2009: Wishing you and your family & friends many blessings for this winter holiday!

From Sunday Scribblings' Weekly Challenge:

#146: Pilgrimage

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My Own Pilgrimage

I keep on (day)dreaming,
creating music with words
because I hear it around me
without needing anyone, anything
to guide me or teach me
those invisible notes on paper.

I keep on opening up my heart
to see the patterns within the folds
under the adipose tissue,
around the veins and arteries
just to see if I can unwrap it
and re-wrap it if it falls apart,
the edges fraying, the holes increasing
in diameter just as the wrinkles
on my skin increasing in length
and depth with age,
and I lost my vanity
and mind within them.

I keep on sending my prayers to the heavens,
weaving gratitude and distress and hope
with each AMEN from my lips
like passion eroding my soul,
and I am still hungry for freedom
and happiness...
The necklace of rosary beads
breaks in half to form a rope to the ceiling
of heaven, and each step is a hope
for life to be steady and strong,
and my will to not falter.

I am now taking on courage
as a keepsake for the new year,
a lucky charm for my heart,
a gentle Post-it reminder to the soul,
and to look into the eye of its beauty
is to face truth unabashedly
and accept that I am no longer
a girl, but a woman
with dreams, dignity, and dare--
life around the bend
is not as bad as it seems.

From Sunday Scribblings' Weekly Challenge:

#143: I believe...

In honour of the festive season, I think an appropriate prompt for this week is, "I believe..."

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I believe...

that heaven is a foot
in the door of everyone's souls,
but like a garden,
we have to tend to it and remove weeds.

that glimmers of hope
come in subtle miracles sometimes
too small to be seen or felt
until later--when our adrenaline
slows and we take time to breathe
and reflect.

that having courage
to show love is not a rush
down a waterfall
but through the reflection
of a still lake.

that we're made of
more than 75% water
and other times, dressed up
in waxed feathers
or lion fur prancing on
the yellow brick road.

that the present is a gift,
that the future is a surprise
to keep us guessing and choosing and deciding,
that the past is a diary under our pillow,
the locket around our neck--
our words, images, senses, laughter, and tears
like treasures we find and revisit
years later (when we're older) in the attic.