Freedom vs responsibility.
One or two or maybe more may possibly resonate with the thought that childhood was a time of carefree days. Perhaps the noon of fun and games. A little tempting to think that one's role in the day was simply all play,and a demand for more of it. From the cradle as a neonate,through infancy ,toddler years and on, everything revolved around 'you'. All you needed if you had to take a pee was to scream and aid would not delay. Food was just a wine away. It seemed your labile emotions always got someone's attention. At first it came natural, but with a wind in time,you realized your whims where your superpower ,your weakness and fragility were your strength, perhaps weapons of mass 'attention capturing'.
Physical strength begun to grow in your muscle and bone,the wabbly steps were taking on a firmer stance,and strides became more forthright and meaningful. Speech too was loosening it's hold on vaguery,ambiguity. A change was brewing. New terms and conditions to life were being imposed on you. Soon you were required to reason appropriately, and some nuances were often met with repraoch. Before you knew it,little chores were getting added to your to do list.
Yet with all this add-on, you were still at liberty to run wild errands of play.  You had leverage to mess up, even nature seemed to be in your favour for when you sustained a sprain ,fracture or laceration,your balm was available,  your healing came quicker than those advanced in years.  Scars, you bore only temporarily.
Every gift unwrapped was suggestive of play time. Being clean or dirty was a vague term to you, they all seemed pretty much the same, but not so with mama and papa,or any other imposed guardian. Every bath was a forced undertaking, or a burgainbfor reward,especially for the male conterpart.
Your desire to know more about your world made you very inquisitive about everything. A good recipe for gaining an inventive mind I must add. Well ,this was initially a welcome change for those on the answering end. Everybody was quite pleased to play the role of 'Mr or miss know it all' . But this was short lived, as everybody soon realized your questions were taking on a new face,an irritating one too. So you soon had to find new people to probe.
As you observed everything around you,you noticed a great divide between the older folk and those your age. It was evident they owned their lives. It seemed you were settled in a turf too small. You needed to call your own shots. The desire to grow older begun to emmanate. The privileges of adulthood were luring . If only you could skip many years between the great gulf, you perhaps thought. But there was a catch. The older you grew, the less people tolerated your flaws. Any behaviour that bore the resemblance of a rogue or rascal was uncalled for and often was met with retribution.  You were  soon to leave Center stage, for the world could no longer hail you as its 'adorable'. You sooner or later had to realize you were only a steward in this life. You were indebted to duty,nothing heinous about it,especially if duty was your delight. Your desire for the freedom of adulthood called for great responsibility.  You wondered whether the curtail of preschool years were a better burgain.
Perhaps one may be right to think responsibility is a necessity for true freedom, for who knows what freedom untamed may brood? One who desires freedom bareft of responsibility runs the risk of a life shipwreck . Yes,the days past may have given one room to mess up, to run a little wild, yet time has come for one to bear the lot of existence. Irresponsibility is a cog in the life wheel,a clog in its wind.

Scars of life. Beautiful scars.

Scars of life,who hasn't had to live with them? Some leave an ugly imprint, others  simply give one a new hue on the skin tone, and still others find a way of fading away. Some scars are of our own making,our own carelessness yet still others come,not by self will or our indifference to care,but by the unprecedented woes of life.
They are a smoking remnant of a fire quenched. Like a smoldering wick that leaves a trail of ashen gray soot when a kerosene lantern is put out,they acho out the moments ebbed.
Scars resonate with life disrupted, moments effaced from the tune of normalcy. They are as spokes decrepit in a wheel, causing a denture and possible cessation in motion.
In the innocence and playfulness of childhood, one gets hold of water put to the boil. Now all grown up,he sees daily the scars marking his face,somewhat disfiguring. They cause a tear to droop by the side of his cheek. He allows it to fall to the ground and he waits for its apparent disappearance before he wipes the train that follows suit. Its a reminder of the past he can't change.
A young lady, glowing with the beauty of youthhood. She stands tall amidst her peers. She is a model in her own rite. Yet nobody ever hears her talk about her family. She owes her undimed luster to a loving mother who saved her from the flames. All scarthed ,she barely has any reason to camphor her body in cream. It's seems a waste on her skin. The young lady loves her mother,yet she seldom finds it easy to look her in the eyes without bursting into tears, a lamentation,for thr scars she bore for her.
A credulous young lad trying to figure out what life has to offer ,led by insatiable desire to enjoy life. To live life at the stake,with 'feelings' as the captain of ship. He sails wild. He has a myriad of tattoos on his body,bearing the form of a vesture. Now after the piercing thorns of life jab the depths of his soul,he cries in  despair. In solitude he seeks refuge in a God he was trained by his folks to revere. He walks into a chapel, a church . The aisle to the only free seat seems many miles from the entrance as he takes his ready steady steps. A few years down the stream of time, a new man seems to have emerged from the shell. A new birth perhaps. All manly and gentle in form, his brow is held high and his visage glows. Yet beneath the garment, lies scars .Scars so deep, bearing imagery from a life past. He wished they would be washed away,but in vain are all his efforts, so he has a constant reminder of his travails, he is now tired of being misunderstood, but he still puts up a smile. For he knows it matters little.
Some scars may not be seen. Some cause no scarthing with a visible imprint,yet they run so deep, the very grooves that line them are almost perceptible.  They can be seen in the fear to form new bonds,for past bonds of friendship ended in catastrophic besiegement of trust.
A scar may warrant one to grieve,to have a constant ooze of pain as it were or great disdain for anything that comes along. One may decide to begrudge life,leave in constant fear or hatred,yet that need not be the case , for scars may be the only reminder of battles fought,and victories won. A scar may be a telling that you lived to face another day. It's foretelling of the strength within or the firmness of the anchor you held on and possibly still holding on to.
A scar,though ugly,disfiguring, may stand as a beautiful reminder that you may be battered and bruised, perhaps even buried in the ground,yet you still stand tall,like a mighty oak that takes new root and new foliage after been felled.
A beautiful scar.

Imagination, the first plane without wings,the first vehicle without wheels,the first boat without oars. Everyone has  imaginations,some wild ,others noble and some,well some ar simply imaginations. Imaginations know no gravity or drag,they soar high though they lack aerodynamic accreditation to be airborne ,but they don't  know that,  so they fly anyway,and many a lad is given a glimplse of the world beyond his grasp,the horizon seems solid enough to be given even just a touch.
When the cup of satisfaction or perharps realisation fills to the brim or an overflow, the voyage halts. May I add a little wits to what may here bear the similitude of profundity; Non shall be any less erudite or wise at the overflow of knowledge or experience garnered. Let it flow ,be not too meticulous, or any bit miserly with it. Let it run down, let it trickle ,peradvedture  it shall stream the way of the simpleton, making him wise. Perhaps he too shall not fall short of imagination.

Imaginations ride along the tarless roads and tracks,but that's alright,for who needs a tarred road when wheels are absent. The trails may be of a winding or never-ending nature,yet the path home to reality may never be forgotten or mistaken and needs no sign posts.
Imaginations need no oars to treak the high and low seas, for then they would be too slothful to be adventurous. No one drowns ,for imagination provides the privilege of a re-live, and perhaps a breath under the water,or deluge. Storms and waves are a tap in the back..
Imagine life without imagination. I guess thats the only instance your imagination fails to take off ,unimaginable?
Where it not for imagination, man would not have set foot on the moon, with one step for man and a giant leap . We would still be in dread of sailing the high seas,in fear of the deep,and all mythical tyranny. Flight would still have been the prerogative of our feathered counterparts, the eagle,the Swan ,the falcon and crane and all their host. Horsemen would still still reign supreme masters of speed,our most trusted couriers. And perhaps the earth would still be flat,with an edge or we would still be riding on the shoulders of Atlas.
Dare not take imagination for daydreaming or make it an excuse for much slumber or indolence. It is not in idleness that the mind ponders on worthwhile matters, rather in labour, otherwise in detours of rest. Flee from the bewitching grip of indolence, the poisonous fangs of listlessness. Great and audacious imagination comes with encounters challenging to the mind,for necessity breeds ingenuity.
Never allow imagination to steer you away from reality . Let it instead give you impetus and reason to live life positively. To face life wth a gratitude attitude,it earns you moral altitude.
Imagine, it's your lot.

''Your first breath took ours away",poetic words ,possibly from a couple soon after the 'Herald' of a new member of the family. It had been a long wait,nine months of eternity. The wait was gruesome. But it had not always been that way.
Let me take you back a little,perhaps where it all began. A tale of two ,now three.
On a bright sunny morning,in a lovely park,at a church service,in the quiet library,at a sports pitch,on the tracks, or even on mission, two sets of eyes,or let's just make that four for proper account, gazed at each other. The first gaze was brisk,mutual and accidentally normal, the second was lagged, with a mutual blush. And the rest,well the rest,were usually interlaced with some embarrassing moments.  These were soon replaced with a surge of courage by one,and an odd,whimsical indifference by the other,perhaps to suggest that nothing comes easy,or on a silver platter, after all it is said ,'easy come,easy go.'
The chase was on,the target locked. The hunt was not with balistics,guns or any weapons of war. The asernals were daily doses of good morning and good night, flowers and showers, random acts of kidness. The love war was ensuing. On the receiving end is usually the doe ,'damsel', and on the pursuing end is the now wearied lad. When he takes a stance to please her, it's like unleashing a boomerang that comes back to piece his heart. He falls to the ground. All soiled, and bearing the semblance of a war worn general, bareft of any strength or zeal to proceed. He calls for a retreat, the chants of victory are ceased, any procession forward would be insulting to his soul. A white flag above the head is raised. A flag of disappointment.  The way back home seems long,dark and dreary. Every greeting along the way is a reminder of his apparent defeat,failure. He longs to cover his head in the earth,like an ostrich,perhaps what he can't see can't possibly be painful. But all to soon the doe notices the departure of her possible mate. She puts down her guard and runs after him.
She gets his attention,like a drop of rain in a dry ,parched land yearning for the  refreshing from the heavens.  The cracking ground rejoices at the first gush of rain. The cracks, are sealed. The ground brings forth a burst of life. The gentleman is revived to his mission. But she does not let him get too close. She still has to make him run like crazy for her. Perhaps a rite of passage to test ones sincerity and strength of character.
As if the audience could no longer bear to watch the suspense in the play ,she finally consents. The two are now one.
It's a truce, a treaty of two. They are content to be thus,or are they really?
Soon tides of a welcome intruder are noised abroad. Perhaps a consumation of their union. After a faithful tarry,junior comes along. Frail and helpless,but o what a beauty to behold. The first cry is most precious,for it signifies life. The first breath certainly is breathtaking.

Nature is full of wonders. Take a turn left or right and you'll be greeted with marvels unmatched. Dare I say it, a reiteration of a master sculptor at work. Whether  altered by its own whims or the orchestration of man, it still retains a beauty so natural, a  retelling of creations touch. whether it a be a bumble bee that aerodynamically shouldn't fly, a notion that was held by many for quite some time, or  a slithering serpent that lurks in the ground, a sloth so slow that knows no emergency or a meerkat so naively intelligent, nature speaks to us in volumes, so silent yet audible enough for one willing to hear. 
In the natural world, one may glean lessons so precious, great erudition. The irony is that the obvious is not so common thought through by many a beholder ,and like it is said, 'common sense is not common' for if it were, then perhaps men/women of nobility would be more abundant than the common man! A simple, yet profound circuit of life may be observed; trees always send their trunks, shoots, or stems upward and their roots down in the ground, hidden from the scene, as if in an attempt to elude the prying eye. A deep rooted tree will stand the caprice of weather. like roots that unearth the ground, into the darkness and crevices of the rocks, tunneling their way in search for precious minerals, a drought of water and further more, anchorage, one needs to work with his ability in the shadows, letting no drop of sweat or perspiration drop in waste or ebb away in futility. Let your success, like the visible, majestic tree with awesome branches noise out your labours. And if situation allows that you have not the strength to stand up on your own despite a good rooting send off in the ground, like a creeper, tag along the back of mighty 'oaks' or 'cedars' or 'pines' as it were. It is not belittling, rather, making use of every opportunity to scale the heights.  In stack contrast, reeds, shrubs , grass or their kind are not as majestic and imposing. They are slender, gentle and even a mild blow of he wild will get their notice as is manifest in the swerving dance. Oddly, in an ensuing storm, trees wane and fall to the ground, while the little reeds stand their ground.  Here is exhibited the strength of gentleness.

 

The grass is greener on the other side

'The grass is greener on the other side',this adage has many moving from one spot to the next. Is it really greener on the other side? Perhaps it is! Maybe it really is. It is true for many that the things that oft catch the eyes' attention,that allure the heart, are found on the other side. Sometimes,so close to us,but not really ours for the keeping. It seems like everything good,fascinating is always helmed in somebody else's custody,in somebody's territory, or vicinity.
For some,the desire to be where they are not, is driven by the thought that they would make it in life if they just had a chance to be anywhere other than 'right here'.
An acquaintance of mine once motioned "have you noticed how single guys always see happy couples moving around,and couples see happy singles in their freedom roaming the lanes?" So is it a mirage that the grass is greener on the other side? Well yes and no. In reality ,what appears good from afar may not always be so upclose. We oft admire people,places,situations from our perspective. It's  so easy to begrudge our lives,to augment our toils,the yoke that weighs us down. If only 'I' could be given the next person's chance,advantage,then life would be a whole lot better,we are lured to think. And as is the case sometimes,one is tempted to delve into a dirge. As if in voice of reason ,a cohort of mine spoke. Words of untamed wisdom seemed to pour forth from his mouth ,not a usual thing coming from him,but hey,don't we all have that rare moment :) . "If we ,others inclusive, were to come together and lay each ones burden on the table, you would quickly rush over to yours and call it your blessing" . Awestruck,I dared not not continue in my pity party.
So the grass may be rightly better on the other side. But remember that nothing good comes without effort,weeds are an exception. For they bloom when and where so ever they desire. You needn't nature them,they got that covered. A crop of grain will never in a million years somehow grow in a fallow land,unworked ground,but hay will,mildew too. When you see a field so green, don't fret on your lack of luck,rather appraise the work of another ,well done.
Perhaps it's time you took your working boots and a shovel ,till the land and grow your roots right beneath your feet. Peradeventure,there lies your pot of gold.
Make your spot the best place to be. It may not be as green,perhaps not even grass,but whatever it is,make it worth your joy,a smile at the end of the day.

It is said that feelings come and go,love comes and grows. For feelings are but emotions that linger on only with a constant milieu ,and take a dash off with the onset of change. Yet love ,in its simplest form, abides and takes on a mature turn,though it too,like a tender shoot out of the dirt must be well watered lest it withers or shrivels. Feelings are good,they help express our mood,our affection or disaffection,when allowed to take on a visible form as laughter,a smile on the cheek, a hug, a tear and a sob  too. They may be warm and fuzzy,perhaps electrifying as when a gentle lad finally has won the heart of a fair damsel after a seemingly hopeless pursuit of her,marked with interludes of disappointment and apparent loss. O but now, the heart beats with an augmented rythm . The S1 and S2 (denoting the first and second heart sounds) now take on a quadruple form,S1 to S4 ,creating a theatrical semblance of an army of horses galloping across the rugged terrain . Any attempts to conceal the feelings are betrayed. However,with a little turn of the wind,tides change, feelings are hurt,sadness ensues, and a morose tone fills the air. Feelings are perishingly cold . Hearts are broken.Whimsical? Perhaps. But here is where love takes the barton to finish the race. Yes ,feelings precede it,and like tentacles,  may crowd it's path,yet it holds sway. Love is best seen than heard ,for they who say it ,scarcely mean it,and those who show it seldom fake or feign  it. It is slow growing and even slower dying. I am amazed at the thought that even amidst betrayal,it still believes in trust, after a let down it still holds on. Flames will not vanquish ,nor  floods drown it. Like a fire in one's bosom ,it can't be contained, for it longs to be given. Love withheld is no love at all.
The ethos of love is self giving, or rather sacrifice.
I stumbled over an ecerpt from a musical composition that read thus, '...you are blue skies,you are the sun on my face. You are the dream that lingers on even when I'm wide awake...you are my joy,my dream thats still alive. There's so much to see if you keep looking up. You are what keeps me seeing through the dark clouds...should the darkness linger on,there's so much to hope for . You fill the heavens with hope .' Halaal.
Well it goes without saying that the skies may not always have a blue hue ,nor the sun shine in dazzling grandeur, yet love sees that which the common eye beholds not.