Undaunted Blue

Walking around the park lake yesterday, I pondered the morning's excursion to another lake and a path blanketed from the sun by trees and the sound of a river dancing.  In the midst of the tree limb'd canopy, a small opening filled with the sun pointing to a tiny blue flower, in solitude amidst the green fir fingers of new fir trees reaching for the sun.

As I walked and remembered, a tiny voice yelled at me, "I'll race you!" Stopping I saw a young boy on his Hot Wheel tricycle, his face fixed in anticipation. His mother and grandmother giggled in embarrassment. I knelt beside him and asked if he thought he could win. His tiny feet danced on the pedals and his eyes grew big. Assuming a runner's starting pose, I looked at him and counted us down.... We reached the tree's finish line the Hot Wheel and a boy's laughter crossed first.  Kneeling beside him I raised my arms in the air and told him to feel his strength. Timid at first, his arms flew up. The grandmother's hands likewise flew clasped to her heart. His mother laughed so hard I do not know if the picture she took with her phone was steady. I whispered, "Well done!" and bowed as I left.  Never has defeat tasted so sweet.

A tiny blue flower, defiant and determined, embraced by a sliver of sun. Tiny arms that felt the power of their courage. The joy of defeat. Simple fragments of a day, the threads of life.

Surrender without conquer

The hour and then the morning passed by unspoken. No need to speak, we knew what would be done. At the peak of the day’s heat, the house already stifled, I set out for my walk. No cool morning air upon my skin. A cloudless sun filled sky greeted my already weakened body.

Strength against strength. Will against will. There will be no victor no conquered. One can be neither a warrior nor a lover only in the cool of the morning when life is comfortable.  Sometimes one has to strike a surrendered determined stance of strength for strength and will for will. And with a tympani pounding beneath each temple, the sweat painting my back like an Etch-A-Sketch, the hill that is my reward at the end of the walk, and the sun eye to eye with my own, we each whispered ‘Namaste.’

 A crow began cawing loudly over my head as I bowed. And with my bow, next to my feet, Life added, “Well done.”