Filled with lots of love...had some great clients who are in the active stage of change and is so nice to see people working so hard and realizing that i am a part of their recovery...a very little part yet a part indeed....the ones who say i am feeling better and it is of one little word that you said...or i have been sober longer than i have been in the past thirty years...and was because you were patient with me...or because you believed in me when i could not believe in myself..
there are days that i wonder what in the hell i am doing...think that i might have to have my head examined for thinking that i do make a difference...these are the times that i have to examine my own life, my passions and my motivations...why am i doing what i do...i believe it is because i truely love what i do...no one else could do it if they were not one hundred percent invested and loved it...
and ever since i can remember wanted to be able to make a difference...
well am tired and am rambling and making little sense to anyone but to myself....so for tonight am finishing...
because i said that i was going to blog each day...blog each day i will do...
and tomorrow might be more fun...maybe not for me but for you...because tomorrow i write a goodbye letter to one of my best friends, my solace when i am down...my upper when i am down...my calmer when i am up...when i am stressed...wanna guess who that lover might be...well if you are curious tune in tomorrow...
and for now good night
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Tree Of Life
Tree of Life
The mighty tree stands tall
Majestic in the morning sun
Never alone
Steadfast, strong
Boughs swaying in the gentle
Summer breeze
Flowing with the moment
Never asking questions
Always accepting the answers
Of the universe
Secretly knowing the
Grand and glorious call of nature
That is universal love
Gods love,
Gods greatness,
Gods power
Gods peace
I am a tree in winter
I stand alone
I am not alone
My roots firm
In Gods earth
My leaves shed
My branches bare
Knowing that with the coming
Of winter
My leaves fall and nourish
The earth
As
The earth nourishes me
My soul is open
Raw
Vulnerable
The circle of life continues
I stand firm
I know spring comes
With a promise of a new
And glorious day
Within my trunk
So sturdy
Memories of ages past
Always bringing me to
The moment
Spring comes
I sleep now
Deep within my soul
thalia
© May 20, 2001
The mighty tree stands tall
Majestic in the morning sun
Never alone
Steadfast, strong
Boughs swaying in the gentle
Summer breeze
Flowing with the moment
Never asking questions
Always accepting the answers
Of the universe
Secretly knowing the
Grand and glorious call of nature
That is universal love
Gods love,
Gods greatness,
Gods power
Gods peace
I am a tree in winter
I stand alone
I am not alone
My roots firm
In Gods earth
My leaves shed
My branches bare
Knowing that with the coming
Of winter
My leaves fall and nourish
The earth
As
The earth nourishes me
My soul is open
Raw
Vulnerable
The circle of life continues
I stand firm
I know spring comes
With a promise of a new
And glorious day
Within my trunk
So sturdy
Memories of ages past
Always bringing me to
The moment
Spring comes
I sleep now
Deep within my soul
thalia
© May 20, 2001
Day 2...I will continue
The muse is trapped. She is feeling stuck, in a cage, looking for an exit. A day of inspiration when the words will begin to flow. Has been so long that this women is feeling the slipping away of time...time is running out and there is so much to be told.
It began long ago when this woman stepped out of her cave and began to be aware of the world around her. There was so much to do and so little time in which to do it. The words swirlled around and around and after hours all she had was a blank screen. What had happened to the time, what had happened to her words, where was her heart, where was her soul? Where did it go? One can never be certain of the time...
For many years this woman lived her life for others. In the process she lost herself. Her dreams, her hopes sat on the shelf, like dusty books....the bindings waiting to be cracked...you know those old dusty book, yes you have experienced them, they need to be read, they need to be opened....the bindings need to be broken, read time and time again. What happens to the books that are never read? The wisdom of the ages lost forever...
And on and on she sits and stares at the blank screen, waiting for the muse to come forward and in her exasperation she screams inside...longing for something new, something vibrant to break forth in glorious song, in heartfelt music, harmonious in the telling, playing a symphony of sounds....one chord building upon another until the melody overtakes the harmony and makes beautiful music...music that tells of the sounds of the soul...
And in her longing she realizes that the music can only be played with the beating of her own heart....her song...her heartsong...
And the beat goes on...
It began long ago when this woman stepped out of her cave and began to be aware of the world around her. There was so much to do and so little time in which to do it. The words swirlled around and around and after hours all she had was a blank screen. What had happened to the time, what had happened to her words, where was her heart, where was her soul? Where did it go? One can never be certain of the time...
For many years this woman lived her life for others. In the process she lost herself. Her dreams, her hopes sat on the shelf, like dusty books....the bindings waiting to be cracked...you know those old dusty book, yes you have experienced them, they need to be read, they need to be opened....the bindings need to be broken, read time and time again. What happens to the books that are never read? The wisdom of the ages lost forever...
And on and on she sits and stares at the blank screen, waiting for the muse to come forward and in her exasperation she screams inside...longing for something new, something vibrant to break forth in glorious song, in heartfelt music, harmonious in the telling, playing a symphony of sounds....one chord building upon another until the melody overtakes the harmony and makes beautiful music...music that tells of the sounds of the soul...
And in her longing she realizes that the music can only be played with the beating of her own heart....her song...her heartsong...
And the beat goes on...
Sunday, November 8, 2009
A Journey in Creative Disipline Day 1
I have been told by countless men and women that my voice is my creation. I have been told that I have a gift that must be shared with others. With that voice, I will earn my living; with that voice, I will sell books; with that voice, I can do anything that I desire to do. The world is my playground, and I can do, and yes if you will...must...write.
It has been difficult for me to write for the past eight years. The day that my father died was the day that I wrote my last poem. As much as I tried, the words would not come. Yet, the other day the poem came to me, my heart was touched and I knew that it was time for me to write again. The poem in search of inspiration is truly the first serious poem I have written in years.
Writing, for me, at this time in my life, is a discipline, requiring persistence and passion. It is my creative journey to the inner depths of my being. I begin the search for that creativity that has lain dormant for so very long. It reminds me of a caterpillar, lying in wait in the cocoon, waiting to be transformed into a butterfly. Freedom to express the beauty inherent in her being.
I am creative and passionate in my work. I engage with others to help them discover their passions, their creativity, their heart and soul. In the process I have lost myself so I am here to dig through the mush in the bog, slush through the
murky swamp to break free, to bask in the clear clean waters, sifting through the weeds, coming to the clarity of my vision.
I met a man yesterday who told me if I wrote everyday, on a blog, that eventually the damn would burst and I would be free. I am willing to do so, for that itchiness has been dwelling within me for a very long time. We shall see where this goes and what develops.
Because this is a discipline for me, I promise myself to write each and every day. Some of these days my words might have no meaning to anyone but myself. Other days I might touch someone with my experience. Occasionally I will post a poem that I have written in the past, as poetry is something that just comes. Actually when I used to write poetry, the words just flowed through, as if I were not writing at all. The pen just glided across the paper and voila....there was this birthing of words, that surprised even me...and so it was...
...in posting my blog, it is my hope to meet some like minded people, to have some constructive criticism and make some lasting friendships. I used to love to write and I hope that in doing as was suggested that this love will become a part of me again.
It has been difficult for me to write for the past eight years. The day that my father died was the day that I wrote my last poem. As much as I tried, the words would not come. Yet, the other day the poem came to me, my heart was touched and I knew that it was time for me to write again. The poem in search of inspiration is truly the first serious poem I have written in years.
Writing, for me, at this time in my life, is a discipline, requiring persistence and passion. It is my creative journey to the inner depths of my being. I begin the search for that creativity that has lain dormant for so very long. It reminds me of a caterpillar, lying in wait in the cocoon, waiting to be transformed into a butterfly. Freedom to express the beauty inherent in her being.
I am creative and passionate in my work. I engage with others to help them discover their passions, their creativity, their heart and soul. In the process I have lost myself so I am here to dig through the mush in the bog, slush through the
murky swamp to break free, to bask in the clear clean waters, sifting through the weeds, coming to the clarity of my vision.
I met a man yesterday who told me if I wrote everyday, on a blog, that eventually the damn would burst and I would be free. I am willing to do so, for that itchiness has been dwelling within me for a very long time. We shall see where this goes and what develops.
Because this is a discipline for me, I promise myself to write each and every day. Some of these days my words might have no meaning to anyone but myself. Other days I might touch someone with my experience. Occasionally I will post a poem that I have written in the past, as poetry is something that just comes. Actually when I used to write poetry, the words just flowed through, as if I were not writing at all. The pen just glided across the paper and voila....there was this birthing of words, that surprised even me...and so it was...
...in posting my blog, it is my hope to meet some like minded people, to have some constructive criticism and make some lasting friendships. I used to love to write and I hope that in doing as was suggested that this love will become a part of me again.
A poem in search of inspiration
A poem in search of inspiration
I lie in silence of the night,
the gentle rain plays music on the window panes
playing songs of joy, songs of love
I long to express my feelings, my thoughts
my heart, my soul
yet the words won't come
The softly falling rain turns to snow
I awake to watch the awe of nature
Snowflakes of such beauty
separate yet connected
Sailing on the breeze through the sky
I watch each delicate flake
a story to be told
yet the words won't come
I sit and stare at the beauty
the beauty of the snow gently swirling to the ground
filled with anticipation
knowing that within my soul
deep within the depths,
the depths of my inner being
there is something waiting,
yearning to break forth
yet the words won't come
the tears flow down my cheeks
salty to the taste
reminding me of days long past
yet the words won't come
and so I wait impatiently
knowing the time will come
the damn will break
the words will flow
yet the words won't come
I'll try again yet another night
to express my hungered longing
and as the night shifts into morning
perhaps the words will come
thalia (c) 2009
I lie in silence of the night,
the gentle rain plays music on the window panes
playing songs of joy, songs of love
I long to express my feelings, my thoughts
my heart, my soul
yet the words won't come
The softly falling rain turns to snow
I awake to watch the awe of nature
Snowflakes of such beauty
separate yet connected
Sailing on the breeze through the sky
I watch each delicate flake
a story to be told
yet the words won't come
I sit and stare at the beauty
the beauty of the snow gently swirling to the ground
filled with anticipation
knowing that within my soul
deep within the depths,
the depths of my inner being
there is something waiting,
yearning to break forth
yet the words won't come
the tears flow down my cheeks
salty to the taste
reminding me of days long past
yet the words won't come
and so I wait impatiently
knowing the time will come
the damn will break
the words will flow
yet the words won't come
I'll try again yet another night
to express my hungered longing
and as the night shifts into morning
perhaps the words will come
thalia (c) 2009
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