Be a quill to the story you tell
Let it pen
Gentle words
Let it write
Soaring scrolls
As your life
Grows
Unveils
Hidden folds.
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Writing
Heart Tethers
Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev
There’s a tether that connects the hearts of care, the souls of kindness. It is tangible. It is sublime. It has a quality of light which bridges time and place, happenstance and circumstance.
It is not about words. Or at least not exactly. It is the way one can be seen: if known by name or face or only by the recognition of a shared humanity. It is the way one can be heard: by action or response, reflection or emotion, by prayer and by thought. It is the way we all are one, essentially, affected by the pains and joys that grip even those whom we may not know, and yet are part of us, in one way or another.
There is a tether that fetters heartbeats to the expressions of another. It is seen in young and old as mirror neurons and empathy weave the tapestry of wisdom and pulse with compassion.
There is a tether interlinking who we each are with who we can be. It exists in sharp relief to whom we might become if we risk the loss of that which nourishes what ticks within.
“It is a chain to care,” some say, reluctant of obligation. “A leash. A hindrance to independence.”
Not so, for it is not restraint, but rather a foundation. A cornerstone of interconnection. We are none of us truly an island, and all part of a shared future: the air, the earth, the water, the resources, the young and old, the hearts and minds.
For The Daily Post
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Your Music
Photo: Pinterest
Find the string of life
That thrums within you
And play your music –
Bold or timid
Loud or soft,
It is unlike any other
Ever heard
Yet
As eternal
And familiar
As the beat that drums
Inside all living
Chests.
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Bridge of Courage
Even the safest bridge
Is no small feat
For little feet!
No small feat; Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein
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To Be Free
For all who sail
Across the sky
On stormy sea
To be near to
To be free
May you be.
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Dish Dash
She walked into the house to a flurry of activity: broom in one set of hands, brush in the other. Guilty faces. Unidentifiable smell.
“What…?”
“He started.”
“She told me!”
The woman narrowed her eyes and scanned the room. The counter looked okay. No scorch marks. No splatter on the stovetop and walls like the last time when they had experimented with tomato lava. A foot in pink sock moved in the periphery of her vision and she lowered her gaze to the floor: the toes had attempted to nudge away a white bit of something. Paper?
She sniffed. What was that smell. She knew it from someplace … reminded her of dusty flea markets. Like old ceramics. Ceramics? Ceramics!
The distance to the garbage pail was covered in one giant step, arm already extended to reveal … a heap of shards, jagged shiny white, all sizes.
To the cabinet, still unbelieving: Bowls, mugs, cups. A suspiciously bare corner.
Little feet shuffled, oh so guilty.
There were no plates in the sink. None in the dishwasher.
“What have you done?”
They spoke over each other. “He did it She told me to We had a Greek wedding …”
“…so we had to break the plates,” the younger one emphasized with more hope than conviction. Even at not-quite-four-years-old he knew he was in trouble.
As for the seven-year-old? No added confirmation was required beyond how this child who disappears whenever there’s anything resembling cleaning up, had gotten herself voluntarily busy with the broom.
She shook her head, too stunned to truly feel angry. Yet.
“Where’s your big sister?” The fifteen-year-old was supposed to be watching the younger ones. She better have an explanation!
Chins tilted in the direction of the basement. Eager to shift blame. Muffled sounds filtered through the closed door. She listened. The tune was eerily befitting.
“Doing what?” … even though she already knew the answer.
The little one piped up. “She watching big fat Greek one wedding!”
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Journey Back, Journey On
As you travel paths of current days, new plans … remember times of past: The journeys never taken, the ones you had and wish you hadn’t, the ones you had and would again, the ones still left to seek and find.
Recall the feel of face against the window, the mist of breath on glass, the passing scenery, the whoosh of trucks, the sway of train, the rock of boat, the hum of plane.
Revisit muted conversations, real or invented, arguments and whining, complains and “I spy” games, “she’s touching me” and “99 bottles” songs.
Sensations, shared or private. Fall-asleep-legs, sticky vinyl against summer skin, hair in eyes, road grit, sweet treats, cold drinks. The heaviness of someone’s slumber on your shoulder, the lull of road weighing your own lids down.
And music. Radioed or piped through earphones. Sang loudly, hummed, internally known, ignored. The way the beat or words or both matched blur of blacktop under wheels or rain on windshield; the way it sometimes did not match at all.
Be still. Be rocked. Be moved. Be carried.
Allow yourself to be transported, taken back, imagined forward.
On this journey, your commute through life.
For The Daily Post
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Too Sweet To Eat!
There is no nibble urge so great
As that
Which clasps
With “awwww”
So sweet
At very sight
Of newborn
Feet …
Photo: Yisca Freedman
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Plane Wisdom
Photo: Pinterest
On gloomy days
That sap the light
And leave your soul forlorn
In life’s overcast,
Remember:
Above the darkest, densest clouds
Still shines
The brilliant sun.
For The Daily Post
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Ogunquit Duet
“Ogunquit Duet”
I took this photo in Ogunquit, Maine, during the summer of 2009, as hurricane “Danny” rolled in. Air and water mixed into a mist of gray, as the ocean roiled closer and closer to the buildings and the clouds kissed the waves.
The beach was deserted other than for some miserable looking seagulls who huddled as near the building as they could … and the brave soul who attempted a stroll against the edge of the storm … pushing forward with the umbrella not as rain shield but as barrier against the driving wind.
A moment after I took this photo, the tension broke as a gust whipped the umbrella up and over this person’s head, almost turning them into a kite. A dance ensued: The human tried to turn the umbrella sufficiently into the wind so they could close it; the wind buffeted each duck and weave maneuver with rain, wet sand, and foamy mist.
“Danny” won.
Na'ama Yehuda 
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