So who is to blame for all the nonsense ways we treat each other? For how difficult it is to be this thing called human. For all the ways we fail each other in forgiveness and understanding. How long will we continuously forget what it is to love, to empathize, to hold anger in our hands and let it dissipate. How hard is anger, this finite rock we must carry in our pockets. How vast is resentment, is fear, is the strength of a storm. How fast do our heads snap around on their axes to spit back fire at the sky. I want anger to fuel me only so far as to light a fire in my skin bright enough to see. I want anger only to serve me, not to be served by it. I want forgiveness. I think forgiveness is always right. Always.

Here is the world and suddenly it is blooming. Here is my heart and suddenly it is healing. Always life is glistening black and cloudless. Here is the spring and now my eyes can see. Here is the spring and I am all aflutter with what is blowing in the wind. So many seeds, so many eggs, so much hope, so much growing, so much growth. So little known, so much to be known.

Here is my heart and it is always a fire in flight. Burning at the ocean, burning at the edges, burning at laughter, burning at light.

At last, at last, my body feels full of the rattling again. Of the din of new day’s light.

San Diego sweeps and steals shining blazes of color from the sky. It pulls flowers from the earth and spreads them across hillsides, highway sides, tree-sides, store-sides, cliffsides. San Diego washes clean the remedy of rocks – of barreling, sloping rocks and pounding, pummeling wave rolls. It swells in the afternoon light and covers itself in shadows long and lean, succulent and green. It swarms with culture, oblivion and white-hot California aching. It swallows surfers, sand dogs, money hippies, collared wanderers, ancient whisperers, whispy-bearded borrowers and young, squealing, delight-children. San Diego sings in notes high pitched and wallowy; willowy and wandering, San Diego smarts and starts…peels itself up at the edges and serves miles of piles of food. San Diego takes its time wading into the water, wafting away down sliding streets, shimmying down old bridges, swimming through Spanish citadels. San Diego turns new at the edges, old at the cliff-sides, infinite at the ocean tides. Wild with cacti, bundles of bungalow-ed architecture, hatching like mis-matched teeth, splintered like city sidescapes, placed together haphazardly- fearless and full of color. Houses sit together like strange friends, meeting, diversifying, lying, meeting the night, coloring in the spaces with new age love and old age peace. San Diego barrels along at the tiny precipice of the country, looks west towards the sea, east towards the monument of a land named home, and north towards that glittering state called California. San Diego owns light; shares it, gives it, belays it, honors it, and wraps it around it’s splaying cliff-sides like a golden prize worth keeping. San Diego keeps like the light safe. Nestled and narrowing in tiny caverns and in vast slopes of sunshine and serenity.

Have you ever seen love drifting across the sky?

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