like water

Big, jagged pieces of concrete and old hunks pavement ground their bones deep into the mud. While they held the creek bed from eroding away, painfully absent were the smooth stones that grace lovely mountain streams and clear running brooks in far-off places–the kind of streams that parks are built around and people hike to and strip off their socks for–to place weary feet on, to caress their soles against smooth, lovely stones—allowing the tensions of hard, heavy lives to be cooled and released–carried off by a swift-moving current to places far, far away.

waiting

Nearly tripping over my own feet, I rush to the kitchen to find those little muffins peeking out from their place on the middle rack—all huddled together, counting, “1..2..3”, as if they could all swing their weight to the side at once, and tumble out onto the kitchen floor and scamper away. But I am too quick. In a flash, I swipe an oven mitt from its hook and slip it on. As I open the oven door the rich, sweet aroma rolls over and around me filling the kitchen with a fragrance so full and so good that I can almost taste it.

get real…

There’s nothing as scary or risky as getting real.  Like jumping off the crazy, busy bus and totally being honest with who you are. I’m not talking about being deep or intense, I’m just talking–getting real.  Being who you really are, right there, whether you’re alone or  you’re face-to-face with other people. Being real can…