Upside Down Kris

Hospital Insights It's not what happens that shapes the who we are, but rather how we choose to see the events unfolding. God knows it's so hard not to get lost when hardships happen, or even overlook an extraordinary moment because we're focused on something else. I truly believe, however, that we can use whatever befalls us for enlightenment–we just have to decide to do so, even if it can take tremendous energy. In light of this vision, I'd like to share some insights I had in returning from the hospital. In reality, they are ideas that have been forming for years. 1. I'm not wasting time on things that I don't enjoy anymore .   2. I want to travel as much as I can, when I can. Through travel I can visit friends and fill myself with the unknown. My cup is doubly full this way. 3. I want to have real relationships, or "real" shared moments, even with strangers. I'm not interested in superficial ones. 4. Not being me only deepens the path of not be

  Healing There is something enheartenly light about just concentrating on getting better. Not to prove something to someone or have anything to prove, or to have to do anything or be somewhere. Just to focus on my breathing, on the folding of my hands, closing my eye, drinking without drooling, the micro-advances that I've made... For now, it's filling just to be here and know of the progress's passing–its gentle hand that helps me close my eye lid before a nap. Healing simplifies and clarifies. Necessities are evident and the superfluous even more so. Everything becomes either essential or not important. For this reason, totally giving into the healing process is the only way to go. Half dedicated to healing is an oxymoron: either you heal or not, either you are committed to the process or not. It's not like you let the blood flow through your tissues lukewarm only to let it ebb away. If the surge keeps coming, the blood keeps pumping, flourishing through your skin. L

Pickin' up sticks It's a mixed bag, picking up sticks. So many seem to have fallen from my collector's pack. I try to set them up on my path far enough away from each other to see the space between them. Pickin' up sticks, pickin' up sticks, in the mix. I am a mix of sticks. What's in your bag? What's your bag? Mine is to find the old and create anew. I'm makin' them into a house, a house of sticks. Will it fall over at the slightest blow like this? How can I fix the sticks so that they will wear the storm and bend? Breakin' down sticks, breakin' down sticks, bye, bye brittleness. Take a seat, sticks. What if my seat were made of sticks, like a wicker throne on a round pedestal? 'Round and 'round the the wicker winds under my legs. Will it always support me? Am I stuck here on this throne? 'Round, 'round the wicker sticks, 'round, 'round the wicker sticks... I'm not full of sticks. I'm a solid tree trunk, wrapp

Pretty Pipe Me, definition: that surging  feeling released from a drainpipe connecting all parts of me funnelling out my mouth. Perhaps that's why my first reaction after waking up after twelve hours of surgery was a heartfelt howl. The me needed to come up, come out...to be heard. I needed to bawl in my own way, to say: "I'm here! I'm back, and I'm glad to be back in whatever capacity I'm at. Listen to me!" It is now totally clear to me why I spent so long crafting my voice and still do everyday. Even when it's dormant my voice runs through my body. My mission is to make my inner-workings gild and glide so that I can express any nuance I find there. Now that I have to wait for a bolt to be released before I can sing, I realize that non-usage doesn't necessarily mean permanently turned off...it just may be crusted and coated. Sometimes it's a no-can-go. Other times, it may just need patience for a good, long gushing. Sometimes the stop equates