The Meadow

I see a flowered field, fed beautifully by the light rains of spring. There, the romance of butterflies and the lust of bees reign, and a moment of hope is born.

She is sitting there, carefully enjoying the scents around her, while listening intently on the nature around her. The softly bubbling brook behind her highlights the music in her heart, and suddenly I can see nothing else around her.

My gait becomes slower until, at last, I pause. My legs are not used to the stillness, and my chest is not used to the reminder.


She has stolen my breath, and with it the last vestiges of sanity.

There is nothing that separates us, save the wall of flowers so cleverly sent before me. I try to mark my path, seeking the divides between the randomness laid before me. She sees me, too, and begs me onward. Lovers sometimes meet that way.

The distance seems meaningless, inconsequential in the power of this moment. Yet, we need to bridge it. We know that space and time matter, yet not as much as the moment we have found. She calls to me, I answer, together we will find out way.

She stands. I smile, knowing finally I will not have to solve this thing along. Suddenly, my journey has become our journey. Suddenly, my steps have become our steps. I am coming!” I hear her shout. “I’ll meet you there!” I shout back, not really knowing where “there” really is.

We carefully begin those steps, not wanting to destroy an ounce of the beauty all around us. It seems that nature responds in her way, as the flowers seems to part, the creatures seem to scurry, and the birds seem to tease us onward to our destiny. With each step, a flower kisses us gently, each moment forward provides a scent we will remember.


Yes, finally, she is in my arms. We kiss, and suddenly the Sun feels warm. We embrace, and suddenly I feel the light again.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, repeating the words echoing in my heart. I would never imagine such a beauty would be waiting for me, but I know her words were true.

“My love,” I reply, the words suddenly escaping my comprehension.  I need not speak, I can feel her reading them in my soul, and I find myself reading them in hers.

I don’t feel lonely much in my time alone. Aloneness has  given me the space to dive deep, to feel the essence of the power of my own intention. It has made me strong and, more importantly, showed me my own strength. Strength, I’ve learned, has little to do with muscles save one. It resides within your chest.

Aloneness is what has brought me to this meadow, and fear is what has kept me from it. Along the way I’ve met the fearful ones, those who wear the masks of something deep while bathing in something shallow. I’ve danced with those who are so consumed by their own darkness as to become lovers of it, desperately describing the light they have found. I’ve played in the shallows, looking for something more, my observations never a judgement of others, but more of an understanding of me.

Such was the gift of failure, the gift of emptiness. She was here, in my arms being strongly held, being protected from the eventuality of autumn. I could feel her own testament, her own gratitude in the wild footsteps she had taken, knowing in my arms is where she belongs.

She looked up at me, directly in my eyes. “Be damned the winter,” she whispered. “We are here.”




photo by: seriousbri