(This week’s challenge is to write about motivation. As always, each of us approaches these challenges with a unique perspective. My contribution came to me as a dream that I will do my best to share with you now.)
Journeying the Shores of Lost Hope
No longer youths with time as our ally, not quite aged enough to draw from the private bevy of a life lived well
the questions, the questionings, the quests of we middlings can in appearance lead to Lost Hope.
We all face it at one time or another…
The choking weight of other peoples’ expectations, the arrested sense of choosing wrongly, the blessed burden of endless opportunity…we think on these things in our middle-lives.
Are ye fleshly-made or of spirited origins?
Are ye fleshly-made AND of spirited origins?
The drum, purposed to the movement of life, a record of our existence that knows no natural end
The birth of experience can drag on for an eternity and make mad minds of the generations.
Walking along the shores of this dreary land, the pain of lost dreams wash our blistered feet, promises of youth broken and crackled in a bucket better suited for fishstars and oysters.
(Hold my hand, love)
We are not the Firsts.
We are the continuation of a dream first formed in the heavens unknown
(Open your eyes and look to me, child)
We emerge into our second birth
The neglected age, the proving ground upon which we now stand, the steady beat of a United inheritance of woe(man).
(Look to your light, beloved)
As the walk continues…
Sun rises over Lost Hope at the tipping point
a promise unbroken, painted on the handle of that fishstar bucket we hold to firm.
Blistered pain feels lessened in salted water and the weight of our catch grows as we fill the bucket with new bounty.
The day stretches on bringing tears and laughter and a sight unseen in the days of our youth.
Time grants us the gift of wisdom, the drum beats our path as we cross over into the land of our foremothers.
The promise remains for each of us with purpose.
We have much work to do, Beloved.