MOVE ON

Stephen Sondheim from Sunday In The Park With George
*this is how I feel

Stop worrying where you're going, move on
If you can know where you're going, you've gone
Just keep moving on.

I chose, and my world was shaken--so what?
The choice may have been mistaken
but choosing was not.
You have to move on.

Look at what you want,
Not at where you are,
Not at what you'll be.
Look at all the things you've done for me:
Opened up my eyes
Taught me how to see
Notice every tree!
Understand the light!
Concentrate on now!
I want to move on . . .
I want to explore the light.
I want to know how to get through
through to something new--
Something of my own!

Move on!
Move on!

Stop worrying if your vision is new.
Let others make that decision . . .
they usually do!
You keep moving on.
Look at what you want,
Not at what you are
Not at what you'll be
Look at all the things you gave to me.

See what's in my eyes, And the color of my hair,
and the way it catches light.
And the care, and the feeling
And the light, moving on!

We've always belonged together.
We will always belong together!
Just keep moving on.

Anything you do, let it come from you--
then it will be new.
Give us more to see.

War Within

I woke up this morning and recognized that I have been at war with myself lately. Let me speak on this. The world is confused. Markets crumbling. People losing their life's work. We are at war(s). It makes perfect sense that because the collective, global energy, the current that connects bigger thoughts is so far from united, loving and generous right now, that that would bleed into each of us, individually. Wall Street, Main Street...my street. My spirit is in conflict. Where to turn? What to do? The adult in me battling the inner child. The social you-should-bes tackling the what-do-i-want-to-bes. Little wars raging on inside offering me sleepless nights, dark thoughts and a bucket of fear. My own lightness fighting my own darkness. My big laugh working hard to out-sound the little voices of discord.

Two houses away from me was a fire. A fire that engulfed a home. The home of a sweet 70 something man. Just him. 70 and solo...in a house that caught flames. The house is gone. So is the last 20 years of his photography. He bikes around the neighborhood now...lost, alone, scared. I stop to talk with him. I combed my drawers and closets yesterday and have put together a wardrobe for him. I hope the clothes fit. I hope he likes them. Would be cool to see him in a Clash t-shirt (can't believe I am giving it away...but on the other hand I need to...I need to give away more and more to make room for less and less...make sense?)

I had a beautiful talk with someone yesterday. Someone I have always been enamored of. And she had read some of this blog and it reflected things she has been thinking, feeling, living as well. And we got off the phone and I wanted to write 400 new posts on Happyonthepainfulroad. That was my greedy voice talking. I thought "Ahh, this blog has peaked another person's interest...let me write millions of words so my blog seems bigger...better." Then I remembered what the person on the other end of the line had been saying to me in regards to this universal conversation we all seem to be having...she said "stay authentic. that is the golden path." UMMMM...BRILLIANT. I started this blog because I needed to. I needed to share my truth and heart. I have never written a word on this blog to show off (first time in my life really...where I have done something artistic out of true pureness) so I shant start phoning it in now.

Poem sent to me from Sharon

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

-Derek Walcott