The day arrived as a liberating foce and new avenues of expression opened for us as if my magic

A fertile period of self contained journeys and prophetic dreaing, it brought a calm to our inner spirits

In this house of enlightenment personal renewal is guananteed, magnanimous and volatile, an invigorating rush surges thru this house and new beginnings take hold

This new understanding is forged in a pre-existing bond of past and present, while penchant for the original and innovative remains, and once again rises to the surface

This house, full of hope, ruler of our emotions affords each of us a personal and panoramic view of life

We entered this journey filled with introspection rich in its design and crafted solely by its owner

Now as we move on in this house of endearment filled with the riches of acceptance, and hope, we leave behind the vision and dreams we each embrace one to the other

I'm alone. I see no crowd of people with strange faces and strange clothing.

Nobody is hurrying to someplace, anyplace with strangling agendas in their hands.
Agendas of need, agendas of promise, agendas of demand - this day, this time, this deed!

I have no agenda.
I have no plan.

There is no rescue in staying alone.
There is no rescue in a crowd.
There is no rescue in an agenda.

There is no street to walk, no hill to climb.

The future is flat.

The sun has set but there is light, from nowhere, from everywhere.

There is no night sky, so stars to guide me, and reassure me of a tomorrow.

The trees stand upright, leafless and branches straight out, pointing in all directions, any direction.

Some branches lie on the ground, broken by the simple weight of the birds.

There are birds, some here, some there, swinging in wide, pointless circles.

As I watch, one leaves, another leaves, the circle gets wider and I see it no more.

I look for my footprints.

Have I been here, have I been there? I have been everywhere and now, I am here, nowhere.

I need a circle. I need to find a place to start, a place to end, a statement that there is a center.

I need a beginning to search for the end.
I have a question, who will answer me?

Now, I speak aloud and there is no echo. I yell, I shout and the air is scarcely ruffled.

I whisper silently, and my ears ache with the sounds of prayer spinning in my head.

I feel a presence, a need greater than my own.

Have I found an end or a beginning?

Am I now a circle; is there a direction I can find?

I look up and there, where there was no horizon, I see a darkness rise as if a hand was slowly making the light change to softness with a promise of stars, of a moon, of peace for me in a place.

Slowly, I look down and I see, faintly, the beginning of a footprint. Mine.

And then another and another and then, a cirlce grows and I am the circle and I find a beginning and an end.

I no longer hear the silent prayers in my head and there, on that tree, I see a bird sitting on a branch and the branch doesn't break.

Slivers of daylight creep silently through the edge of the curtain announcing a new day.
Another, another, another day is here, day is here, day is here.
Like echoes they stumble over each other in a slow, steady rhythm.
No chance to savor today.
Unopened newspapers lie in testament.
I am left with only yesterdays that nudge me to remember.

Excuse me, may I make an exchange?
This life that has been chosen for me just doesn't fit.
The old one was O.K.
It just disappeared one day.
I'm not sure that an alteration would help.
What was wrong with the one I had?
Someone went and changed the styles when I wasn't paying attention.
Nothing fits anymore.
Pardon me while I go out and look for a new one.
Just tell me where to begin.

I began with frayed sweaters, then the stained shirts,
dated jackets--it seemed easy,
as if I had grabbed the right thread
for the quick unraveling.
The second stage,
when each garment got weighed
before it was folded and packed to be given away,
should have foretold
the final phase. What was it
about the finer fabrics, the camel hair jacket,
the tweed, the raw silk, the slim leather boots
hardly worn, that made it so hard to discard them?
Plenty and deprivation lay side by side.
He held fast to everything, wore some clothes
threadbare, saved the favorites
by scant use, leaving them less bent to his shape.
I could give up at last what most reminded me
of him, but couldn’t bear to lose
the good suits he never wore. Yet they fit
no one I knew, no friend, no family member,
as if they waited only his return
and if he came back, they’d urge him
to put them on, enjoy the wanton pleasure
of their feel against his skin,
teach him what he could not learn before.

Ah, the Islands! Balmy breezes are wafting over my suntanned body. I lie on a chaise lounge. In my hand there is a cocktail that I lift toward my lips. I sip slowly letting the cool juices sensuously permeate my being. I take in the spectacular cliffs and waterfalls set against the backdrop of breathtaking tropical mountains and panoramic ocean views. I conjure up this idyllic scene while I sit at my desk at work. I am drowning in a sea of paperwork. A vacation in Hawaii with my wife will provide the respite, the needed fun and relaxation. I will return refreshed and ready to dive into whatever waves that are seeking to engulf me. That was what I thought back then and so it came to pass that a week under the Maui sun was the life preserver that did the trick. But that was many years ago.

My life situation has since changed. I am now a retired widower, a Columbus at sea in a world gone flat looking for new routes with which to make life meaningful again. I want the islands to which I travel to nourish me intellectually, creatively and emotionally. The journey, thus far, has been eased by the love of devoted family and friends. But it has not been fully satisfying.

In the wake of my wife's death, I joined with a group of other broken individuals in similar circumstances. Together we searched the terrain of an island heretofore unknown to any of us. At the beginning of our trip we were travelers without the resources to cope with the stretches of arid wasteland that our lives had become. Little by little, though, buoyed by the commonality of our experience and navigated by professional guides we were able to overcome much of the rough landscape and emerge, if not completely whole, with the ability to journey elsewhere.

I think of each new encounter as an island. I sometimes believe that I am holding on precariously to a life raft which is being tossed about in tumultuous waters and only dry land will save me. Yet I am afraid of what I will find once I reach shore. Most often, however, I calmly drift from one destination to another stepping out onto the warm sands eager though tentative as I begin each new adventure. The result has been the discovery that in meeting new people I am not the only stranger in a strange land.

The islands I have drifted to are a monthly writing group with a group of women who have nurtured this one lone male and have often served as a support group as we talk about our families and our lives. I have also joined a weekly memoir writing group and have voyaged into my past tapping memories that have long been submerged. The weekly short story discussion class I attend has opened up a new genre of literature which I avoided in the past. I enjoy the give and take as we agree or differ in our views as to the inherent meaning of each work we discuss. The same goes for the book discussion group I look forward to each month. And then there is the play-reading group I go to each week. Here I am able to stretch those acting muscles I have always secretly (or maybe not so secretly) wanted to use. Islands!

The islands as metaphor seem to me perfect for my present life. They are disconnected stretches of land where I hunger to take root and flower. But each of them is only a new foothold I am clinging to. When it comes down to it these separated parcels of land do not afford me the cohesion I am seeking. The people I have met have been the most satisfying part of these trips I have taken. By sharing our backgrounds, emotions and ideas I have been able to mitigate some of the sense of loss I feel. I know that there is a vast world out there that I still need to explore. But the waters are deep and I often find excuses not to wade too far from the shore. Perhaps with time and experience I won't feel so fearful. Hopefully there will come a point when my feet will find solid ground wherever life takes me and the islands will again become places primarily for rest and relaxation.

Alone forever
or just a moment
the answers do not come easily
the questions continue and contine.

March on
there is a world out there
But do you want it?
Maybe not.
Time will tell.
Maybe then you'll know
if it is
Alone forever,
or just a moment.

Time heals
Time grieves
People, not love, die
Memories invade
They march through the brain
like so many little soldiers
bearing gifts
some bring smiles
some unwanted.
Learn to tie them up in the
caves and tunnels of your mind
Put them away like love letters of yore
held together with ribbons.
Bring them out on special occasions
to taste and savor for those
precious moments - and then
return them
let them sleep.
Learn to make new memories
and gather pretty ribbons to hold them together.