Just like the ebb and flow of clouds, wisping through space, it can never be mentioned too many times our overwhelming connectedness.  The idea, in and of itself, is silly and perhaps, almost as cliche as we are.  But so are all truths.  And from down here, it’s hard to see you in me and me in you.  It’s difficult to decipher why she left him, why he sleeps alone, why she runs without stopping.  But from up there, it’s all space; it’s all movement.  And in a blink, it’s gone, just as quickly as it appeared.

With your moleskin planner chocked full of important dates, dreadful appointments, and grueling meetings you have regretfully stacked one on top of the other, you hold that majestic pen in your hand and with it, all of the decision-making power in the world.

And then the snow falls, first timidly.  Then, with a commanding wave of white, the town is unrecognizable, a child’s blanket being pulled up before he was ready for bed.  The streets are reverently quiet and that moleskin planner becomes lost in the abyss.

I’ve always wondered how she knows.  How she knows when we’re in over our heads, when our schedules are wound a little too tight, and when we need this chaos, this remarkable sense of disarray to serve as a subtle reminder that we are not as in control as we believe, and quite frankly, neither do we need to be.

this is an abstract for happiness, for our unseasoned developments, our surprising breadth.  the new year isn’t even here yet and I feel a sweeping satisfaction of place and well-being.

These are big steps for a child, reaching, grasping for film worlds and strange stars.  The cardboard box tunnels are too narrow; I try to sleep in them, but my knees rub against the sides and my ribs can feel the carpet between the flaps.  I go to take a stranger’s hand to lead me out, but it’s me, both pulling and climbing.

Remember when spinning in circles, repeatedly, without concern for caution, was how we got by?

and my dreams, they turn to whispers and float away with the wind

and my lover’s arms remind me there aint no reason to look again

Pittsburgh blizzards remind me of my inconsistency.  I cling to hope like a starfish on the beach, but the thing about hope is that it’s all about the search, the desperate yearning.  Once what you’ve hoped for has arrived, there’s no more hope, only thankfulness.  And I can spend every day of winter inside griping and groaning about the frigid wind and frozen ground, but once spring roles around, a piece of me misses the emptiness.  Despair is more acceptable than apathy, I suppose, and I say all of this to mean that I love someone very deeply, but sometimes I miss wishing for someone deeply.

-Shawn Corey Carter

there will be noise.

there will be glad.”

A year in passing, a year walking slowly and heavily through dark brush and reverent darkness.   I can hear the magnificence, I can feel the jubilant marching, I can smell the rising scent of feasts.  There are families, holding hands in prayer.  There are musicians, laughing and dancing to their own tunes.  There are birds cheering around an ocean of thankfulness swaying in the distance.

We’re growing.  We don’t know how or why, but there is movement.  And I know it’s forward when I can feel less remorse, when my sighs are heavy, not with regret, but with satisfaction, when God speaks in warm handshakes, when I long less to veil my eyes with a deep darkness.

Hope is often proclaimed, but never seen.  There is a certain blindness, that none of us can seem to escape.  Our heightened sense of hearing listens intently to the clang of vibrant tambourines.  They are out there, past the hanging trees and Devil’s walking sticks.  We can find them if we stay close.

They call it backsliding, but it’s really just sliding aimlessly; the direction is insignificant.

When every page is an incoherent draft, the book becomes blindingly blurry, tugging at the rear of your retinas like nails struggling out of wooden walls.  You know there is hope.  You remember learning your own significance.   You feel the echoes sharing grateful words, but they’re distant whispers, of which you can only hear feeble parts.  The radios cry salvation and children laugh outside.  A glorious revolution of thought and spirit will come, you tell yourself.  But the house is quiet now and the movement is subtle at best.  Our signals fade in and out of frequency, the red light’s blinking, and we’re here for only a few moments.

We’re spinning plates on the hands of a mysterious God.  Peace will come eventually, but we want our purpose now.  We want that gentle wind, and once you’ve breathed it in, you really know when it’s gone.