9000 Words

Thinking back to a sunny summer afternoon, I recall an enjoyable starboard tack heading west. Although I’m still unsure sure what came over me. What ever it was it did involve a moment of mental conflict. Looking your way I wondered could he really swim. I was uncertain, and could not remember ever witnessing this skill. Yet there he was sailing in his speedo. And why on earth was he the only person I can think of who wore a competition swimsuit to go sailing. At the time it was more than my young mind could tolerate. I thought to my self, for goodness sakes every one else is wearing shorts! But there he was looking so content; Old Style in one hand, tiller in the other. Where other people on the boat? I can’t recall, but it seems there were? None of this mattered; the important thing at hand was a sequence of actions that needed perfection. One hand for the Old Style, (and he gave it so willingly I must have asked really nicely), second hand for the center of his chest, becaus

To pursue A hart full of grace. One sometimes finds Them selves impeded  By some sort of sludge. And to deliver on ones desire Requires half the battle of what You wish to acquire.

Photo credit:  Scott Cain With dreams of vacation in the most desolate places January’s glimmer gives way to a new rite of Purification  Though I never could consider her as dismal March  It is all she has to look forward to.  When frozen mud rules  I like W. Ethelbert must work to survive. 

But it seems the truth has never existed, and yet it's so hard to disprove. So I guess I'm only blathering out of my own.

Either way you can embrace the storm in all it's fullness, or escape to protected waters. Beyond the storm, emptiness remains and you are still as much a prisoner as the rest of us. Photo credit:  Scott Cain