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my mother’s hand

 

IMG_9183my mother’s hand…

so beautifully and instinctively looks for the blooms; the beauty; the heart of another.

as I snapped the photo of the flowers at the market, she was walking and speaking, “look at the beauty”.

I do see the beauty momma! Yes, the flowers are breathtaking, but more than anything, I marvel at your hand in reach, your heart always in motion, your soul aflame with color!

the same hand that soothes, cooks, nurtures and caresses, in one split second becomes goddess-like and leads the way in my world.

I so love you, momma!

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We can hear “I Love You” in the strangest phrases

Message in a Bottle at Sunset

I love words. I do. But saying or writing words is not the whole equation. Hasn’t the texting world we live in taught us this? The truth is that the creation/delivery is intricately intertwined with the acceptance and understanding. We want our intention to be the end of the conversation. That sounds delightful. Absolving. And I agree there is beauty in our introspection, but we are called to a deeper commitment; a commitment to the receivers of our words.

Words (written or said), enter the space between us and then eventually falls like music on a page, rising, diving, but eventually landing-between our ears into our mind? Inside our chest to our heart? Does it hit the mark, or not? There is a divine exchange in motion.

There is often a choice.

As the receiver, we can accept words said, accept them as WE are, or accept them as THEY are?

Knowing someone gives us the privilege to believe the words and to accept that we are being invited into their circle, where our arms are clasped tightly in solidarity.  We may be deciphering strange and unfamiliar words, (or maybe hearing long forgotten words) but we must hear from that unseen place. We muddle through our own demons to accept undeclared intention. We release undesirable baggage, because we can. We accept what we think they truly mean. We can hear “I love you” in the strangest phrases.