Real life love is not like fairy tale love. It does not absolve a person of their responsibilities, their cares, their troubles. It doesn't make it so that nothing bad ever happens. And it isn't often romantic.
Giddy-eyed passion inseparable is replaced by an ever-deepening friendship of two independent people. Love solves no problems. It only makes life richer and more complicated.
I took two totems and held them to myself one in my right pocket and one in my left for clenching tight in reminder while walking about of what's really important
a brass bull keychain strung to the keys that opened my home and made it mine for prosperity and material health and weighing down to the ground and a little hunk of lapis lazuli speckled through with golden glitters
for keeping bright blue and buoyant my spirit
the bull broke off its chain and left a dangling void a superfluous jangle wiggling on old keys turned in to an old landlord
the stone slipped out of my jacket pocket in a cab to the airport to a plane to the other side of the world
now of my totems but a short refrain and a memory's glitter remain
It is perhaps naive to believe in totems. To believe that one can will something into existence just by imbuing an object with its representation. If a brain, if a life do not want to hold those things yet, then the totems will simply slip out of one's pocket, forgotten.
Cacao trees are spectacularly beautiful. They love the humid, mountainous air near the equator, and the regular washings of rain.
Nestled in the understory of bigger forest trees, they sprout these colourful, magical pods out of their trunks and drape them over with big, shady leaves. It’s truly other-worldly.
Only fitting for the most magical food on earth!
And the intricate process of coaxing their bitter seeds into luxurious chocolate is a great marvel of modern industrialism. From harvesting, fermenting and drying the beans to roasting, conching, sweetening and tempering, chocolate has become a true labor of love.
A man to whom one has looked up with reverence is especially treasured. His strength, his masculinity, his ability to protect those he loves. And as he ages his loved ones notice a softness creeping in, which only belies the softy they always knew he was inside.
But nevertheless it is poignant to watch—even from afar—as a great man begins to wither. Ever so slightly. But wither. In his body only, not his mind. But wither.
No matter how big and bright and sparkling we make our lives, nature still calls to us. To be domed over by an indigo sky spangled with stars can calm even the most turbulent heart. Because nature connects us to the wordless part of ourselves. And no words = no worries.
It's nice to lie awake in the early morning while everyone else is still sleeping. To bask heavy in the sound of bodies inflating and deflating. Languishing in the subconscious, unfettered by obligation or chore. And to wonder what sweet dreams they're dreaming.
You can choose to race toward a predetermined end alongside a slew of equally eager competitors. And end up exactly where you decided to be, with a number fixed to your shirt and if you're lucky, a medal hung round your neck.
Or you can choose to wander off the track completely and see where it takes you. It might be dangerous. It might be lonely. It might be peculiar.
There are racers and there are gallumphers, I suppose.
The bed on which you sleep is full of memories. The sounds that swirl around, the light that filters in, the lumpiness or firmness of its cradling round your body, and the scent of the person with whom you share it becomes inextricably linked to that bed itself.
A couple in love graduates from bed to bed as they progress through ever-changing life circumstances. And the memories of those beds contain the memories of all the happy, miserable, beautiful, and strugglesome times that befell them in between all those sleeps.