Years since last I'd done so, I took leisure at leaning back against the only remaining oak tree left standing in front of my grandmother's house.
I've often returned to this place in hopes that her spirit might somehow impart wisdom unto me, whilst I stood beneath the branches which shielded me from the sun of so many youthful summers.
I took note that the winter winds blowing my hair across my face reminded me of a passage I read just hours before, so I closed my eyes so that I might have a few seconds to take in the sensation of being connected to the author.
My pleasant musings were interrupted by the sound of dozens of geese flying overhead in typical triangular formation.
Quilting was Grandmother's passion, with the "goose triangle" being the pattern she most liked to utilize in her designs.
"Quilting is an artistic representation of the relationship between love and life, not just fabric and thread; warming you from the love put into each stitch, not the heat generated by the covering of the body," she wrote beneath a colorfully decorated sketch of a quilt she didn't live long enough to complete.
As the geese passed without taking note of my pleading gaze, I whispered into the chilled air "let the Dakinis guide you," and hoped Grandmother would also pay heed to my request.
The sky cleared of the passing birds and I waited still for an answer. I noticed then a lone goose circling widely above me, left behind by the others. I forgot for a moment my want for answers and instead took pity upon the creature, relating how I, too, often felt lost in my solitary travels.
Connectivity in experience of both animal and man is ever present, though our eyes have been blinded by our own conjectures of dominion. Yet had Grandmother often directed my sight towards proof that our steps are in unison with the movement of the Earth and all of its inhabitants.
I silently prayed then that the abandoned traveler would let the winter sun act as compass and direct her towards those who had long sense flew into distances unseen.
Hearing then a single call from the direction of the deserting flock came one single bird.
Her wings rising and falling in what I imagined was fueled by both instinct and divine purpose.
Both geese began circling the area just above me and i left the protection of the familiar tree.
Stepping out into the clearing, and with voyeuristic view, watched the dance of flight between the two.
Only seconds fell away as the birds came closer together in flight. Then, without sound of call heard, the two took leave into the opposite direction of the gaggle of geese which now they were separated, albeit together, from.
I watched as they closely raised wings and height in unison, in search of waters and refuge and smiled at having witnessed their elopement.
After coupled minutes elapsed, I walked back towards the Oak, put gloves in pocket, then placed my fingertips upon the bark and felt a sense of peace in knowing my answer had been given.
If we are ever to find the partner which leads us safely to water, who forgoes the safety of that which is the norm just to ensure we are not lonesome nor without nourishment, we must first allow ourselves the freedom to fly alone in deserted skies.
Faith that our wings will not tire before we are joined in flight will grant us the pleasure of feeling the warmth of sunlight upon our backs as the wind carries us onward, if only until the moment when our companion, at last, arrives.
My accent has never been indicative of the location in which I was raised.
My tone inflections have lead others to mistake my identity, at times even my ethnicity, until such time as they laid eyes upon me.
So perhaps when I prayed, God didn't recognize my voice, confused me with someone else or the droning noise of a demanding world discomposed his comprehending, as it seemed he confused my plea for a "happy ending," to mean each time I loved, I would invariably thank God it was "happILY ending."
Certainly God could not have thought that I prayed for this solitary existence, that what I desired as that happiness spanned such a short amount of time. Or perhaps God thought he knew my mind better than me. Though I focus on introspection, I've never really got comfortable with myself internally. So maybe God put his plan into action rightfully, without my consent nor my approval.
Or perchance God didn’t want to be responsible for my downfall from grace or wrongfully thought my heart was invincible, but his faith in my strength was misplaced, as I truly am not that strong.
They say you shouldn’t question God’s plan, but I confess, sometimes I wonder if tales of his omnipotence, failed to take into account that God, like so many others, simply didn’t understand my accent.
When weathered skin marked like scars from age is stretched across arthritic bones, I still will want to warm your fingers with the heat I've known from clasp of hands in silence.
When pillow rest beneath grayed hair while you dream of youth and spring, the sunset upon your face will be as breathtaking to me as those nights we spent off the Bali Coast when first we fell in love.
And though my heart might fill with grief as our life together comes to a close, I will voice no regrets, nor goodbyes, rather I'll whisper to you the poems I rehearsed while you slept in my arms throughout these years.
I will shelter you from every hell, I will wet your lips with ice, No outer hate will affect us, As we'll be hidden from the world, Lost within the gaze of each others' eyes.
Looked up from the pan of fish I'd been up frying until nearly 3am to ask if she wanted one piece or two. But before I could smile, she said "I can't stand bitches like you, thinking we need for you to save us."
I looked down at her two sons, about the age of my own daughters and back up to eyes filled with disgust, trying to diffuse the situation and asked if she'd prefer to get it herself. Turned the tongs backwards & reached out, and she slapped them out of my hand.
"See, that's exactly the shit I mean. You can't explain yourself so you just pass it back off to me." So often we are steeped in our own histories and too consumed by animosity to eat what's given to us by those who can't see beyond what they're offering.
I thought to tell her I'd been on the receiving side of a similar shelter food line, but there are times when trying to identify serves only to further divide the lines between yourself and those who are in need
So rather than turn it back to a story about me and what I'd been through, I simply picked back up the tongs and said "I'm just here to serve you, so ma'am what will it be, one piece or two?"
She bitingly asked "why can't I have three or four? Your fat ass planning on taking some of this home with you?" And I thought to tell her how I'd saved up money for weeks, went without life's pleasantries, took food from my own freezer and cabinets to ensure a shelter with no funds had enough to feed everyone in the line.
But the point of servitude is not in attempting to garner the gratitude of the people in your line, rather it's to give selfishly and many times there will come no time for hugs and thanks no photo opportunities, no warm feeling from the community that you feel led to help.
So, again, I said "one piece or two," as I placed four pieces upon her plate, whispered to her "now this is just between me and you" and winked.
She smirked at me and took her time to move down the line, before she took her tray and sat down in the corner with her two young kings following closely behind her.
I looked from pan up to the next woman in line and asked "one piece or two" and the line moved on and on.
