I sit here typing in the dark. My new found stray dog breathing loudly on the cold travertine floor beside me. For now, my only companion. The only company that understands not the horrors of loving me. She has been healed by my hand. A very rare occurrence for anyone in my life. I sit here in outward silence screaming at the memories illustrated by the last 360 days of my existence. Recalling every moment, every smile, every tear, every pain, every bit of elation. For how momentarily the moments were, they still comprise my story, my reel of 2014.

Looking back I can only find troubling reasons to dare not glance, nor illuminate the pictures that flutter through my head. I see images, a multitude of images. Reminders that every day presents choices. Every day junctions, everyday crossroads. Every day decisions that play not merely a minute but pivotal role in the road we travel and who we choose to accompany us. I pray in earnest that I balance my heart with peace in 2015. I choose what leads me back to the side of the facade that I want to feed. The side the reflects my heart and its purity, forgiveness, strength, purpose, humility & honor.

For my dedication this year, I was crowned both a Spartan and a serpent. A hero and a heretic. A savior and a sinner. I was emblazoned with both medals of victory and crosses of condemnation. I wear them both well. Alas, isn't that life at its purest? What is a good man, except a bad man's teacher? I don't desire adorations, embellishments, nor trophies of my travels. I have never collected my winnings, never sought ribbons for my performances. Do what you do then step back, it is the only path to serenity. The medals draped across the breastplate of my life shield the sunlight from my wounds but I know of their existence, their truth.

I tip my hat to this past year and all of my moments.
I bid you farewell. I have learned from my mistakes and grown in equal measure.

My travels shall continue....

More sunlight. Less darkness.

A Reflective Walk...

Relentless sorrow dims my walk as I allow myself to squint my eyes against the backdrop of the morning sunrise. The river before me stretches out endlessly, placid and polished....its surface is not reflective of its true contents, the mirrors are only there to deceive. The multi-colored flora of clouds above the horizon erupts across the landscape bringing sublimity and enhancement to areas not in search of such illumination, at least not this morning. I step forward emotionally and struggle to land each step evenly on the soles of the uneven and unforgiving substrate beneath me. The souls of others not as precisely balanced upon my shoulders waver from side to side as my gait quickens. Scales, weights and measures all conspire against the progressiveness of my intentions. In the distance, I hear a faint wailing but I choose to ignore the screams of those left for dead, their hearts long ripped from the breastplate of their own selfish existence. From smiles to sorrow, the blood runs deep. Crimson rivers of regret slosh aimlessly from the edge of my blade across my trousers leaving vibrant channels of evidence plain as day for the commoners to see. I choose to no longer hide my blade nor the blood of my travels. I am the purveyor of pain for countless souls who possessed the momentary audacity to cling to my promises and lose themselves against the belief that I was a cause valiant enough to believe in. Foolishly subscribing to a misplaced conviction, they lost everything and the masquerades continued to sell out their performances night after night. Puppets dance and shimmy across the tired wooden planks exploding in a mixture of revelry and lust, saving one last dance before reaching the end of their beam. The zenith of their own shaken purpose in this lifetime at last revealed, just before their demise.

Arriving back to my white stone abode, I sit casually in front of the earthen fireplace now reeling its flames high into the room, blistering the air with its sparkling embers. I sit alone, cold, my blade now rested against the stone hearth reflecting nothing but the blinding amber storms in its immediate proximity. Erased from the carved metallic skin are the carbon remains of my travels. For now, I remain tempered and purified by the flames that some might believe bring forth only destruction. For now, I rest my blade not allowing myself to continue to do the same. For now, I am content in knowing that as long as my blade remains still, life and love will be given a season to replenish without the fear of reprisal and the uncertainty of my chaos.

You chose to return. I need to remain.
Cut the strings.
Restore the performance.

Bridging the Past

As I quietly glided the Jeep mud tires over the worn grass parking strip, I subconsciously unleashed decades of anxiety into the silence hovering within the cab of the vehicle. Pulling up to the edge of this drive-in theater performance was not something I had ever contemplated occurring in real life. The stage performance was far too perfect, all of the characters were always on-key, always on target, always magical. Could I truly allow this fantasy to breathe in the fragrance of reality? The midnight skies felt suspiciously accurate to the ever-present nature of this conversation and the realization that darkness is where the truth is most revealed. I stopped the truck, removed the keys and leaned over the center console, embraced her hands in silence and murmured, "You ready?" Smiling with a knowing nod of things to come, I opened my door allowing myself passage to the event at hand. Walking in unison, but not adjoined, we made our way across the service road street leading to our destination. Stretching my aged but still adroit limbs with a mixture of anxiousness, stress and just habitual nature, we both prepared briefly for the road ahead. The bridge here joining Bay Saint Louis and Pass Christian, MS was new since Hurricane Katrina, as the prior 3 mile crossing had been completely washed away by the ravishing storm. I pondered the fact silently that some things improve with grave challenges to their structured normalcy. I wondered if after this walk, would we both fair the same outcome? Would our own pathways be destroyed in order to bridge the 19-year gap in our hearts?

The walking lane consisted of a concrete lined path adjacent to the eastbound side of the bridge spanning about 10 feet in width with an multi-tiered aluminum guard rail to the right lining the full length of the road structure. Every tenth of a mile, there were beautifully and masterfully carved bronze plaques showcasing various aquatic and wildlife species germane to the Gulf Coast lifestyle. Pelicans, alligators, and egrets conducted themselves in a peaceful accord of presentation obviously gilded into existence with the Federal relief monies poured into this area following the storm. I had walked this bridge a hundred times alone with her voice vying for equal measure against the prevailing winds and traffic intrusion on the path. I had always been enough, been perfect in those walks. Now, she was here walking astride hands clasped into mine maintain the same fast-paced gait. As we pressed onward up the gentle rise of the bridge platform, we took turns in silence glancing over to each other trying to avoid the ownership of our intentions, passing the views off as innocent and even random scans of our environment. However, we both knew better. We were calculating the weight of the moment. The weight of remembering. Recalling everything we had chosen to forsake 19 years ago, everything we had lost. Could it really be recaptured striding over a mechanized platform of steel and concrete? I knew this bridge was as ever much a transport medium as it was a teleportation platform.

The amber haze of the sodium vapor lighting piers spaced out evenly down the center of the bridge crafted a whirled mixture of illuminated intrigue and darkened shadows along the structure. Headlights offered an occasional spotlight onto our position, revealing our outlines, perking up thoughts of voyeurism from the passing motorists. I stared. For one too many seconds, I stared. She stopped. She read my mind. I stated aloud, "You look 19. You really do look 19. I see you as I have always seen you, Jennifer. You are beautiful and this moment is timeless." I smiled. She really did look 19, at least from what my aging mind could recall. She was breathtaking. She was Jennifer!

Responding in unison, she allowed herself to smile, albeit briefly, while immediately shunning the concept of anyone finding her beautiful. Not this girl, not now, not ever. Well, not for 19 years, I surmised in silence. 
I so missed her smile. Her eyes would light up as her smile shaped her face into a picture perfect form of joy. Her lips playfully retreating back over her teeth, her skin erupting into brilliant shine, her eyes reflecting the purity of her soul. I repositioned our bodies migrating to the rail with her back to the bridge. Reaching in gently, I hugged my best friend. "You are beautiful, Andrew. When you smile, I see you as you were! You look 19 again.", she offered in joy to our enriching embrace.

The culmination of all things loving placed into motion was slowly blossoming to fruition before our eyes. The misdeeds of the past, the sudden departures of our youth, our broken dreams and miscalculated steps were allowed to wash feverishly down the side of our union. Down into the dark watery abyss beneath our feet, the moments that we allowed others to define us were finally abdicating their claim in our lives. Vacillating between moments of gleeful even youthful play, the weight of the tears of regret and recompense were at times hard to balance. The pure disparity between how we would commence this innocent stroll and how it would end could only echo the volumes of solidarity between our souls. Hand in hand, we completed the journey across. As we reached the far side, I didn't turn back when the guard rails ended. Instead, we continued faithfully down the bridge until reaching the monument erected to offer homage to the contributors and words of dedication to the structure. I reached out and touched the cold bronze plaque with my hand fully extended as I have always done in my journeys alone, my steps taken without her at my side. I always needed to follow my compulsory, if not obsessive routine. For the touch of accomplishment of something I had started always needed to be realized tactilely.

Racing up the bridge and its rising elevations, I have never recognized such happiness within my soul.
My friend at my side, my heart full of promise, all order in the universe had been restored. Arriving back at the Jeep, I opened her door. My smile covered all layers of my existence illuminating the nearby shadows attempt to mask the simplistic beauty of this moment. "I love you, Jennifer", I offered to the night air. Reaching in, I kissed her forehead gently and knew in that instance that all was indeed right with this troublesome and cruel world.

Love was restored. Love had conquered all. Love will always find a way to lead you back home.
Even if you need to take a bridge to get there.

Serenity of Saint Louis

"Let me show you something...", I urged intently, gliding her embraced hand into mine as we strided down the side path of the aged, stone corridors of Jackson Square. The French Quarter festival was in full swing with merchants and visitors clamoring equally for their fair share of the revelry playing out on the beautiful Saturday afternoon. The streets were packed, albeit without vehicles, as is often the case in New Orleans during celebrations where the pedestrians far outweigh the flow of traditional traffic. City streets become nothing more than free-flowing sidewalks to balance the density of the entertainment. Loud music, colorful tourists, bold artwork, alcohol and Cajun food seemed to ooze from every pore of this magical crescent city. Like a pasta machine on full power, the richness extruded forth effortlessly and the flavors of fun permeated the air with an uncommon ease. This city was truly a sight to behold. We were both proud to call it home.

As our walk eased to the far corner of the square, I slowed our pace as we neared my planned destination. The black iron gates stood menacingly and protective in front of this large tower row house built in 1838. As we both stared at the brass historical marker emblazoned on the aged column reading its bold text, the once forcefully loud music playing nearby dimmed to a silent whisper. "This was my great-great-great Grandfather's home, Victor David" , I mentioned with a slight hint of pride and homage. "He was from Bordeaux, France and he met his wife Ann Rebassa and married when he was only 19. The number 19 immediately echoed within my soul since that age is precisely where our lives were permanently altered. I made no comment about this irony. The iron work is studied in architecture classes since each landing is unique and hand-crafted."

I ceased my historical dissertation. Sounding like a cheap tour guide, I chided myself inwardly for my excessively prideful commentary and waywardness. Leaving out parts about his travels, success and even his marriage in the nearby St. Louis Cathedral, I took her hand in mine and eased across the street. We turned back briefly, looking up at the four-story home. Now showing some of its 175 years of age, but looking amazingly well preserved, its slight leaning and aging burgundy paint adding nothing but character to its glorious facade.

Summing up the moment as complete, we turned down the nearby alley, the same in which my ancestors certainly walked upon, and headed back towards Jackson Square. The sidewalks here were more like gray stone streets with a curious draining cistern trench carved out in the middle. The concrete narrow trench made it difficult to walk without consideration, especially in collective stride abreast with one another. This was when sober. I could not imagine how arduous this would be when sipping on the nectar of the city that flowed in greater quantity than tap water. Alcohol kept this city afloat nearly as much as the Mississippi River itself ever did. We continued our walk turning south towards the Square, the white Cathedral wall to our immediate left. We both smiled without words at the whimsical placement of our steps in order to maintain our pace. We smiled for so many reasons, every moment just as perfect as the one prior. We smiled just to reflect the beauty of our souls.

Reaching the sea of the colorful populous before us, I turned left without knowledge nor intention but my heart guided us towards the front of the Cathedral. Reaching the vertical surface of the white facade, its mighty height and steeple overwhelmed. Triple sets of aged, castle height doors towered nearly twenty feet towards the mid-day sun. The center set, a bit more decorative was fenced off with iron gates, obviously reserved for special events such as funerals and weddings, with the opposing pairs allowing access for all those intrigued enough to enter its formidable walls. Knowing my relative across the alley was married within these walls just a few years after its completion make this journey that much more personal. Wondering how amazing following in that tradition would be, I smiled briefly.

As we ascended the stone steps, our hands remained intertwined, as is always the case when we are together. Like two soul-seeking adventurers, we know our greatest strength lies not in our intrepidly adroit and capable selves, but in the magic that unification brings forth within our aged spirits. We are simply just better together, and it is demonstrated in each moment we share as one. Upon the sixth step, our feet reach the marble floor landing and immediately a sense of tangible awe encompasses the vestibule. A gift shop to the left is sealed with a small black iron gate with only an unleveled crude plastic sign marking its purpose and  superfluous revelation that it is not opened for business. To the immediate right is a large black candle rack that seems to have been in place for hundreds of years, continuously burning the faith that so abundantly pours into the air. Flames and glass, an aura of spirituality hovers over the candles.

After a few moments to gather our spiritual bearing, we proceed to the inner pairs of wooden doors separating the vestibule from the main worship area. Stopping briefly, I place my right hand into a stone vessel coating my skin with holy water. Unconsciously, I make the sign of the cross in perhaps an effort to quickly wash my sins. Perhaps in an effort to make myself worthy enough to enter this sacred place and stand before God. Pushing upon the mighty wooden barrier, our bodies move forward. Reaching the back walls of the church, we cease our walk and tighten our embrace.

The first emotion felt upon entering is the sheer immense size of the St. Louis Cathedral. 50 rows of aged wooden pews stretch our endlessly before the casual visitor, separated by an aisle nearly 10 feet wide, hand painted murals tower a hundred feet into the air. Scenes depicting Angels, Heaven and Hell equally span out across the arched ceiling supported by tremendous stone columns with thick gold caps emblazoned upon their stately Corinthian architecture. Memories of the Sistine Chapel immediately filter into view within my mind, but this is New Orleans not Vatican City. A scaled down version not stylized by Michelangelo, perhaps a cheaper rendition offering flattery to his glorious work. In any case, it has stood on its own and elicits similar emotions of humility and grandeur ; truly a testament to the reverence of God.

The hoarding masses numbering in the dozens are quiet and respectful. Choosing to remain in the rear alcove of the church, perhaps not to offer disrespect to those here for worship, perhaps feeling uneasy about their own lack of willingness to do the same. Photos snap. Right, left, center everyone capturing this moment, but  not upon their hearts. iPads, phones, professional and disposable cameras alike point towards the ceiling, the rear facade, the alter. Everyone seizing the aesthetics and not the spirituality of the moment. For a brief instance, it forces me to wonder how blasphemous this scene would have been even 20 years ago, much less  back in 1794 when it was first erected. Times have changed. Certainly, not all for the better.

Instinctively, I move us to the right rear of the room and choose to proceed down the right aisle towards the alter. I pause at the first large column and decide to make rest here, slightly isolated behind the immensity of the towering stone support. As we glide into the warmth of the smooth antique skin of the oak pew, I am cognizant that this will truly be a magical moment. We sit in quiet reverence of both our own love and the respect we have for God, for our home here in this place, for our souls that have known such abandonment of peace over the last twenty years apart from one another. Intently, I stare into her eyes and smile while exclaiming, "I love you. Let us give thanks to God for this love. Let us be thankful that we have been faithful enough to believe that He would restore this love back into our lives." I pause my impromptu sermon and laugh inwardly at my own pastoral debut. We sit in near silence and observe everything individually, but feel the weight of this moment - truly as one. Scanning the ceiling, the floors, the walls and the casual pedestrians. Everything in motion, I feel nothing but stillness.

Without words, I reach for the kneeler and she assists me to lowering it to its intended position. The Catholic upbringing in both of us manifests forth effortlessly, as we smile into each other's eyes and I ask humbly, "Do you want to pray?" She nods perhaps startled that I would choose to share such spiritual intimacy with her and obliges. We kneel before God, before this love that has taken so much away from our lives two decades prior but we are still here together, side by side, ready to reclaim the serenity that this conversation elicits forth so joyously. Silently, we uncouple our hands and become unique souls before God. For a brief moment, I feel alone. Not abandoned. Isolated. Removed from everything else in the world that has ever existed, released from the rigors of the world, exiled from the noise and clamor of the masses nearby. An aura of understanding and peace hovers over us both and I feel its tangible warmth and embrace. God is truly in this place, and He is so blessed that we have maintained our faith in this love. His love.

As I pray, I close my eyes before God and ask for forgiveness. I humbly offer the deepest praise for the woman beside me. My spiritual counterpart. My dearest friend. My most beautiful angel. As we complete our reflection, we both return to the pew in silence. We smile and gaze into each other's eyes knowing without question this moment is truly life-changing. Grasping her hand, I steady my stare. "Do you feel like you are home?", I ask with a direct, almost palpable inquiry. She nods with an immediate and steady rhythm coupled with smiles and deep reflection of appreciation. "Yes, Andrew. I am home. I am finally home", her words flow sweetly like honey through her angelic lips. Smiling, we hold onto each other and continue to feel mesmerized and protected equally at the marvelous revelation that our faith in God, our faith in love, has led us back as two servants ready to choose God, to choose love always.

"Only one more circle left to complete in this lifetime", I whisper, leaning in close while staring at the fingers on her empty left hand. She immediately understands my cryptic message and grins, "Yes, Andrew. One more circle."

"Indeed. One more circle. One lifetime of love.", I proclaim inwardly in silence reading each word as it crosses the backdrop of my mind. I hold her tightly, embracing her body and soul equally. Smiling while soaking in the warmth and serenity of God, we depart with an uncommon peace. Releasing ourselves back to the grandeur of this city. The city that unites our souls, both now and twenty years prior. The city we both proudly call home.

The Choice.

Tears flowing, heart racing...her voice cracks abruptly across the miles and my soul wrestles with the sensitivity of the moment. "I am in a very bad place........", she exclaims with the soaked syrupy coating of sadness barely enough to balance each word she utters forth. I pause. Knowing she just departed from legal proceedings was stressful enough, knowing how the canvas is now painted emotionally, my heart sinks to understand the weight of the recent sentencing. I listen. She chides herself outwardly, "Why does this happen to me? Why is life so difficult and unfair? I am a good person. Why is nothing ever easy?" I am moved by her expressions of somberness. I ponder the words to state in response, when every inclination within my soul is simply to hold her close. I begin to sob silently, but choose words of support instead of adding my weight to the moment. I am torn. My arms are not that far-reaching, physical touch and comforting embrace is what she needs, not my idle words, you idiot...... Impotently, I reassure her the only way I can here in these scenes. I respond to her pleas of despair, "You will be fine. We both knew this could happen. At least you have this conversation and so many friends and family members who love you dearly....Be strong. I am holding your hand....."

My words sound as hollow as the shell casings lying in disarray from the the recent ambush she has just endured. I feel her uneasy, weakened frame as vividly as I feel myself falling deeper into the depressive nature of the scene playing out on center stage. She is distracted repetitively during the conversation, and this leads itself unintentionally to a disjointed and non-linear sequencing of events. Causing me to I feel inept and incapable of balancing the darkness with my words, I shutter from the knowledge that I may need more time to contemplate the way to lead her back to the light. I just wish I could hold her....

"I love you", softly rolls off my tongue. Knowing it is not profound, I am still captivated by the magic contained in those words. Those three little words. 3w always, I remind myself. Love has always been enough, always been sufficient for us both. It is has always been the road not chosen. Painfully holding us both hostage to the barren pathways that have elicited nothing but thieves and hidden truths, love has kept us searching for peace in spite of our own unworthiness.

I reach for her hand in the darkness and find it immediately. She is here. She is still believing in the sanctity of love, the beauty and simplicity of this conversation. I smile knowing that even in darkness, she can sense the uplifting spirit that unifies and washes an indelible wave of understanding and peace between the shores of our souls....I intertwine our fingers together immediately feeling the warmth that only this love could ever provide..... I am at peace knowing that this time the only limitation on love is what we choose.

Whatever the cost, I choose love.
Whatever the cost, I choose you.