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Don’t let it slip away

Don't let it slip away

Writer’s make the worst editors, that’s what they say . . . The previous post proves them right. Different colors, fixed typo.

Sleepless

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The sun has
long since set.

The midnight hour
has already begun
to surrender reign
to the approaching
dawn.

With heavy eyes,
I abide in silence
while the sun
stirs from slumber.

The night has been
so very long.

I fear this new day
may linger past its
appointed hour
as well.

What unseen thief has
has robbed me of repose?

I pray this season of unrest
is soon quelled.

I yearn to be lost in dream.

I long to have the ebony sky
blanket me in the mysteries
it holds.

To be swept away on a
moon beam odyssey
is my fondest desire.

Stirring thoughts
keep the lullaby
of peaceful solace
from me.

Rambling notions stumble,
one upon another
in desperate measure
to be heard,
refusing to be ignored.

Fingers of light
have begun to reach
into my night veiled realm.

They beckon me
to arise and frolic,
but the night does not
willingly release
its embrace.

I will soon enough rise
and move about the day,
though my innermost
essence is weary,
I will remain steadfast.

When this day’s ebbing sun
takes another evening bow,
I will once more retreat
to the comfort
of my darkened room
and pray through the night
for the hush of perfect solitude
to encompass me.

Insanity

Madness
is when
normalcy
fades into
twilight oblivion

Under crimson skies
delusions arise

Warped visions
we cannot see
play out
in the
static film
that covers
our eyes

Voices whisper
words we can’t
hear
though their
meaning
is clear

Truth is
cleverly
cloaked
for every
blind eye
to see

The sage
is a jester
selling dementia
like candy
for nothing
more than
your sanity

Crystal R. Cook

The Chinese Bamboo Tree ~ A lesson of love and patience.

I ran across something I wrote quite some time ago, when my oldest was around 18. My intent was to bring hope and encouragement to those who work so very hard, wondering if and when they will ever see the fruits of their labor. I was thinking of my fellow autism mommies as I penned the words, but now, as I read them again, I see they can be suited for just about anything in our lives.

I suppose it’s really about never giving up, even when it looks like we are working in vain . . .

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All children are unique; they learn and grow at their own pace. Almost 25 years ago, a seed was planted, a new life. My son. I was told he would never reach the heights other children would. I cared for him, nurtured and taught him, just as I would had I not been told such a thing. Today, he stands tall and proud. While others said my efforts were in vain, I was cultivating and tending to the growth that would sustain him throughout his life.

When his brother was born I faced even more challenges, and while tending to my garden I learned many, many lessons. Thinking upon all they have taught me, I am reminded of something so simple in its complexity, the Chinese bamboo tree. They say bamboo is one of the strongest of trees. It seems hard to believe when you look at it. Tall and skinny, easily bent – but not broken, the Chinese bamboo tree is an amazing thing.

Once you plant the tiny seed it doesn’t take long before you see growth sprouting through the damp earth amongst the other trees and plants surrounding it.

It requires care as all plants do. After quite some time passes, you notice everything else has grown and blossomed and the tiny bamboo seed you carefully placed beneath the soil, the one supposed to become so tall and strong, doesn’t seem to have grown much at all. It shows no signs of becoming the hearty bamboo you expected it to be. Of course you still care for it and nurture it because it was your seed, you planted it. Sometimes though, you doubt this fledgling tree will become what you hoped it would one day be.

Then comes a time when you finally see the growth you’d been hoping for and quickly it reaches the grand height of eighty feet. It is strong and you are proud. Those who had doubted and made light of your long suffering faith in that one little seed are astounded. While the seeds they planted grew quickly and bloomed with great beauty, they were not as strong and stately as your bamboo.

While they basked in the success of their gardens and you toiled in yours, an intricate root system was forming beneath the surface. Years of unseen growth and progress resulted in a strong foundation, strong enough to hold the bamboo that would stand tallest among the rest.

Sometimes, we don’t always see the fruits of our labor. Sometimes we wonder if everything we do matters, if all our hard work will make a difference. It’s easy to become discouraged when you don’t see results and change and progress, but you have to remember, just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.

Our children are like that bamboo tree. Their growth is often slow, but we keep doing what we do every day. We tire and we grow weak, but even though doubt tries to steal away with our hope, we continue to nurture and care for them.

We may not see the results of our labor for many years, sometimes we need to be reminded that while we are above the surface hard at work, there is a foundation of strength and knowledge being built below us and one day, our children will stand tall and we will be rewarded with their every success.

They will grow to be strong enough to withstand the greatest of winds because they have the power to bend . . . but not break.

I have learned many lessons in life; this was among the most valuable.

Crystal R. Cook

Anxiety . . .

Anxiety  . . .

Every now and then I try to capture in words what anxiety feels like, I’ve yet to succeed. I hope when I do, it remains trapped, words upon a page I can fold up and be rid off . . . 

Chaos amidst calm.

I try
to understand,
to overcome,
but screams
of silence
no one else
can hear,
echo within me,
surrounding me.
They fill the air,
denying me
breath.

Inside I tremble,
falling to my knees
at the foot of despair,
pleading the silent
cacophony to end.

Afraid to open
my eyes and see
I’ve been seen,
my hidden fears
revealed.

Do they hear the
beating of my heart
racing to the edge
of my false reality,
threatening
to fail?

Do my eyes
reveal my angst?
Can they
see the sweat
glistening upon
my brow?

How can I fear
nothing?

I know
there is
something
to be feared.

I know
there is
nothing
to fear.

Still,
I crumble.

Around me,
normalcy.

Everything
the same.

Nothing
out of place.

Balance
undisturbed,
and yet . . .

It wells up,
flows through veins,
fills the heart,
clouds the mind,
squeezes the soul.

It is nothing,
yet I fear it
and the fear
consumes me.

A fear that has
not name
nor reason.

I find no refuge
until it’s taken
just enough
to leave me
a little more
shattered
than before,
fearing not
the fear itself,
but it’s
return.

Crystal R. Cook

You better lock it up, buddy –

My husband usually comes home from work and comfortably slips into the same routine. He puts his motorcycle away, greets the doggies who are always at the door to welcome him home. He asks me how my day was as he takes off his boots, then changes into comfy clothes and grabs the remote to chill out for a while. Yesterday was different.

He came home, put away his motorcycle, greeted the doggies and asked me how my day was, but instead of taking off his boots, he sat down, phone in hand, and started playing a game. He doesn’t typically play games. At first, I thought he was simply tending to a text or looking up the best gas prices nearby, but then I heard the distinct sounds of gaming gunfire, sounds I usually only hear coming from the kid’s rooms.

I was busy writing, well, checking Facebook, but I was writing between the status updates and silly videos that required attention, but this is my story so we’re going to go with writing and make me sound more productive than I was actually being. I went back to what I was doing . . . I mean, working on. At least I tried to.

Listening to him play that game was completely commanding my attention, so much so, I could do nothing but listen at first. Then, I remembered I had a certain skill I could put to perfect use, transcription. I must say, this transcribing session was harder than most. I missed much of what was being said while trying not to laugh. The following is a basic transcription of my husbands one-sided dialogue while shooting zombies from a helicopter . . . I wish I had started sooner.

Husband: “What the hell is that? I’m scared. I don’t know what they did to that thing. I can hear it down there growling.”

(random gunfire and radio chatter)

Husband: “You better lock it up Buddy. You better watch your ass.”

(continued gunfire and radio chatter)

Husband: “Here comes another gorilla. Where are those gorillas coming from? Holy crap. No one told me about those!”

(radio warning regarding the loss of a civilian)

Husband: “Yeah, well, civilians should run faster then. 1 human kill. 8 saved. But what about that monster? I don’t get it. I need a howitzer.”

(radio chatter)

Husband: “Shut up kimoslabie. What the fuu . . . ? Yeah! That was a close call, that dummy jumped right in the mid . . . You guys are stupid.”

(gunfire)

Husband: “Whoa, wait. What the fuu?”

(indistinct chatter, more gunfire)

Husband: “Oh yeah! These guys are . . . I wish I could talk back on this thing. Why would you run right in the middle of zombies? Ooh, there’s gunfire, I’m gonna run right in the middle of it cuz I’m a stupid civilian. Just follow the zombies you morons.”

Command: “You kill one more civilian and we’re pulling you out.”

Husband: “Shut up. That one wasn’t worth living. You know what? Have it your way. I won’t kill any more civilians, but watch what that zombie’s gonna do to him cuz he’s an idiot.”

(No response from command)

Husband: “Oh geez. Hear it? Nice, you guys all huddle up and sing koombaya. Oh man. Damn it.”

End of transcript

The beauty of age . . .

Years etch lines
upon the face of youth,
slowly forming
intricate details
of living art,
soft and silken
to the touch.

Hands of strength
once fast and sure,
now fragile
flowers
of delicate lace
to hold
and to
cherish.

Auburn locks
from days
long past
blow silver
in the wind,
graceful wings
of elegance,
soft as
whispered song.

Eyes once bright
and brilliant
slowly fade to
water color
windows,
reflecting
a lifetime
of knowledge,
and wisdom,
and truth.

Beauty
transcends
time,
merely
changing,
never
fading.

Crystal R. Cook

All the kings horses and all the kings men . . .

“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the Kings horses and all the Kings men, couldn’t put Humpty together again.”

I will be putting my father on an airplane today. I don’t know just how I feel right now. I am thankful for the time we’ve had together, I just wish I could have done more, been more, and said more during his stay. He is quiet, spending most of his time locked away in whatever thoughts he may be thinking, hidden away within his room. We are much alike in that way. I should have made more of an effort to open the doors.

He came more out of need than desire, I suppose that isn’t entirely true, the desire was always there but until the need arose it was more of a want and a wish. I had hoped to fulfill what needs he had, to try to heal what needed healing, to nurture what needed nurturing, but I didn’t know how, I don’t think anyone does, not even him.

I don’t know much of the man who once cradled me in his arms, I know he loved me. I know he loves me still. The man I now know has been broken.

He is broken.

As I sat sipping my coffee this morning, thinking about his upcoming departure, that silly old nursery rhyme kept coming to mind. My father is Humpty Dumpty, at least he is in the picture formed by my thoughts as I let my coffee turn cold.

I think this Humpty began to break long before he sat on that wall, maybe that is why he was so easily shattered. No one noticed the insidious cracks that were slowly growing until they became crevices, few seemed to see the tiny shards that fell from his fragile shell as he walked among them.

Jagged bits of him became scattered here and there over time. Some who saw the pieces picked them up and pocketed them, in hopes of restoration, but perhaps they waited too long and forgot where they were meant to fit, or maybe they just couldn’t get near enough. Some of those precious pieces were simply crushed beneath the feet of those who walked beside and behind, without ever looking down.

Collectors of the broken pieces have attempted to patch him back together with mismatched parts they’ve carefully tried to craft themselves, but like puzzle pieces missing corners, they fit, but don’t quite fill the space where they belong.

Humpty looks whole when you see him from a distance, but when you stand with him, face to face, heart to heart, you see the places and spaces in his shell where something once was, where something should be. He is still beautiful, though broken, still shattered, yet whole. He is who he is.

I don’t know if anyone even noticed him climbing the wall he would eventually tumble from, No one seemed to see the danger until after the fall. All of those horses and all of those men never saw the pull it had on Humpty. He was small and it loomed large, offering false freedom on the other side. Humpty was trying to escape from something perhaps only he could see, but real and terrifying. Something that haunted him, something no one else could know. Whatever it was, it pierced his shell and it began to splinter.

He doesn’t need any more fixing, the time for that has passed. What he now needs is acceptance and understanding, compassion and care. He needs space and time to heal, perhaps the rest of time.

The King of Kings has promised healing, the true King has promised he would one day be whole again, when Humpty has finished his journey and he reaches the throne, every crack and every crevice will be filled. New and whole he will be, never again to be broken.

Until that day, be gentle with him . .

Crystal R. Cook