Waiting in Haunted Attics

True love waits in haunted attics

And true love lives on

lollipops and crisps.

– Radiohead, “True Love Waits”

I have always loved these lyrics. Since I first heard them, they’ve gripped me in wonder. A metaphor I can almost taste – “haunted attics,” “lollipops and crisps.” But it’s a strange taste. It is not sour nor is it sweet. It simply is.

Love is one of those strangely terrible things. A petrifying paradox. The juxtaposition of things scary and things delightful. We simultaneously run from it and to it. It makes us do crazy things and we wish it to never leave.

We wish it to stay, but truthfully for some, was it ever there to begin with?

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I am doing a jigsaw puzzle with my sister. It’s an old puzzle; one that our parents bought when we were little to entertain themselves while we napped, a.k.a. solitary confinement for them. The box is dusty and disintegrating, but that’s what happens when it sits in the crawl space for the better part of 20 years. It is a simple photo – 3 hot air balloons floating over a country side in a cloudless sky- but all of those little blue sky pieces look the same.

Every great puzzle has a crux. It may not be the most important part of the puzzle, but it is the most challenging. A block of real estate that is exclusively one pattern and one color. The blue sky was our crux. Eventually, a pile of miscellaneous periwinkle pieces will pile up in the corner of the table, waiting to be assembled when there is nothing left to be placed. It’s a bit of a chore, but that won’t deter us. We get to work.

First the edges.

Then the colored pieces – the ones with the easily identifiable shapes.

I can tell this one is part of the basket of the balloon on the left.

This piece must be a part of the yellow balloon with the orange and purple diamonds on it.

My sister assembles the prairie. There are tiny cows dotting the hills and a little red barn.

Now, it’s time for the crux.

I have in front of me twelve pieces. Twelve glossy blue pieces.

About 30 more sit to my right.

I grab two at random. They clearly don’t fit. I move on to the next one…MATCH! Trial and error, trial and error. I continue on until I have a suitable palette of sky, ready to be transferred into the rest of the puzzle. My sister helps me scoop it up, and carefully we find where in the greater picture it belongs. And we continue assembling. Continuously, we try a piece and more often than not, it does not fit.

I think about the things in my life that do not “fit.”

The puzzle is almost done. But there are three spaces still to be filled and only two pieces left… My sister is down on her hands and knees, feeling the ground for the  missing piece. I search the box and look for my cat to see if she took it. It’s no where to be found.

My sister shrugs. She’s just impressed that in 20 years, only one piece has ever been lost. We decide to leave the puzzle on display for a few days on the dining room counter, but in a couple days, we’re having company over for dinner and the puzzle will have to be put away, but that’s ok.

…

As  I pack up the puzzle, the right corner of my lips cringes slightly downward in a slanting expression. It’s always a little sad to see your time and investment be broken up and dumped in a box. But company is coming soon and it has to be done.

I carry the box upstairs, all the way to the attic. It’s musty up there and is full of all the antiquey things you would expect. I return to the shelves that hold all the miscellaneous knick-knacks and boxes. And just before I put the box on the shelf, I see it. The missing puzzle piece. It had fallen out of the box, most likely years ago, and is now covered in a thick layer of dust. Gingerly, I pick it up between my first two fingers and my thumb and gently wipe off the dust. It’s most definitely the piece. It’s shape is perfect and the color prime.

The corners of my mouth turn upwards. All along, the piece had just been waiting in a haunted attic.

The Sandstone Teacher

A beautiful experience expressing the beautiful blessing of the earth’s teachings.

Meditations of the Silver Lining

The sun stretches itself into the crisp morning sky, its rays of light lapping against the rust stained sandstone. The air is fresh, my coffee is warm, the desert has awoken.

Photo Credit: Eric Mohr

Entirely still, the canyon walls open up to the void just meters from my crossed legs. I watch as sunlight flows off the edge, steaks down the canyon face and pools upon the desert floor. The pool of light rises with the sun, creeping its way up to the very brim, swirling around cascades of boulders and parched creek beds. 320 million years ago this land was an ocean. Now, its a sea of sunlight, filling into the day and draining into the night.

I love to look through the surface of that ocean. Boulders the size of houses rest 400 feet from where sit. I see them as pebbles. Like a child would drop…

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The Gypsy Woman

The gypsy woman softly brushes her child’s hair. The sun is high, but the night will come before long. In the sunlight she squints so she tilts her head down. The brim of her battered felt hat shadows her heavily rimmed eyes. She is told that her eyes are a piercing pale blue and an edgy contrast to her wild and dark hair, soft as silk, but tame as brambles. As she brushes her love’s hair, her own caresses her neck. It’s long and spirals. It flows over her left shoulder. The shadow over her eyes leaves only her nose and lips visible. Her olive skin covers prominent cheek bones. Her lips, a pale rose. Her nose is adorned with a small gold hoop on the right side. It reminds her of an earlier time. It marks a time of existentialism for her.

The gypsy woman is a drifter, a nomad, a learner. Through art, spirit, and music, she searches for her Nirvana, her Heaven, her home, her truth. She is young and intelligent, but blindly stumbles in wonder and investigation. She knows answers are no where to be found, but she searches regardless.

The gypsy woman is a seeker. A desire for understanding pulses through her veins and trembles in her nimble and worn fingers. Her fingers are long, slender and delicate. The nails are filed and smooth, but the dirt of the earth has made its home beneath the tips. The earth connects with her. She does not worship the earth, but the two understand each other. Her greatest natural love is that between her and the rocks. The mountains and the boulders. As a child, she would climb. Climb up the mountains, scramble the rocks. Each time her fingertips stroked the surface of a boulder or felt the firm grasp of the granite and sandstone in her palm as she ascended, a sense of calm flowed through her. The touch was almost sensual. As a child, she would lay on the rocks in the sun and nothing in the world was more relaxing or comforting. The rocks were her foundation. To her, they would never move, they would never change. They were bigger than she and that gave her perspective. Something to grasp and something to trust in. Life is different now, and the mountains are no longer in sight. Instead, the horizon is speckled with vineyards and an olive orchard rests a few miles from her camp.

The gypsy woman is on her own. Her community is strong, but she herself is alone. Her child runs off to play, and the woman stands to brush off her long, flowing skirt. Her brackets jingle as she does so. She is not wearing shoes, but the grass is long and plush. She has shoes, but she would rather feel the coolness of the grass between her toes. She begins walking in the direction of the orchard.

The gypsy woman misses the mountains, but these trees will have to do instead. She looks up through the scattered sunlight, streams of golden light peep through the leaves. She reaches up and grabs a branch and begins to pull herself up. Her arms are strong, but she does not trust the trees like she trusts the rocks. Her strength supports her, but with a snap, the branch betrays her and she falls back to earth. Shaken, but not discouraged, she climbs again.

The sun kisses her lovely cheekbones as she lifts her head to greet its rays. The view from above is incredible. And for a fleeting moment, she has found her home.

…

The gypsy woman sleeps now. She sleeps. Her eyes have taken an eternal slumber and she lies with her sweet earth. The rings on her fingers are still there. The life she led was blessed and those her knew her were blessed by it. Her pale blue eyes shall never again greet another’s, for her delicate lashes are now intertwined as if she were closing her eyes enjoying the sun once more.

The gypsy woman searched her whole life, but never found. Not on earth at least. She never found her Nirvana, her Heaven, her home. In glimpses and moments she felt it. Now, she faces the One. Her delicate fingers may no longer tremble, and her yearning heart may never beat, but she feels it now. She feels it.

Pure, unparalleled Truth.

What the Rain Tells Me

It’s a drizzly day out today. I love the rain. It comforts me, it hugs me. It tells me, “It’s ok to be sad.”

There’s something about the contrast of the gray sky outside and the orange, yellow, and magenta flowers in the aquamarine bottle on my windowsill.

Blank picture frames hang on my walls for aesthetic style. They’re vintage and splintering. One used to have a painting of fruit in it; the other used to have a corrugated piece of steel with a NASCAR driver’s face plastered onto it. I popped the painting out and pried the steel from the frames. Now they’re puzzling wall fixtures, outlining empty space.

But I don’t want to fill them. I love the question of their emptiness. They’re a reminder that there are still experiences to be had and memories to be made.

The wall is a bit of an anomaly. Its surface is covered in square photos from my life, travels, and peculiar sightings – yet they are all unframed. They surround the frames with the stark expression of irony. It’s a reminder that the past is worth relishing, but not worshiping. Those frames are reserved for moments of undeniable, true happiness in love, self, and peace.

Sadness is a disease we all experience. It looks different for each person, but it all feels the same. It can feel inescapable and confining and draining. It  can feel like those frames will never be filled or are not worth filling. But that’s a lie. I look to the empty frames, then let my eyes pan over the photos around them. I see smiling faces and unbelievable adventures. It’s hope giving.

The rain tells me, “It’s ok to be sad.” And it’s right. For after it rains, growth begins. It’s just sometimes hard to see through the clouds.