Silhouettes

(August 12, 2020)

I kind of have an obsession with silhouettes. When hanging out with me past 6 o’clock, you’ll usually find my eyes drifting onto the edges of mountains, to the arms of trees, or to the top points of buildings. I’ll stare at humans in the distance jumping and playing, and I swear I can hear the laughter and shouts coming from them though I’m a mile away. I know not their name or life, but I know them to be the timeless spirits of human beings living their beautiful life.

A silhouette is a meek yet bold sort of thing. It is as if the spirit of the object is humbly saying, “here I am in my truest form.” My eyes notice no color or discolor, no rip or mend, no living or dead leaf, no broken or fixed window, but simply the spirit of the object itself: the spirit of the building, the spirit of the tree, the spirit of a human. The silhouette does not ask to be looked at, it does not flicker any light at your eye, and yet, when you notice it (the edges, the bold points against the backdrop of blue and yellow hues), it’s as if the object rewards you for noticing. It shows you its truest, most basic form, a timeless form, that will be taken on again by another tree, another building, or another human after it. It no longer stands as a colorful dot on the horizon, but it becomes a part of the bigger shape of this earth; it becomes an edge to this universe.

Winter And Fall

(November 14, 2019)

Would you think I was crazy if I told you

I thought there was more life in the winter?

Breathing the cold air is like smoking a peppermint breeze.

Would you think I was weird if I felt

There were more dimensions in the fall?

Between the shadows of the clouds and the colors in the leaves.

Would you think it strange if it brought me joy,

Because I had an excuse to be melancholy,

And no matter my sadness, I was at least happier than the weather?

Maybe it’s because the cold gives excuses for comfort

And the need for someone’s warmth?

It allows for slow-paced living

And no guilt in “wasted opportunities.”

I Envy Her Freedom

(May 7, 2019)

I’ve always wanted to travel. To fly with the wind and blow with the sand. To wear boots that crunch and have tough hands that climb. To have dirt on my pants and clothes that withstand. 

I watch her life. She is not tied down. Her hair is always a little tangled, and her face looks wrinkled and freckled by the sun. Her naked eyes dance because of the things she’s seen. 

I want to be her, and yet, I don’t. She’s always traveling. In fact, I don’t know if she’s ever stopped, settled, been faithful. They say she’s flighty. She’s unreliable. She wants to be where things are happening, not where things have happened. She has no roots. She’s never stayed anywhere long enough to let them grow. I’ve always kind of envied her in a sense. No obligations, no expectations, no one waiting up for you, no need to “follow through.”... freedom.

Is that freedom? Freedom from what? People?

She has people around her, but only when she wants—she finds them when they will get her from point A to point B. They have become her trains, her cars, her roads. 

She has seen many things. I have longed to have her eyes, her ears, her nose. I wish to have seen those same scenes, heard those same sounds, sniffed those same scents. She has hungry eyes that are never quite satisfied.

But maybe it’s not so much about the quantity of what you see but the quality? I am not entirely convinced, but maybe I’m onto something. To see every type of terrain and culture must be something quite breathtaking and informing... but at the same time, to have the eye quickly pass over something must also mean that you missed the hidden nuances of both beauty and ugliness found within those things.

One might be informed from their experience, but to be changed and enlightened is entirely different—this requires immersion. This requires roots to grow. This requires quality of experience; it requires time, obligation, dependency, reliability. To learn and be learned from, requires commitment and hardship. You have to sit amongst a culture to understand it; you have to participate in a community to grow from it. Observing from afar can give us an impression too easily manipulated by our own lens of interpretation. The same goes for a place. A person who walks every street will know the crevices of a city and the stones that make it strong. The one who flies over that same city will know it, but only to a certain degree—by the tops of its buildings.

So I guess establishing roots and settling in one place for a while, doesn’t mean you see less, it just means you see different. You may not see the layer of dirt that covers the mountains in the west to the valleys in the east, but instead, you see every grain of sand that reaches down far below the surface. You know each rock and pebble that tightly pushes and faithfully holds your roots. And you see and feel the water under the surface that fills those roots, making them satisfied and thriving. And these are the things that are missed when she doesn’t stay long enough to let herself settle in and grow with her surroundings. And these “pebbles” and “rocks” and “water,” are people and obligations and hardship.

But I guess a person is always giving up something at the cost of another. Quality versus quantity, and to each their own.

My Body

(December 23, 2016)

It's funny, I do think I know my body... this garment that covers my soul. Though, I have found that I know it only in part. I understand it solely because of the countless times I’ve looked over it, seeking to find imperfections in order to fix them. It wasn't till tonight that I had realized that never before had I studied my body, simply to know the perfections. Never had I looked in the mirror to study and observe my eyes, my brows, my nose, lips, cheeks, or chin.

God could have given me any arrangement of these structures, and yet He specifically gave me these ones, those that build what seems to be a face, my face. Would I know a picture of my hand, my hair, my shoulders, feet, nails, or silhouette because it was a familiar form I had looked over for 20 years, eyes trained to notice the usual imperfections? Or would I notice that it was mine because only I owned that trait? This was not a body I happened upon, but a body that was uniquely designed and chosen for my soul. I should learn it; I should know it. There is beauty held within this body. In every line, scar, and detail. This beauty to be acknowledged is not one of vanity, as if it was an accomplishment I attained. No, it was handcrafted by the one above and given to me, and it is just as much a part of this breathtaking creation as any other part. Should I not also study it in complete amazement as I would any other part of creation? My body, too, is a stunning miracle.