Half and Half

I've never really liked half and half.
My morning is brew is dark,
black, and true.
Adding half of anything
will leave me wanting.
A clear, dark cup
is what I need.

Half of you speaks
to me, while the other
half sits in the corner.
And I've never been one
to ignore the whole.

Only half of your smile beams.
Half the words you say fall
to the floor.
One strange hand and one
so familiar.
I've never been one
to ignore the whole.

Places and Things

Silence and Solitude

To give thanks in solitude is enough. Thanksgiving has wings and goes where it must go. Your prayer knows much more about it than you do.

- Victor Hugo

Returning to solitude is a bumpy road. It's the drive home from the airport after a great vacation. It's unlocking the door to your apartment, stirring the dust, and finding the rotting food in the fridge. It's coming back to the place where you know you belong, but have no initial desire to be. After you throw your bags on the bed, vowing to unpack later, and set yourself on the couch, the first things to be noticed are the sounds. 

These are the sounds you live with every day. You never notice them. They are the definition of familiarity, and they are also the definition of complete comfort. 

The clock on the wall ticks an hour behind, forgotten in the shuffle of daylight savings. The cars on the street and the many languages that pass on the sidewalk below create an ebb and flow as they pass by. When one fades, another will come. The creaks of the tenants above, below, and beside intermittently interrupt this silence that has been so long ignored that it has become foreign. 

This is the silence that forces us to face ourselves and who we are. 

This is the silence that is so often filled with the noise of the world in attempt to avoid the moment when we look, we see, and we are unable to bear the reflection before us. 

We are always the ones who allow this silence to be strangled. Its breath choked away, we move on. This is the act of ignoring what is required of us.

Solitude and silence require much. They are greedy twins with grasping fingers, clawing at the remnants of our time, priorities, and strength. These two demand strength. They demand bravery. They absolutely demand courage. 

They command us to look at ourselves, 

                                                                         and keep looking,

                                                                                                                   despite what we see.           

They command us to forgive ourselves, 

                                                                        and keep forgiving,

                                                                                                                  despite our capacity forgive.

They absolutely command us to love ourselves,

                                                                            and keep loving,

                                                                                                                  despite our ability to love.

Returning to solitude is a bumpy, strenuous, and completely necessary road home.