Sword of Peace

Peering down my arm, I glance at the wounds on my hands from the recent abundance of manual labor.
The locations of the wounds are always identical, top ridge of inner palm just below the point where my fingers stretch out from my hand. Never seeming to heal completely, the repetitive insistence of their nature concerns me and why my own body never feels a need to protect itself from further harm is another aspect of deep wonderment.

Healing. A process by which something is renewed and restored to health. This process continually escapes me in my physical, emotional and spiritual walk. The wounds I have felt throughout the course of my journey are indeed reminders of the steps that I have taken and the scars from the battles that I have had to endure.
Reaching deeper into my soul each time, I have yet to uncover the source of the unsettled spirit that guides me through the waters but never allows me to bathe naked, released in full to the sanctification of the moment that could afford me this elusive perpetual solace.

Perhaps I believe in silent admission that I am deserving of the anguish and continued upheavals in my own life. Never settled to walk in peace with trust and love as my balancing allies, but instead choose the arduous path that is marred with recent razing, darkness and solemnity. Alas, I didn't choose to be here; my spirit was  summoned, commanded to return to this place. Return to the only place that I knew certain love, certain trust, certain understanding. I question the logic of this conversation always unfolding in opposition to time and reason. Always promising the path to serenity, reflections of streets of golden hues shining ever so brightly in the midst of the coldest and darkest storms I have ever realized.

Physically, I am weakened by the emotions playing on the stage forefront in my mind. Strength, still present and apparent, is harder to maintain at times, as I continue to walk forward. The proverbial walls slowing closing in, forcing me to choose. Forcing me to raise my own blade of reckoning and lay judgement to those who wait patiently in the gallows awaiting their bewildering state of execution. The steps remaining are heavy and the path truncated by the length of the journey already traversed.

I pause. Knowing the weight of the moment and the immediacy of the decision to be calculated, I breathe in slowly. I close my eyes, squinting out the last bit of the afternoon sun, and guide my right hand to my hip tracing the outline of the hilt. I roll my fingers just below the pommel and clench the weapon forcefully, bringing it to life.

As the sword is unsheathed, I raise it forward abreast of my face and tilt its blade in the sunlight; the finely crafted mirrored surface is etched with words of peace, love and comfort. I am momentarily mesmerized by its unexpected warmth and divining nature. Irony indeed for a weapon of chiseled destruction, but then a bold thought overwhelms my soul. What if....this is truly...the sword of peace? Instead of laying destruction to those who would fear its pruning and absolution of sin, what if this talisman was used to instead defeat the darkness?

The heft of the moment overwhelms me, and I fall to my knees, sobbing. Thrusting the sword with both hands into the gravel laced soil, it is buried nearly up the guard; the entire blade shrouded from sight. As I guide my hands to my face to clear the flow of tears, I notice my wounds are no longer visible. Healed perhaps by the understanding of where I am proceeding and what choices I have left to make in this life to complete the journey. I know I will one day lie in death, a victim of the sword that now lies impotently within the earthen substrate nearby. But, not today. Today, I choose the path of peace; the path of love, understanding and promise for better days.

I raise my hands to the sun, my palms illuminated and accept the healing that I have gone without for far too many sunsets. A prayer of thankfulness, hope and peace unexpectedly rolls off my tongue, and I bathe in the warmth of this moment. A moment of healing. A moment of choosing love over fear. A moment of choosing peace over darkness.

I raise to my feet slowly and smile. Better days, Andrew. Better days. I echo to myself in silence.

Drafting Destiny.

As I sit before the antique 1910 industrial engineer cantilever drafting table, I am mesmerized by its form not its function. Its sleek, metallic, immoderate lines draw an immediate congruency with an item to be discovered in Asimov's laboratory used to devise sinister plots of world dissolution or perhaps the creation of the neutron ray gun.  The table is adorned with faded cast-iron arch supports coupled with the reflective patina from a century of natural aging of its broad, wooden working surface. Drawn to antique artifacts from this industrial age, I ponder as to why the ideal for quality-driven focus and invention has long departed our disposable mindsets. Procuring these relics is a fascinating hobby of its own, seeking out that which still remains long after those who considered its usefulness or even possess the ability to master its utilization have long had their innards masticated by worms, their souls long departed from this place of emptiness and greed. Their fate sealed in accord with the tools and ideologies of those who no longer breathe our common air. Alas, the path still remains for those who dare to cross the social media picket fences and campaign for the truth in understanding.

Inventiveness has been superseded by lackadaisical composition and transient whimsy, bringing joy has long carried more weight than contemplative and meaningful design. Bringing forth epic change now is akin to designing not the essence of flight, nor the distribution of electrical current, but a polka-dotted collegiate snuggle available in all sizes to withstand the essential vagaries of common sense, so often amiss but truly a perfect fit for the Epicurean in all of us.

Laurel branches sit, in idle on the surface of my work table...aged from the weight of the generations who admonish those who remain loyal to the values of hard work and dedication to quality. The satiated masses continue to feed from the protuberances left by our gracious forebears. Arid, the veins have grown feeding the undeserving and unappreciative.

Reaching into both my mind and my soul in tandem, I draw my intentions forward as I glide my chair into position directly abreast with the edge of my sturdy new friend. Chuckling outwardly at the cliche echoing forward from my lips, before its release, I relent to a simple smile. "Back to the drawing board.....", I state even as much as I marvel at the stupidity of my own words. I pause briefly with an unforeseen sagacious grin, momentarily losing sight of my discounted words from a just a moment prior.

That phrase has definite meaning for a rudderless captain in search for a calming coastline.
Drawing a new future is my destiny.

As I reach for my pencil and begin to plot a new destination on the parchments lying before me, the words of Goethe immediately enter into my mind with a forceful vengeance:

Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. 
Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. 

Begin it now.

Alligators, anyone?

Reeling from relinquishing the truth of my words to the spoken air, I tremble in the darkness with deliberate pausing of breath, waiting for the faithful jesters to carry forward my admonishment. I listen intently as her voice fades into silence, and now, I hear nothing more. "I am processing", she states with obvious concern and deliberation in her voice. Slumping into my seat, I slowly attempt to retract my words in vain. Silence fills the moment once again adding weight to my heart. Deciding to carry forth the judgment on my own terms, I step down from my vehicle and walk back towards the familiar stone wall that has haunted my dreams for the last several nights. Now, completely lucid --- I am painfully aware of the stage, the performances remaining to be conducted by those who exemplify and mirror the darkness within my soul. The reptilian beasts remain in hiding waiting for my arrival. I can sense their presence even as much as they too sense the apex of this confrontation. Counterbalancing the heft of this moment with my own exposed culpability, I cannot help but envision that their continued presence indicates a showdown is approaching. The moonlight gleams across the aged brick building to my immediate right adding another layer of suspense and visibility to the scene that I simply want to conclude without bearing witness.

As my heart rate quickens, I increase my gait and clinch my fists firmly in preparation. As I approach, the silence is broken by guttural sounds of fear and warnings of danger which rumble forth as growls from the edges of the jagged stones where the beasts remain in hiding. I continue, shaken, but assured by a force more driven that my own in this moment. Suddenly, the scene fades to gray before my eyes. I reach out with my hands to touch its bleakness. Simultaneously, I halt upon hearing a familiar voice which shatters the night air, "Tell me of your alligators. There were four present, not just one. Tell me what they are." Her voice, her words slice through the layers of flesh and bone, and sever directly to my rippling soul still in awe that someone has visibility to this depth of my existence. Shuttering from pure disbelief of the accuracy of her statements, I murmur a few trite words before taking pause and choosing to reveal more of my buried truth.

Akin to Arthur freeing his weapon from stone, I instantly feel empowered to slay these demons in earnest for their continued perpetration of despair and prophetic subversion to my happiness. Gifted from a place of unconditional love, and not judgment nor disappointment, I am humbled in her presence, as always.

Cautiously, I unravel more of the truths into the open night air, allowing each one to hover before our souls as a discussion, an explanation of its own standing, its own existence. Knowing all the while, my paltry notions and attempts to clarify are weightless against the guilt that I feel which permeates all surfaces of my own soul here in this moment. Inwardly, I begin to sob at the purity of her heart and the understanding that unshackles every conceived notion that my sins were not only forgiven, but not even being quantified against our conversation. With certain immediacy, I begin to question my own significance against her overwhelming love and nurturing spirit.  How could someone love me this much? How could someone have the awareness to feel my spirit completely? When did I become this worthy of her greatness?

I fade in and out of the remainder of the conversation. Reeling from the emotions being expressed, I stumble to my knees on the cold, concrete ground. I take a deep breath and breathe in the purity of her love as my strength and faith are replenished. As my eyes regain their ability to focus, recognition of change abounds... Sunlight now beams over my shoulder warming my naked skin and ensuring comfort and solace to previously dismal and stressed composition. I stretch my arms, raising them towards the promising blue skies and smile. Erased from view are the stone walls, the demons, along with the fear that I have been harnessing in my emotional satchel, now emptied and weightless.

I stand to my feet, pausing to marvel at the context of what has unfolded before my eyes this evening.
I gaze hastily in all directions attempting in vain to locate her, but she is no longer visible.
She is with me in my heart. Her voice -- always soothes my soul. Her intentions -- always pure and loving.

I remain motionless, in awe.
For even in the midst of her continued struggles, she chooses love, not fear.
Even through the pains of despair, loneliness and strife, we will choose love, not fear.
As long as I have breath within my lungs, I will call out her name in joyous remembrance of promises made.

Made at times when the only thing of permanence through the darkness was faith in the belief that this love will see us through and the gentle murmuring of her angelic voice,

"Choose love, not fear......"

Too Happy to Write...

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Preserving Appearances.....

Sheets of plywood lie unused and piled high in the garage just as I had remembered. Nails purchased were now rusted and sprawled out across the aged and pitted concrete floor beneath my feet. An old but sound hammer lay poised but never used. The wood now split, rotten and covered in dust is merely used to support other casual collectibles and junk, so invaluable, that it hardly justifies their continued preservation.

But, all things have value to those who treasure nothing.

Walking around this old garage as a child I felt nothing but neglect. Never once was I content nor happy here in this abandoned refuge. The faded orange paint was just as tired and unwelcoming as I felt the majority of the time living in this place. Afraid of the tattered wooden door that had rotten past the point of providing security, loose wooden strips were all that remained to provide the framework. Holes and decay had rotten its outside surface and it shook like a dried-out corn husk in late December when you attempted to push against it.

The twin garage doors which were supposed to house vehicles never functioned in the nearly two decades of my existence living at that home. Instead of repairing the defunct and decayed pieces, mere cover-up and facade building was in order. Pieces of new wood and brick were simply stacked in front of the decay. Even as a child, I was certain that this was only done to enhance the view from the street. One could surmise quite assuredly, that this was not the only part of this home that was receiving that same unique form of touch-up.

The decay ran deep in this family but there was always something that could cover it up to preserve appearances. After all, no one could know the truth. Not even those who resided here.

If imaginable, the sides and rear of the garage were in far worse shape. The wooden paneling had completely rotted at the ground and access for stray mice and cats were in abundant supply. I will attest that I often wondered with the rampant termite, rodent and weather damage how this building ever maintained structural stability at all. Figuring that the sense of malevolence that permeated from all aspects of this property was probably strong enough to overcome mere physics, I allowed my reckless thoughts to wander elsewhere.

Standing inside the garage, I always felt the same dark, cold presence of evil. Hanging in the corner, I would never forget the dusty plastic hanging bags holding my father's military dress uniforms that remained motionless and untouched for my entire span of memories at that home. The bags, opaque and clouded in debris seemed to shroud another lifetime, perhaps even a lifeless body within their wrappings. I was always too freightened to touch, to even come close. I knew that this was just another aspect of my father's life neglected and abandoned to rot in its own painful suffocating demise.

As I learned later in life, those garment bags would not be the only ones hanged in that place.

I tire of appearances merely to hide the truth......
Facades are those foolish enough to believe people don't really know who they are.....
or that people truly care at all in the first place, not busy enough masquerading in their own performances.

Wood.
Nails.
Hands.
Hammer.

You always had the ability to improve, you choose neglect.

Is it not ironic that those same items once sealed the mortal fate of a lowly carpenter?

Postcard

Deliver me, deliver my dreams.

Postmarked, I arrived later than expected.
Twenty years, no mailbox, no home.
Memories made with the wrong recipients.
Photos faded in a solvent of deliberation and sadness.
Picture this, picture that --- I remain unexposed.

You were ever present on my skin, tattooed without ink.
No forwarding address, I rested alone.
Sentiments written, I wrote out of coercion.
Without you, nothing was meaningful.
My slate remains blank, ready for the truth.

Arrival, departure.
Change is always present.
Time is unmerciful, but judges not.
We are but slaves to the seconds we have left.
I remain captive to the only love I have ever known.

Risking everything, I stamp my heart.
No return, the mail slot closes.
One last delivery for this lifetime.
Postman, carry me on your wings.
Until a song of joy rolls from my tongue.

Deliver me, deliver my dreams.

All the while, I lay captive.

As I rounded the corner of the stone sidewalk illuminated by the star-lit skies above, the silhouettes of nearby tavern signs appear like ominous crates blocking my path forward. As well worn as this path may be, emotionally, it feels completely out of step with my prior recollection of this travel. I glide sheepishly into the darkness and turn down the alley now littered with stagnant water and refuse attempting to reach her abode before it is too late. I can hear flames from nearby furnaces crackling against the hardened stone walls encasing my narrow passageway, echoing the fires of my intentions now brooding with feverish intensity within my soul. Summoning a sense of renewed ambition, I increase the weight and pace of my steps. Out of the alley, I turn north and instinctively lock in on my destination. Just 10 meters before me, I recognize her home. Captivated by the changes I observe, I settle into a slow reverent stride....observing and processing each second with a calculated accord.

The torch hanging above her wooden door is balancing delicately on its side, out of kilter in its emblazoned sconce. Barely revealing any illumination, it appears as tired and restless as its surroundings. The iron bars shielding her doors and windows are uncommonly in place and secured. It is an usual sight to behold as I have never felt as isolated from her as I do in this moment. As the clouds past over the midnight sky, the moon light dances off the rustic wooden planks comprising the side walls and roof lines of this structure. I stand before the door and hesitate to knock as it has never felt as dark before, and I need to be patient. Patient in this, patient for what I might uncover on the inside of the darkness, what has been kept hidden from the light for decades. I surmise considering the distressed ambiance it is best to remain cautious and diligent with my steps.

Deciding to observe rather than involve, I step onto a stone block and lean into a window trying to catch a glimpse of my love, a notion of understanding without the weight of my arrival for her to bear in these moments that may be too hard to balance. As my eyes adjust to the interior darkness, I detect an outline in the corner of the room. Resting on the ground against the wall staring blindly into the center of the space, I instantly recognize her beautiful face. The only source of light, a candle nearly exhausted with its copious wax overrunning the edges of its silver candlestick base, comes into view on the table immediately to the right of her position.

As I adjust my angle in the window to capture more of the candle's paltry emission, I see a well worn trail of tears carving lines of sadness onto her face, now pooling on the floor below. Smoke arises in the corner of the room from a recent fire that may have just been exhausted before my appearance. However, the flames that were recently present certainly explain the weight of sadness that permeates from this space. I stand in place not knowing what action would be most beneficial at the immediacy of this juncture. I try to capture her glance, but she is indeed wounded and reeling from struggles that play out in her mind.

I step down from the stone block to afford her the respect that she deserves.
I then approach the wooden front door, reach up and adjust the misaligned torch, allowing it to regain its proper illuminating strength.

Absent of any deliberation nor diffidence,
I unsheathe my dagger and delicately scribe 3 letters onto its worn surface.

I    L   Y

I knock once, move my hand across the carved outline of letters and murmured "Always"
I then turn and walk back into the darkness...

Knowing that she knows my heart and will return when she is able, I am content and at peace.

All the while, I lay captive....