Awakening

I had a rather rude awakening last night. I thought I had it beat...I thought that the Ghost didn't live here. I mean, how could he live here? He'd never been here, never spoken about this place, and I certainly could not see him in the cobblestone streets.

But then something tweaked my memory. It was the fact that I don't have a recording, a video recording, of any time I spent with him. And it's almost as if I planned it that way. Almost as if I had decided, a very long time ago, that capturing that moment on film would somehow make it last forever. Like somehow I knew it would never last forever.

It was incredibly sad to think that at a time when I should have thought it would last forever, I knew somehow that it just wouldn't. It was then that it hit me: he is here too.

He is in all the emotions I ever feel: he is happiness and sadness. But he is all that comes between the extremes as well. He is misery and pain, elation and pride, disappointment and humiliation. He is every smile and every tear...because he's ever a part of who I am, who I was, who I'll be. Remarkable, that, really.

In retrospect, I recognize that not much time has passed when I pause a moment to count back four years. But still, he is very much still a part of what makes me who I am. He is where I least expect him; right where I left him: in the back of my head, in the centre of my heart, in the midst of the Next Big Thing.

Joanna Goddard posted this on A Cup of Jo. When I finally found and read the poem, I was struck by it. We could all use a little poetry on a Sunday, non? I think so. Enjoy it and then see a little man practically sing it in all it's glory.

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

See the adorable video by clicking here.

Anyway, have a great Sunday.
I'm planning for my week today,
which should be a little entertaining.