They say so many things, in their infinite wisdom.

Sitting around a table in a large boardroom, perhaps?

A microphone in the center, transmitting their knowledge

right into our ears.

We never see their faces.

Never get the chance to engage in dialogue.

We don’t even hear their voices, just the echo of them

through other people’s second-hand reporting.

They speak, and nobody actually hears,

but everybody listens.

[scs_alt]

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That’s often not how

the most important things

make themselves heard.

A calling.

A true & loyal love.

Truth.

Instead of a thunderclap,

you’re likely to hear

a whisper.

Or perhaps more likely,

not to hear it.

Some of us,

instead of falling madly,

gradually wander into love.

No fanfare.

No booming voice of God.

Just a quiet whisper,

a still small voice.

A gentle tug.

Which is why it pays

to practice

listening

with your heart.

[scs_alt]

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Mostly it feels like never.

The paint will never dry,

the pot will never boil.

Really, though, it’s just

that the Universe has

a very different notion

of time.

And this notion applies

differently to each of us

as well.

I have a friend who met

her husband on her first

internet date. Apparently

the Universe deemed me

not ready until I’d been

on over 57.

Long? Short? Those are

not the right questions.

[The answer is:]

When it’s right.

[scs_alt]

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What’s it all about? I still don’t know,

but I think I’m getting an inkling.

The smile in your lover’s eyes.

The rumble of your cat’s purr.

It’s pushing through the hard,

reaching down into that black hole

to pull out you know not what.

Peeling open the layers sheltering your heart,

so its beat beat beat gleams bright

in the eyes of someone else,

even though it feels like free falling.

It is, in fact.

But there is no ground.

So let yourself fall.

[scs_alt]

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Inside my skull is painted with chalkboard paint,

and phantom fingernails have been scraping all day long.

All my First World problems are like feathers, fluffy down,

and I’m not even allergic.

But I’m still a rusty wrench,

a leaky faucet,

a fraying shoelace that will not thread through its grommet.

Namaste my foot.

I’m mud and peeling paint

and a streaky windshield.

Harumph.

[scs_alt]

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