Don’t Forget to Breathe

Night sky.

Waxing gibbous.

Wax on. Wax off

Stars. Clouds brilliant.

Trees reaching to the heavens.

Creek whispers hymns of joy, love, loss, and sorrow.

Don’t forget to breathe. Very important.


Two Years: Message to My Father

It could’ve been just hours ago. Sitting vigil, waiting with you so you need not die alone. Your time.

The brother and I wished you peace. 

That little girl who lost her daddy so many years ago, she leaned in whispering wishes of joy wherever you travel.

Now? Struggling. Striving. And sometimes surrendering  – to the anger, mistrust, loneliness, hurt, and sorrow. Self-reflection painful and disheartening: your child most certainly.

I want to be free of the fears infecting these scars. No thank you, I do not want to “sit with” the pain. It has been fifty years of never being enough. No, I can’t take care of my mother and brother I like you made me promise decades ago. Can’t repair their roads, or mine, though have tried. They neither seek nor heed my counsel. My value appears to exist only in usefulness to their needs. A painful, oft silenced truth. Always the pragmatic clan.

Here. Never enough, never worthy. Lesson learned: unconditional love is not.

Two years, it could’ve been tonight.

Sneaky Knave

Grief is a sneaky, nefarious knave. Insinuating himself as nostalgia then assaulting full-force as one’s protective garb rattles to the ground.

Evicted after a vicious, exhausting battle, he retreated into the morning’s sunlight.

Must fortify protections, plan well, and deter future attacks. Unspoken mourning alerts him to vulnerability. Words shared and actions taken mitigate the risks. Unconscious tears call for him; awareness repels his attack. 

Mourning for what was and wasn’t on another Hallmark holiday. Aching, but aware and moving. No longer battered by Grief, for now.


“Are you ok?” worry infusing each word.

Perplexed, “I’m fine”.

“Well, I read your blog.”

Mind racing, screaming silently, “What alarm was triggered?”

“Oh, that was just….” and I provided context – the trickling, incessant daily minutia eroding joy, its rubble blocking light and air.

For years, scribblings have been furtive – stashed in drawers, boxes, guarded, inaccessible. Judged inadequate, self-indulgent, and valueless by author and reader wrapped into one.

And now, this.

Exposed  (published !?) on the web.

Outing myself as wannabe writer.

Trusting that this part of me – only recently witnessed by my one love, friends, and strangers – will not wither in the light.

Fearing that my judgments of inadequacy are accurate.

Praying that such damnation is wrong.

Scribbling furtively and furiously, still.

No worries, I won’t quit my day job.

© CMD 2015



Still.                                                    Get Busy.
Body quiet.                                    Do Something Important.
Mouth silent.                                 Listen!
Eyes resting.                                  Watch!

                  You didn’t get anything done today?

You wasted an entire day?!

You can’t accomplish anything that way!





As. Is.

Quietly. Me.