he wrote once …
where does love go when the light goes out
a question to ponder
the answer, I believe is under the covers
faith steps in and out
a dance, a rhythm of breath and sound
where does love go when the lights go out
love is always present
just whisper and listen
I’m here under the covers
©Anita Adams 2018
A note card sits on my desk. Its message reads Only when she stopped hanging on so tightly did she begin to fly.
It serves as a reminder to me that my dreams, deserve my attention. The dream is much like a seed planted in rich soil. It requires enough water and sunshine to grow, enough love to see it through. Oxygen and breath are also a necessity. As well as, some thoughtful pruning to bring it to fruition.
Dreams will bloom just like the seed planted carefully in the soil. Imagine a blue bird with gold seeds on its back. These seeds carry in them specific dreams unique for each of us.
Look for the gold seed. In it, is your dream. Plant it and watch it grow into the dream you’ve always known. Time to fly. Dream within our hearts. Dream within our souls.
©Anita Adams 2018
Asking and receiving
through prayer and meditation
Noticing when it’s here
with eyes open
How to step into it
by dropping all else and being fully present in the moment
To recognize it
and open my eyes and heart wide
To feel it deep within my being
and stay with it as long as possible
To embrace it with my whole being
as I would any friend or loved one
As if … I were a child again
© Anita Adams 2018
How can I live here with all this grief…
… with all these memories and little relief?
How can I live here without being?
How can I live here and still breathe?
Faith. Trust. A hug. A hand. A shared prayer.
… Just Believe – He answered, He appeared.
© Anita Adams 5/7/2018
I’m here
in the breath, in the soul, in the strangers smile, story untold
trust me with everything
the tasks that are before you, your health, happiness and wealth
I love you ..really
not only when you are happy, also when you are sad or mad
don’t wait to talk to me, I’m always here
pray about everything and everyone
then let it or them go
talk to me
anytime, about anything or anyone
I’m your friend
I do care for you, your friends, family, the earth, the air
you can trust me with everything and everyone
Always, I am here
@Anita Adams 2018
dying feels like drowning
the body slows down
listening for the breath
listening to the heatrbeat
drenched in sweat
longing for oxygen
struggling silently to breathe
all the while there are those around them – praying, comforting, believing they are ready to let go, telling themselves that this is the way he or she would want to go
gurgling, heart pounding, seeking oxygen
here comes another shot of morephine
asking themselves while holding their breath is this when he/she will let go
is this really how he/she or I would really like to let go
a hole is inside of me – my breath is shallower than normal, I have to remember to breathe
she said she was ready
he never said so in those concrete words I’m ready to go
he blew kisses instead as we said goodnight.
©Anita Adams
Tradition
Holiday
Family Reunions
Fireworks
Sparklers
Games and Barbecues
Hot, steamy, humid afternoons
Time for a swim in a creek, river or backyard bin
When Americans immigrated from all corners of the world collide and celebrate the freedoms we have with one big grin.
Today we don’t celebrate quite the same, the America I know is divided, Republican and Democrat, Liberal and Unaffiliated, White or Black, Woman or Man, Child or Adult and so many other prejudices I care not to name their parts.
What holds me in Gratitude, is Faith. A Faith that God exists and will prevail over the injustices of this country and world. Peace will once again settle in all of our bones and hearts. Until then, I will continue to share the peace and love planted in my heart so long ago with all of those I meet through writing and art.
Peace. Shalom. Heiwa, Pace, Paix, Sholem, Beke, Pax, Paz, Frieden
I’ve been working on crafting a Dream I had last year sometime, and although it is not finished the essence of it is this:
My Last Day on Earth – A Dream
In the dream, it is my last day on earth. Friends and family are somehow gathered to a potluck to wish me farewell. It’s evening, and I’m waiting with the hostess at a house, circa 1950’s on top of a Town Mountain. As I wait in the house, I am pacing in a dimly lit dining room, walking and gazing out a bank of three windows. Everything in the house is either white, gray or brown. Pine wooden floors, white shiplap walls, brown antique wooden door. There’s a sense in me and others of peace and a knowingness that all is well. Being a woman of faith, I understand death is inevitable.
As friends and family gather bringing casseroles, beverages, vegetable plates, salads and desserts, they enter through the brown wooden door and place their dishes on a long white wooden dining table. We look at each other and smile in silent reverence, as I continue to walk gently in front of the windows, and it dawns on me that this will also be the last sunset I will see here on earth.
Two of my daughter’s childhood friends come in with a magenta card and hand it to me. As I read the card, filled with reflections of what I’ve meant to them in their life, I notice it also contains $98. The $98 puzzles me and still is a questionable piece of this dream. Just as I finish reading the card, hugging and loving on them, I notice the light in the room begins to change to a glow.
An urgency rises in me to get to the bank of three windows to view my last sunset. This is how it appeared to me in the dream (I took this photo in 2011):
Feeling grateful to see these rainbow hues of my last sunset on earth, another question arises in me before the sun sets. It is this: “How do I wish to live or leave this day?”
©Anita Adams 2017
and FAITH calls
a poem arises in me like the sun
to my desk with pen and journal in hand
the words flow as the pink clouds appear like a prayer
a new day dawns and all that’s in it is spirit full.
Robert Louis Stevenson, utters a whisper: “Smile and wake up you sleepy head.”
© Anita Adams
Called to Write 