Muse of the garden

She comes to me in this place of peace and solitude, a fish out of water perhaps, or just an accidental tourist searching for beauty. We wander through landscapes filled with magic, and I feel her eyes upon me as we move through corridors of color.

Perhaps she is a kindred spirit lost and found, shy of the surroundings and banked in her thoughts of oceans blue and colored fish that swim silently by. Her world is fluid and moving, a far cry from this garden that took so much work by so many hands. Each stem of green winding its way towards the sky, burdened by the weight of the blooms as they unfold, and yet here she hangs by silently watching as it all transpires around her, here is where she has been planted, so far from her restless sea.

I long to place a shell at her feet. To tell her all I’ve seen of her home, that I too know how it feels to be so far from the known, transported to a foreign land that is so beguiling and beautiful, that my feet have walked upon her homes sandy shores and of the views I became a part of as I swam above the waves while peering down below. The muse of the garden, silently watching and waiting for a sign, swimming in flowers, drowning above dirt.

Perhaps someday she will return, for now so far beyond the sea the siren has no song to sing for me, but perhaps on nights when the moon is full she will remember the words, hear the memory of the waves crashing, and she will sing. Yes, she will sing.

Becoming

Beauty formed with skilled hands of a master, set upon pedestals in secret gardens, lush and serene in its silence. Light filters in from a sun that peers beyond clouds that are slow to move out of the way of the brilliance, and as she rises into herself each imperfection can be seen on the surface. All imperfection cannot be seen though, deep within the stone that was built over centuries lay minute cracks and fissures in the makeup of the whole.

The outer shell is worn with time, pocked with blemishes from outside forces, like wrinkles on a weathered face proud to carry each crease from days gone by and a smile that seems permanent on each corner that has stood the test of days long passed. 

Each year that passes, as we move into each second, each story that moves us, and each word we place in long strung lines becomes more sacred, for it is who we are. Faded pages forgotten come whispering back like a paper book left on a beach blowing aimlessly in the wind, back and forth yet still forgotten. A hand reaches down and examines the tattered remnants and we become intrigued and carry it away for a later read, or to hand it off to a friend who would enjoy this new gift. We pass these stories on sometimes, yet others remain hidden within, like the cracks and fissures in marble, too hard to find and release, sometimes better left there unseen.

We cannot remain hidden on the pedestal for long, as beauty always finds a way to be found, and upon discovery, the familiarity that we are all on the verge of becoming love begins to show. We open ourselves a little more, fear of rejection slowly dissipates as we realize it’s okay to be found, okay to be heard and seen. Each scar, each story takes on a new meaning when found that it is often universal, we have become to accept and love that which we see on the surface, that which we are and all we are still destined to become.

We are becoming love with each step taken and each piece of ourselves we leave behind, setting the weight aside we find suddenly we can soar, we can fly and as we stare at chronicles of our lives, each bit of joy, each bit of heartbreak becomes a slice of wind that carries us yet higher and it is there we are free, it is there we finally become whole.

I was thinking of statues that are beautiful in their sometimes heartbreakingly sad way, as acid rain deteriorates the forms, they are almost like humans that change over time, with wrinkles and scars and imperfections, it is when we tell our stories and accept ourselves that we become the love we seek, we become that which we truly are.