Go outside and stand on the porch. Let the refreshing wind kiss your face. Listen to the trees as they laugh and sway. Welcome the sound of insects’ singing lullabies as the sun lowers itself into sleep. Bask in the beauty that is a changing sky. Reflect on the rich hues, reds, and orange-golds and let the sweetness of nature wash over you. Eat the meal you love without punishment. Something so savory it melts on your tongue. Let it fill you like a cup of hot chocolate on the first day of winter. Drink water. Bathe. Make sure the water’s hot and marinate in Epsom salt. Wash off the worries of the world. Drift into peace like someone swimming. Wear something comfortable to bed. Something that will hold your body like your grandmother’s hugs. Make the room completely dark and close your eyes. Feel the drum of your heartbeat prophesy that you are still alive. Touch your chest and feel the vibrations underneath your fingers. You are still here. Calm the chaos of your mind and focus on your breath. Breathe deep. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Now let your soul rest.
There is a popular saying “the sky is the limit.” It is used to display the belief that you can go high, as far up as the sky. I disagree with this saying because the sky is not the limit. There are elements beyond even the sky. You can stop at the sky or you can go above and beyond it. I want to use this as an example in today’s podcast for the potential for us to do great things without being limited. The sky is not the limit. You are.
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Who can regret the wind’s chill and the smell of the air in the spring when the sun sets? I love it when the heavens bleed crimson with splashes of leftover daylight prophesying hints of yellow like screaming oracles; burnt orange clouds cementing inside the belly of the sky. I love the way birds defy the darkness to find refuge in the path of light, soaring on the backs of colors like they were some tangible thing and how beige highlights swing low like sweet chariots. Even the wind rejoices in the sunlight’s shadows bouncing off the concrete. It hopes to capture as much of its essence as possible before it retires into its chamber. Whether you’re driving home from work or sitting on the front porch mesmerized by the brisk wind, the silence of nightfall, and the sky, it’s the little things that bring calm. Let it fill your empty. Turn your distress into dancing, solemn into singing. Good night.
Welcome back to another episode of Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge as hosted by Colleen of Silver Threading and Ronovan of Ronovan Writes. Now, I drafted this post as a piece of creative writing in general at first as part of another prompt. Then I thought to myself, “Wonder what the writing theme is today?” That’s when I went to Colleens blog and found Mystery. “Cool! I was already writing about the mysterious fog.” So, below is my creative piece and writer’s quote.
Dear fog, your kind of a mystery. I mean, what’s going on in there? I imagine its like when the clouds rise from their heavenly thrones like marching bands just to see what the ground feels like. Like when angels bow and secret themselves in the blanket of the air. Something familiar enough for the humans to recognize without fear. Fog. That moment when spirit meets earth in search of its other half. Floating its way through time wrapped in clouds and smelling of forever. I wonder if we become one with eternity just by walking through you. Like hands dipped in hope; the smell of expectation against our noses; a taste of courage on our tongues.
I think the Earth and everything around it is connected – the sky and the planets and the stars and everything else we see as a mystery.– Marion Cotillard
Have you ever walked outside at dusk and noticed all the colors in the sky? The way the moon just bleeds crimson bright; splashes of daylight prophesying hints of yellow like screaming oracles, and burnt orange autumns that cements itself inside the belly of the sky. The way that birds defy the darkness to find refuge in the path of light, soaring on the backs of indigo clouds or beige highlights swinging low like sweet chariots. Even the wind rejoices in the shadows of the moonlight bouncing off the concrete. As for me, I can’t take my eyes off the sky. I wish only to pull up a chair, dip my hands into a bowl of moon; sip it slow like a glass of Sauvignon on Saturday night when my resting has come to an end; let it fill my empty; turn my distress into dancing.