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Month: July 2016

Strike Three, Game Over

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Windup

With a full count loudly laying the foundation his body extends like an eagle in flight, an arm stretches back, and fingers tighten around the object that materializes from his dusty glove. The air is moist with the heat of summer; beading sweat lines his forehead, and dirt lives beneath his fingernails. Chirping birds and observers fill the air with chatter, the background music for the boys of summer. Fragrance of green grass and seasonal dew emit from the diamond.

Release

The gloveless hand releases the red-stitched, white leather sphere with nine-year-old force while his leg elongates to step forward into the soft sand below. Like one giant step for baseball-kind, he gouges the dirt mound below the tiny hill, seemingly a mountain versus a molehill. He relinquished the throw toward another mitt; the anticipation thickens the air as spectators hush to hold their breath; and the projectile barrels toward home. The white object floats as if in slow motion; it carries the held breath of spectators.

A stick of great length awaits connection for its crack at the orb. Square, padded bases occupy bodies ready to run. A crouched, masked boy awaits his mitt’s retrieval. Seven, focused players ready themselves for the speeding, catchable bullet potentially coming their way. Instead, the long rod of swinging aluminum misses the spinning leather by millimeters for strike three, game over.

Change the View, What I View Changes

670xNxIf-you-change-the-way-you-look-at-things-Wayne-Dyer.jpg.pagespeed.ic.6hUzjDNQ6XChange the view and what I view changes. My attention begins to seek new unexplored avenues. These untapped roads initially lay invisible and road blocked from my vision. Suddenly they appear as clear, open paths, and less traveled roads. They materialize since my recent crusade to discard “things” from my environment. With fewer possessions my happiness level skyrockets, the way I look at things change. Where once stuff existed, clean, clear shelves replace my vision. With new clarity, my sight and insight reach further where limitations existed. I see changed expansion to my surroundings and life’s internal, emotional, heart-centered passageways. My focus and attention initiate deeper vigor toward greater understanding of what appears before me. I see things I never noticed before.

“When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”  Wayne Dyer

Writers Transfer Truth

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Writers Transfer Truth

Sometimes I arrive at the keyboard without knowing what will materialize. Ideas transfer from heart to mind to fingertips to keys. I trust the process and my fingers do the walking, allowing words to orient themselves upon the page. There is no foresight, no added clues when I sit daily. I surrender and the words flow through me. I am not actually the writer, yet a conduit for the muse that has chosen me. Writers transfer truth.

Rotating Life

My life flashbacks and rotates along a conveyor belt of visuals. I see myself standing before a classroom, numbers upon a chalkboard, equations solved, and students learning earnestly. Yet life interrupts; the vision changes to myself as a student, laptop propped upon, and a graduation cap with red tassel flung aside, and the letters M, B, and A, displayed on my new resume. A man enters the flowing lifecycle, and a white veil guides me down an aisle. Visions of sending packages to customers, product distribution, and inventory stocked upon my shelves, multiple, profitable transactions per day meld my entrepreneurial existence. Birthing babies fills my life with breastfed infants, diaper changes, and chauffeuring kids to the hustle and bustle. Non-profit boards bring new meaning to charity, volunteering keeps math and teaching alive, and community-based giving occupies next steps.

Writing Arrives

Yet one inspiring day, writing arrives without warning, records the memories, and opens a dormant heart. It relays experience and fosters vulnerability for connecting with others, healing hurt within me. Truth flashes across pages. Readers recognize their own plight; feel emotions my words evoke. Hardwired to connect, the words are conduits to weave the web between us. Writing fosters the senses, utters purpose, and illustrates understanding; healing takes place. The words pave my path for inner analysis and an opening of love and belonging. My keyboard is the cog in a wheel that moves this energy; my fingers acknowledge and act in kind. Words flow with what matters, showering the world with consideration, healing, and love between life’s pages and passages. Through this conduit, my words transfer truth.

Stronger and Happier Without

6c77f2dd01d95651147ca17f3ba26193The You is all that does not nurture my body, mind, and heart. Ingredients that leave me wanting more are my addictive numbing agents. Nostalgia gnaws at me such as the Ice Cream truck passes by; movie theater treats call my name; and pain and loss ache for comfort only food could alleviate in the past. These foods numb my emotions and discomfort, fill a void within that simply needs attention, resolution, and healing. Another day without the numbing agents makes me feel stronger and happier. Clean eating is required.

I AM stronger with real food and self-love. The void within dissipates. Anything less weakens me.

Feeling Good Matters

687474703a2f2f7777772e62726f646172742e636f6d2f6f70656e696e67746865626f6f6b2f6f74625f66696c65732f70737963686f6c6f676963616c2d6665656c696e672d676f6f642e6a7067Feeling good following sleep is my ultimate objective, glowing health meeting me when I wake. My feet touch the cool hardwood, gratitude fills my core, and the slogan, “This is my time; nothing stands in my way,” feeds me emotional strength. I tap into my center, my heart beats with the rhythm of a silent morning, and within, an evoked joy rises. A go-get-it attitude materializes; emotional freedom seizes the day with kindness, compassion, and love. Anything less topples the day downward rather than in an upward flow. Feeling good, it is what matters.

Searching My Soul

1041661922-f55c16c991b8f1bce36cba5e57433f2dI search my soul for self-love, self-worth, and self-respect. They apparently escaped as if imprisoned; food filled their void. Guards relieved of their duties lay down their defenses and walked off the job. Chaos and mayhem, primed for this resistance, fight the war against returning unhealthy food inhabitants. I search in my heart for the three escapees and reasons for their departure while havoc reigns upon me.

Freedom lived peacefully within me for the past two years. Yet three months ago, disorder, dis-ease, and opposition infiltrated as a peaceful protest. Recently resistance turned fierce, defiant, and hostile, as sugar, gluten, and dairy assailants began staking their claim within clean territory. The disappearance of peace, love, and a sense of belonging in the form of self-love, self-worth, and self-respect must return for lifetime occupation in my heart. Lifelong happiness, emotional balance, and freedom, are up for grabs; stakes are high.

Uncertain why these core freedoms departed, solutions are on the tip of my tongue. Like missing vocabulary to shout comprehension, I know the answers exist within me; resolution feels close. Notable pride once stood where tainted shame now lives. I currently tarnish my insides, spoil my success, and ruin my health. My mistakes cannot hide; they reveal their discourse upon my face, thighs, and emotional distress as an extra physical and mental layer, inflamed by the toxic byproducts of my edible choices.

Soul Search Ends – Return Core ingredients

I am ready to counter this unrest, strengthen my core, and bring love back internally and to the surface. Searching my soul, parts of me seemingly had vanished, yet instead lay buried. Only within the stillness can I feel my genuine self emerge from the shadows. My distractions hid the vital pieces of my existence. Though recently tapped out by numbed emotions, mysteriously buried and ostensibly erased, my heart and soul carry the extraordinary in me. I shine a guiding light upon the buried treasures that never left the premises of my soul, self-love, self-worth, and self-respect. Chains imprisoning me unravel and unwind while the three core ingredients of my heart reemerge from their trove, their existence now awakened. The soul search ends with self-love at my core and happiness ignited.

Blank Page Again

Blank page again. My freedom for expression excites me, yet induces fear. My silenced voice infiltrates dread by potential words escaping composition. Yet my fingers continues clicking keys, my heart inspires threads, and my mind filters curiosity, imagination, and reflection. Each ending fosters new beginnings with foreboding joy, overpowering elation, and emerging freedom. Balance keeps me from full throttle of excitement, the offenes-altes-Buch-mit-leeren-Seitenclimax unreachable at an author’s endpoint. Insight into my hero’s journey lies there. Writing marks the pinnacle of my existence; it is while inscribing my insides onto paper that I thrive, grow, and thrill my inner senses. Within written expression I AM ENOUGH marks the world as my truth unleashes from my heart. I AM ALIVE! Blank page again fills.

Girl in the Mirror

Norman-Rockwell-Girl-at-Mirror-1954I awaken puffy, inflamed, and numb, staring at the girl in the mirror. My throat swallows painfully while bereavement, regret, and disappointment surface from visual vanishing health and recognition that actions went awry again. A thorough sigh releases the struggle of pent up emotions and exhaustion that couples with these repeated mornings after. I gasp as a tear drops to my lap below. Years of acquiring accumulated wisdom and altering my inner message, I still encounter distress that inertia will give way, my ship to shore post apocalyptic eating will capsize without recovery. What if I cannot right the wrong, survive diving into over consumption, and pull myself from trepid waters to start again. I stare at the girl in the mirror until a glimmer of hope sparkles from her eyes reminding me of my strength, determination, and perseverance.

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