37/365 mountains

Sitting in the cradle of the Catskill mountains, with my sister and Melissa, watching the stars turn in the sky.
There is something so comforting about being surrounded by mountains, or ascending them.
When me and Jim walked through Cuyamaca it was quiet, and hot, and then by a wonderful waterfall I heard the spirits in those mountains, and wish that I could hear those voices again someday.
In Lapland there were no mountains... just high rolling hills of evergreens.  Nice, in its way, but I couldn't help compare it to New York State and its beautiful mountain ranges.  The Adirondacks.
In Durango, Colorado, the mountains loomed large above the town.  Almost too big to comprehend.  While we did laundry, there was this grand mountain right outside, making even this chore a wonderful thing.
I knew Jim the first time on the mountain of Jamul.  A true man of the mountain, I understood his calling.

at Bear Mountain

Jim in Cuyamaca

*A free-write is a type of automatic writing, where you just go with your stream of consciousness non-stop. There's no thought to spelling or grammar, and no editing of words. Supposedly this opens the mind up to greater creativity. They can be 5, 10 or 20 minutes long. Suggestions for freewrites are always welcome. Visit Evie, with whom I freewrite, at the space between colors.

6/365 Memories

10 min free-write on

Memories

The time I went sleigh riding with my friends, in Sunset Park.  "Follow me!" one said,
gliding round the hill.  My sled, handed down, would not turn.  I belly-whopped, face first,
into a broken bench, and shards of ice.  My face, a bloody mess, I went home to my parents.

Memories come with a song, an old love, a summer divine, the view of Colorado mountains.

Climbing Cuyamaca in 90 degree heat, drinking applie juice along the way.
Stopping by trees to collect oak sap, to later burn as incense.
Bathing in the secluded waters, and listening to the spirits speaking on the hill.

Memory of myself, holding the camera to my eye,
and dancing my way into people's spaces, trying to capture the perfect shot.
Never did, but I keep trying.

Always memories of my father.  His large hands making beautifully delicate
decorations on wedding cakes, and holding my own young hand in his.

Memories of my mother, when she could walk, and how she took life by storm,
indeed, she still takes it that way.

Memories can make our insides cry or rejoice once again.