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Archive for January, 2015

About Fridays…

You know the best part about Friday? The four days that preceded it. The four days to succeed, to love, to impress, to be a friend, a brother, a son, a parent. To be a shining example and maybe even a (very mortal) hero to a young person. The best part of Friday is the money earned, the sleep earned, the pats on the back both gotten and given. The comradery, and never say die gumption.
The best part about Friday, is seeing you you every day, having laughed, exchanged knowing glaces of support from across the room. The silent support that comes from eyes meeting. The memory of being there. Me for you, you for me. You were the certainty in my uncertainty.
Tomorrow will take care of itself. I shan’t wish away the spectacular within the mundane of the days that started with Monday.
The best part of Friday was you my friend. Let us celebrate surviving in style…Friday is just another day. As for me; I can’t wait till Monday so we can do it all again. Matty

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Wednesday morning…I hear there’s a fog outdoors. I haven’t been out yet. But I shall soon. I believe the departed join us in the fog, where they can hide in plain sight. It gives a kindness to the mist, a knowing to the mystery. There is usually still air, otherwise I’d smell the colognes so familiar from days long past being carried on a lucky breeze.
I feel a gifted kindness as the sea like air caresses my cheek and cools my ears. And on this murky morning, I will listen attentively for a voice here and there, beckoning me to just walk a bit more, loiter for reasons unapparent to others there…and with any luck at all, there will be a faint song in the air, a melody to accompany me.
And should a foggy day carry too a bit of frost, I’ll revel in the coated branch and bough, needle and leaf…and be filled with a decoration filled reunion there whilst strolling with ones nearby…And the tears that come from such a misty, chilly morn might be what nature brings, or a grateful twinge of gladness for their presence once again…
And while fog surrounds me there, I will be blessed, caressed, and comforted like a celestial hug to join with till the sun peaks out, or the door is closed behind me…But I will know that still I’m loved. Matty

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My ongoing life…

I have written down my legacy as I go along. I hope the echoes are sweet, telling, and inspire even after the dust takes over…Matthew

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Sunday afternoon. Quiet day. A day of fog and cool. Very January and deep of winter. Yet the days grow steadily longer, and harbor a quiet promise, a journey that concludes with life underground becoming life the eye can see. Winter is in fact a time of promise, a time of slumber and what will be. Winter is but a quarter of the cycle, ninety degree of the circle of life. If one can endure, then one can bear witness to the emergence of new…of perseverance and will.
Winter is still, and poetry in motion all at once…
Huddle close my friends; the act that follows is well worth the wait…Matthew

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Forgiveness…

The heaviest burden I carried then, and on this day…The hardest walls I was closed in by, is the need to forgive, to understand. Not to forget, but to let the moment be softened by a greater heart than the lesser mind…MLL

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I started “writing” this whilst rinsing suds off my shower curtain…
You can’t paint a wall with one stroke of a brush; you can’t walk a mile with the very first step. You can’t fill the wine glass with one footstep of the crush, and you can’t recall if you can’t forget. But that’s a real fine place to start.
You don’t get tall just growing an inch, and you can’t be happy if you don’t know how to frown. You don’t ride the horse with just the saddle’s cinch. But you can’t do anything lest you make a start.
I didn’t learn to enjoy having one around, until I learned to live alone. I never appreciated light till I stayed awake till dawn. Never learned to hold so tight until I had to let go. Those harder things are part of the deal, and before I could love you, I had to learn to love me. And that was hard and took many years. I heard it said, “You can’t get there from here”, but I never knew what it meant till I’d hit bottom, and not on the first time.
You can’t raise a barn with just one nail. You can’t cross a river standing at the bank. You can’t embrace what it means to succeed, till you’ve fought back the tears at the moment you, or another did fail. No, you’ll never stand at a mountain’s peak till after the journey and the winds, the back slides, and fatigue. If you found it too easy, put another less able on your back and do it again. I’m sure then you’ll see what I’ve seen.
Standing in a forest doesn’t make you a tree, nor does picking the apple. Wishing something doesn’t make it so, but praying for it is a step and a great place to start. And praying to say thanks is an even better way to end the day after your desire came true. Always, always, remember where you came from. It was a real fine place to start.
There can be no green without a bit of wet gray, be no rest without a measure of toil. There can be no greatness lest another be humbled. And sometimes when I’ve finished second to another, I was satisfied. Because had I not been there for him or her, they’d never have been able to begin the journey at all. Even a victory is of no satisfaction if there isn’t another to help you celebrate. If you don’t agree, try being a parent. Finishing at all is sometimes a very fine place to start.
I don’t need to be the greatest arranger of words to enjoy my gift. I can’t change the world with just one line. But if my mind is left to not answer the call, and my hands sit idle, then I know I can’t make any difference at all. And the toss of even a tiny pebble can break the smooth water and start the mightiest message carrying waves of all. The first thought that got me here to share this tale was a very fine way to start.
When I began this journey, I knew many days that I was told I couldn’t get there from here. There were days I knew that doing what I was might keep me from heaven. And I was told as much. There were days I was afraid that stopping mid stride might leave me with too much to explain. And there did come a time when I was unable to forgive myself for the way I’d lived and that I might be turned away at the gates. But time went by, and when I asked if I be destined a dark eternity, I was told, “no son. Rest your troubled soul. You really can’t get to there from here.”

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I was chatting with a good friend, a brother not by blood, but by God. He was sharing how homesick he was for home, Argentina. He lives here in Washington, has for well over two decades. He has a wife, several kids, and grand babies. BUT, his family, parents and siblings, etc. remain far to the south and he misses them so…In the midst of our chat on a social site, I had an epiphany and wrote this on a spontaneous urge…
The salt in the ocean here, is the same as the salt in the ocean there…and the salt in your blood, your tears, your sweat is the same amount and taste and content…When you live, you do all those things all the time. Therefore, you are always home, and away from home. Always drawn near, back, away, and being embraced by home from within. The attraction is always there, as is the separation and embrace. The love never fades, nor does the salt…which is the essence of life no matter where you may be…Home is here, it is there…and it is okay to long for it, as well as hold near and dear the place your feet touch that distant shore, even from a distant shore. You are home…(I JUST now wrote that for YOU)
…Love you Manny. Matty

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