Growing

There is a certain self-awareness that comes with growing.

As babies, we discover our fingers and our toes, and are delighted with them, and our hunger and our tiredness, and are dismayed by them.

As little children we begin to discover what we like (ice cream) and don't like (peas), and what makes us happy (being loved) and unhappy (being denied).

As teenagers we are flooded with hormones and high school, and suddenly find our emotions, and have to carry them with us like an armful of balloons we are trying to manage in a strong wind.

And then, at some point in our lives, we grow to realize that we are not the only ones in the world, and that there is a bigger universe than the one we inhabit in our minds. We begin to grapple with the idea that every other human being has a life, and an internal dialogue, and a set of fingers and toes, likes and dislikes, emotions and dreams.

If we grow enough, we respect them. If not, we spend the rest of our lives cutting in front of other people in line, arguing vehemently for what we believe, and embracing our prejudices about what we don't.

The pinnacle of self-awareness is knowing who we are, and caring about who other people are. Truly growing up isn't really about ourselves at all, except for the part where we recognize our responsibility to be gentle with others.

October Dusk

it seemed appropriate that my first Blog post be a poem, since being a poet is pretty much what I'm all about.

There are some people... a whole lot of people, in fact... who write poetry. Some of it's good, a lot of it is bad, and some of it was never meant for anyone but the writer. I think there are only a few real poets, though, and sometimes they are just poets in the soul, and never really write any verse at all.

Cooking dinner can be a poetic action, if the smell of garlic and lemon and rosemary on your palms moves you, and someone you love is waiting to be fed. Pigeons scrambling across the pavement when you cross the street, waves breaking on the shore, the sound of church bells, the sunrise or the sunset, the soft little grunting sound the dog makes when he's joyfully asleep... all can be poetic moments, and may or may not be called upon to fight their way onto paper.

This one did.

OCTOBER DUSK

Caramelized sky, melted day.
The smell of wet brown.
Soft that clings to light,
yearns to sink itself inside
the night
fallen open.

Talk to you later.

- Ronda