Do not love half lovers

Do not love half lovers

Do not entertain half friends

Do not indulge in works of the half talented

Do not live half a life

and do not die a half death

If you choose silence, then be silent

When you speak, do so until you are finished

Do not silence yourself to say something

And do not speak to be silent

If you accept, then express it bluntly
Do not mask it

If you refuse then be clear about it
for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance

Do not accept half a solution

Do not believe half truths

Do not dream half a dream

Do not fantasize about half hopes

Half a drink will not quench your thirst

Half a meal will not satiate your hunger

Half the way will get you no where

Half an idea will bear you no results

Your other half is not the one you love

It is you in another time yet in the same space

It is you when you are not

Half a life is a life you didn't live,

A word you have not said

A smile you postponed

A love you have not had

A friendship you did not know

To reach and not arrive

Work and not work

Attend only to be absent

What makes you a stranger to them closest to you
and they strangers to you

The half is a mere moment of inability

but you are able for you are not half a being
You are a whole that exists to live a life
not half a life

Khalil Gibran

And so the story goes...

The wardrobe is no longer like it was. The end has arrived. I wrote you ten thousands poems. I've seen more stars this month than all last year. I look above more often. I can't listen to the songs I've listened last year, I just can't. I can't repeat anything.
We are still us but different, right?
No one should rush a red light, babe, I told you so, remember?

So, what about now? Should I cut my hair while I sew the flag of freedom? I have all these spare fabrics laying around.

We will always have secret dances at the mall and midnight dinners. Have we ever had dinner before midnight? Laugh lives in our cheeks when we see each other. I am not mad at you. Pizza one of these days?

You've got a ketchup stain on your shirt

If you are anything like me, you start packing before it is time to move. You can sense Autumn in the first day of Summer and in profound Winter you can already see her coming...Spring with her crown of flowers and 3 in the morning dreams. You know before you know. You know when things are coming to an end. When the cake in the oven is ready. When the doorbell will ring. The exact song that would cure all your sorrows if you listened to it right now.

We are getting older by the day. Today I've unsubscribe from all the shop's newsletters. Ain't nobody has time for that shit. We are getting closer to something we've been creating. I miss sitting on the beach, just talking, the hands perusing the sand while we talk. People have so many ideas. It's really beautiful. I've color organized my wardrobe because that's the kind of stuff you can only do when it's Saturday and your plans were brutally dismissed. I don't like surprises that much.

But about the wardrobe...I no longer separate trousers from dresses or shorts, now everything is next to each other by color. It's really cool actually. So there's that in having your plans canceled. I do have a curious amount of white clothing. I could start wearing only my white clothes but in a small town I'm already too much of an attention driver just being me (and ocasionally talking to myself, but who doesn't want to live as a bohemian old lady when you are still young?).

The cat has a big scar. January, the month of the cats they say around here. And yes you can hear them, fighting for the hot chick. Or cat in this case.

But try the wardrobe thing. It gives this marvelous sense of abundance and order and creativity at the same time.

You know what? Life works in circles. And if you are anything like me you know that soon, really soon, my wardrobe will be a mess and someone will notice the ketchup stain in your shirt.

The end, my friend, of this fabulous post, sponsored by the only and amazing need to share a bit of nothing.

Lights and Shadows, a new beginning a new end, everything worthy is free

There are tiny Gods and tiny Goddesses living in small beautiful places. Under a rock, behind a door, on the chappel's brass bell. Remember to talk to them. Remember to greet them. They will bless you with salty poems that you'll hear by the sea. To translate them one must be free. To be free one must not want anything in particular from anyone. Life happens in liberty. The chances are we will all dance together in the after party. Dance now. Smile now. Laugh now. Break down everything you know about yourself. The Universe is so vast, maybe we, too, are tiny Gods and Goddesses living in tiny beautiful places.

Empty spaces by Hemingway

I remember reading this poem a long time ago, when my heart was trying to remember the songs that only lovers sing. I leave it here. All roads can lead us to where we belong if we accept. 

The year is coming to an end. I was taught by life how to be more patient. Challenges were met with faith. There were surprises and treasures along the road. I hope I keep surprising myself. 

And that salted water, morning kisses and long walks keep being part of my days. The journey is better when we dance, it's better when we laugh, it's better when we love.

If there’s empty spaces in your heart,
They’ll make you think it’s wrong,
Like having empty spaces,
Means you never can be strong,
But I’ve learned that all these spaces,
Means there’s room enough to grow,
And the people that once filled them,
Were always meant to be let go,
And all these empty spaces,
Create a strange sort of pull,
That attract so many people,
You wouldn’t meet if they were full,
So if you’re made of empty spaces,
Don’t ever think it’s wrong,
Because maybe they’re just empty,
Until the right person comes along.

Hemingway

No one knows

Last night I heard someone talk about my past. Very intriguing to see ourselves through someone's eyes. Someone who doesn't know me but think he does. Our pasts always make sense. Even the errors. Even the things and people we swear they were mistakes. Life has always reason, isn't that what the song says? Anyway, I love to see old people dancing under the stars. Summer has begun. The season of uncovered secrets and new misteries is upon us. Let's dress in cloaks and bathe in sand and sun potions. No one knows were life can take one.

Because we all just need to be ourselves

And it's a mistake when we are not.

Recipe #1

TRUTH SERUM
by Naomi Shihab Nye

We made it from the ground-up corn in the old back pasture.

Pinched a scent of night jasmine billowing off the fence,
popped it right in.
That frog song wanting nothing but echo?
We used that.
Stirred it widely. Noticed the clouds while stirring.
Called upon our ancient great aunts and their long slow eyes
of summer. Dropped in their names.
Added a mint leaf now and then
to hearten the broth. Added a note of cheer and worry.
Orange butterfly between the claps of thunder?
Perfect. And once we had it,
had smelled and tasted the fragrant syrup,
placing the pan on a back burner for keeping,
the sorrow lifted in small ways.
We boiled down the lies in another pan till they disappeared.
We washed that pan.

*Beautiful poem shared by Joanna Colbert from www.gaiansoul.com on her latest newsletter.

Cherry cranberry pie

Yesterday
I kept a secret.
A secret that was not mine to keep.
I rolled it up under my sleeve
And when I got home
Like an old man hides his money
So did I. I've picked up the mattress
And kept the secret on my bed

under me

Do you keep secrets on your bed?
Do you lay there pretending
there is no Treasure
When indeed
There is gold in the bedroom
And you're not sure how much your gold
Can buy
But you hope and cross your fingers
It will buy you a ticket to heaven
And a cherry cranberry pie.

Eaten on the doorstep
Under blue sky

A cherry cranberry pie

A secret is never not a lie
Cherry
Cherry Cranberry pie

Poem after tonight's storm

Must the man be who he is?
Must the man loose all before he changes?
Only the vain,
Only the vain, my dear.

A firefly passes by a couple,
The night remains the same
Except,
Everything is different.

We do nothing, and nothing we do,
The gods write beautiful stories,
We must live,
Live we must, my dear.

Because there will always be something that amazes you.
Love we do. Love is always offered.

Must the man be who he is?
Yes, that is the path.
Must the man loose all before he changes?

I cannot answer for that is not my story.
I'm just mesmerized by the firefly he brought with him.

And then it rained.
And we remained silent as the old night.

The night is so old and warm, sweet grandmother night, she hold me until I fell asleep.

Love is offered. Life is offered. We conquer only ourselves.

Not to be forgotten

Low quality phone pics, big memories