The Soft Edge of Dark

Moments are forced upon us though we forge our own paths.

There are possibilities and false leads in every direction.

The outcome is never an absolute and regret or relief might both result.

The soft edge of dark lures us into the void then leaves us waiting, alone.

This is what chokes our airways, stanches our blood.

 

It’s the response we choose that makes us who we are – hero, fool, supplicant.

Knowing that the future is always a mystery grants us courage or makes us cower.

Success is a triumph one day, an accusation the next, a mourner over the open grave.

It slices our souls. It pools our tears. It makes us human.

This is what sears our minds, opens our hearts to prayer.

 

Just a thought 79

 

Landscape painting by Orson Pratt Huish, courtesy Wikipedia

 

 

 

Like a Broken Vase

I hurried, my hip glanced the table. The vase fell.

I hurried, I spoke too soon. The person to whom I spoke was hurt by my caustic words.

I am an imperfect person. I am deeply flawed.

The only staff that keeps me standing is understanding that so is everyone else.

I take no joy in discovering their flaws, but I know I can improve my conduct.

In their weeping eyes I see the reflection that is me, the disappointment, the criticism, the judgment. Their sorrow.

And the possibility that if I wake in the morning, I can try again. To repair and apologize, to expand my view and extend my palm, to lift them so I may be lifted as well.

Like the broken vase. Even knowing the cracks in the porcelain will still show, and will deflate the value of the vase, and will ever be the flaw that makes the vase vulnerable to breaking again, still I can repair it. Or try.

In the scattered shards lies a promise to fix what is broken.

So, to that person injured by the burn of my careless words, I am truly sorry.

Sometimes it’s the only thought that lets me sleep at night. That, and prayers.

 

 

Just a thought 48

 

 

The Broken Pitcher, 1891, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, courtesy Wikimedia Commons