Zen, without so much zen in it
Moments, how they come alive and step forward
Horses, and how they teach, heal, and live
Wholeness, despite abuse, ptsd, and grief
Now that I’m old, I have stories to tell. Some of them are old like me ~ gnarled, twisted stories that smell like dusty bottles of bourbon in the back of the kitchen cabinet. Others are simple tales of ordinary things, tumbling together and making different colors, depending on the light. Then, there are the musings, the looking at things, and how they take on a clarity and focus when you just be still and watch them.
A lifetime of stories, smacking and sloshing like ocean waves against a pier, wanting to be heard, seen, felt. I’ll let them out a few at a time. I’ll offend some folks, I’m sure.
The names are all changed, to protect the innocent and the not so innocent. Where I come from, you don’t make waves and you don’t name names. And another thing… where I come from, you don’t tell your stories. I’ve held on to mine like the last breath before a drowning. It doesn’t seem right.
ZenDoeOnline at yahoo dot com