Riddle Me This

Riddle me this:

How many blossoms unopened at best,
may land in the autumn, forever in rest.

Have they been let fall? What is it yet,
for the blossoms to fall, is it hope or regret?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

What is to know, and less for to see,
if truth is obscure and barely your need?

For the words on the page, seem idle and weak,
but simplicity begs the truth that you seek.

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

I can't lift it up, as I can't change a view.
Impossible to steal, yet stolen from you.

Now ought I to try, not to refrain,
stealing the stolen back home again?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

The chill of the winter, may shatter the road.
The heat of the summer may liquefy gold.

What is the virtue, of knowledge untold,
when hope chills the heat and warms winter cold?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

Were the signs not enough, shown through the law,
of natural preference in a leaf with no flaw?

Or the beams of the sun, or wind now explained?
Yet interpret you will, away and ashamed.

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

Could the mouse do much better than the dragon to chase,
or the fish than the horse in winning a race?

Compare to the truth of fear versus faith,
how is the message, and how would it change?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

Encased in the moment, forgotten in time;
was in fragments shattered, like forsaken signs.

Is there hope to recover, or sight to regain,
or neither an answer for nothing to feign.

Please riddle me these
Riddle me this,
I beg and I plead
you will not dismiss.
Riddle me, riddle me,
Riddle me this.

Sera Johnson © 2009

Superhero

I lean back in my chair, head cocked to the side, confident and full of myself; pretending I am a superhero. I lift one eye brow with a slight grin. 'I can do anything' I whisper to myself. 'Because I'm a freekin' superhero! And superheros have super powers.' I grin widely.

But then I glance back at the computer area in front of me; papers scattered about, bits of old projects left unfinished on top of the printer and left on and around stacks of CDs. Around my feet lay wires tangled with themselves from old and broken parts of who-really-knows-whats. I'm not really smiling anymore.

Among the heaps of junk and potentially useful items is a College catalog with course listings. I let out a sigh and sit back in my chair normally, snatching the book out from under a pile of old art work. I flip it open to some papers stuffed into the pages. Enrollment papers for the coming semester. 'I want to go to school', I tell myself, in a less than convincing voice. Barely audible. I stare at the book for a bit but then I toss it back onto the pile, and set to work on getting rid of some of the mess.

I shuffle through some papers lying on the desk. I look back at the computer screen, and see a face smiling out at me. It's the face of a baby. Amy. She's only a month old. Her little face smiles out of the computer screen, the rest of her body wrapped up warmly in the embrace of her father. His face smiling along side hers. I put down the papers and look at the picture on the screen. 'Hi Amy.' I say. My heart begins to ache a bit. It must be so comfortable there, in her father's arms. He's got a hold of her snug and tight. You can tell he's not going to let go of his little girl any time soon. How peaceful it looks to be a part of that picture. 'I want to be a mother', I begin to say, less audible than before.

I bookmark the page, and close the window. Why was that painful to look at? I decide to change rooms and I go get the papers I left with my church books. I begin leafing through and find the notes from church I took earlier this morning. Notes about being kinder to people, and about what faith really is, and about what separates hope from belief. There on the corner of one piece of paper is the scribbled words 'Note to self: Go on a mission'. There's so much that intrigues me about the gospel. I believe it. I want to share it with people. 'I want to go on a mission', I say. But am I too scared, I wonder?

I continue working on recording the notes in other places so that I can throw out all the bits of paper that have been collecting over a period of much-too-long. But I don't know how to throw some of them out. Some of them are pieces of art work, swirls and lines, shaded pictures mixed in with my notes. How do I throw those out? They aren't exactly masterpieces, but they aren't exactly transferable to some other place, and I still want to keep them. After a while, I stop. I go back to the computer chair by the window. I'm not interested in sorting papers anymore. I'll leave that for some other time. When I care more. Maybe I'm bored. Maybe I'm ADD. Then again, maybe I don't care if I'm ADD.

But, what do I care about? I wonder to myself. What do I want to do? I've got a job. I work at a daycare. I could keep working there. But for what? But I don't really want to work there anymore. Working there isn't what I want to be doing in a few months. Maybe it's because I am not dedicated, and I just don't want to do something I'm not enjoying, or maybe it's because having worked there has made me dislike children, and I think that is wrong. So I ask myself again, 'what do I want to do?'

'I want to start a business', I say, half wishing someone was listening so they could give me some sort of motivation. It would be amazing to change the world in some way through a business I created. The truth is, I want to begin changing the world through my efforts to help people. I want to help people all over the world. 'And I want to travel too'. I hear the words come out, but by the time they are out, my mind has already moved on. I want to travel, but what about all the other stuff I want to do? Do I have the guts? Do I know what's coming? Can I do any one of these things and not miss out on the rest?

I sigh. I lean back in my chair, and cock my head, looking out the window. 'I want to be a superhero', I say. This time I can barely muster up the words. 'Maybe then I'd have the guts to try something. Anything. Even if it was just finishing clearing up this messy room. I'd do something exciting. After all, I'd have super powers.'

But nothing changes. The leaves aren't even rustling in the wind. It's all the same. Same as when I looked out the window the first time. And I'm not a superhero. I don't have super powers. And I can't bend the rules.

I sigh again. I wish someone would push me in some direction. Then I wouldn't have to choose and come up with my own motivation. I'd just have to keep the momentum.

I get out of the chair, and begin cleaning the papers off the desk. Frustrated, and weary I trudge on, hoping somewhere in the mix and confusion of it all, someone will save me from the fate of the unfortunate soul, born as a regular. Not a superhero... Not even a sidekick... Not super at all.

Maybe silence will carry the words
Because I know speaking them

Would ruin them

Maybe there are blueprints for a bridge
That could be built to mend hearts

Further apart

Maybe there is time to learn to run
Fast enough that pain won't catch up

Even fade away

Maybe there is simply nothing
More to be said
Maybe distant hearts aren't
Meant to mend
And maybe pain is nothing
In a retrospective end.

Everything means Nothing

I can’t think of a proper introduction. I tried using an empty bowl of chili but that didn’t work. So be prepared to just jump into hard core philosophy. 1, 2, 3, go!

This world that we live in is full of physical objects, obeying the scientific laws that command the world into order. In this world, we find only a series of facts, certain physical attributes, actions preformed or emotions experienced. There are atoms that make up every object you see. There is energy or potential energy in everything you see. The world is full of facts.

But this next sentence is the sentence that means everything. Everything means nothing.

Let me emphasize that. Every single thing in this world means exactly NOTHING. Absolutely, thoroughly NOTHING at all. The chair you sit on, the table you eat at, the body you use, the emotions you feel, the food you eat all mean nothing. There is nothing in this world that holds any meaning what so ever…

…UNTIL you believe in it. That is, until you give it a name, a reason, a history or choose how you will respond to it, there is no meaning what so ever in the world.

There is meaning only in our beliefs.

The sunset it just a bunch of chemicals in the atmosphere, and light rays bouncing through from the sun’s chemical reactions. It is fact, and it is meaningless until a human lets the sunset into their personal world, and believes it is something of worth. Sunsets are beautiful, vibrant, inspiring, amazing. But sunsets mean nothing at all if you don’t believe in them.

If someone says “I love you”, the sounds mean nothing at all. Sounds emitted through the use of a human voice box which allows sounds to form and travel through the air which is in turn carried to another person’s ear. But as soon as those sounds are interpreted, given a name, a reason, a history… as soon as those words are believed… Those words can mean the world. I love you. Is there power in those words? Absolutely. That is my belief.

It is our beliefs that shape our individual worlds.

The truth is, that the world is exactly what you say it is. There is no getting around this. You can’t escape believing. It happens as naturally as choosing one thing over another. It happens, and even if you try to avoid it, that in and of itself is a belief. And the world shall be shaped just like that.

Partake in the Magic

I am taking a childcare course online, and during one of the activities, I came across this poem, which I would like to share.

A Child’s Mind

Eyes open wide
In wonderment
The children pressed against
The classroom window
I told them to sit down

John said
But Miss! A star has fallen in our field
I saw no star
Till bending down to child height
There, in the grass
I glimpsed the dazzling light

A Star?
A piece of broken jam-jar
Catching the rays of a low January sun.
Educationally, it would have been sound
To follow up with a lesson
On how the glass reflects the sunlight

I couldn’t
To forty children
Who had just seen a star

- Author Unknown


Can you place yourself here? I imagine the dilemma. Do I break this child's heart, or do I tell him the truth?

Do I explain the chemistry behind the beauty of a rainbow? Or do I respectfully hide the answer to a question that hasn't been asked, as to why flowers grow to be so stunning?

Doesn't it steal away the magic?

On certain nights, I look up at the sky, and on special evenings, the stars transform, they are no longer burning balls of gas millions of miles away, but beacons of truth, silent and refined, near singing with their majesty. So simple a view, but so powerful a message. So how would it seem right to break the heart of a child who believes in something so beautiful as a star having fallen in a field? The child sees something that for that one moment, while looking out onto a barren field, is truth because they believe it.

I imagine that if I were that child, I would wander outside after class and scoop up that jar, and take it home, to show to all who would allow themselves to partake in the magic, that this was a fallen star.

But maybe once I got out to the field, and saw the jar for what it was, I would recognize it, and only need one look before saying 'Oh... It's just a jar.'

But even then... Even after having thought that a star had fallen, to be disappointed by finding that it was just a cup of class glass out in the middle of a field, I would esteem it as magic. I would know that it was just a plain and simple jar, ugly up close, and seemingly unimportant, and yet it would be magic to me. Because I know that it was just this simple bit of glass glimpsed from the classroom window that had made such stunning beauty as to catch the gaze of the entire classroom. Because of the beauty of the shimmer, the brightness of design, and the truth of the light, I would scoop it up anyway.

I would take it home, and though I would not parade it as a star, I would showcase it as a miracle. I would show all who would allow themselves to partake in the magic, that this simple object was all it took to steal my breath away and show me something miraculous.

From small, simple and ugly things, miracles are born if we only allow ourselves to partake in the magic.

My Father's Footsteps

Not long ago, and yet what seems ages for me, lived a man with a million dreams. Dreams to fly a plane, to make lots of money, to be an artist and to be someone his father would be proud of. These are only some of his dreams. This man was like Edison. Trying one thing, then another and then another until finally: light!

I really wish I could be like my father. Because although he had a million unrealized dreams, many became true. Most did not but his short life encased many, many beautiful experiences that I am not even capable at this point of making into realities. He has been to Europe, Japan, and Australia. He has flown his own plane, sky dived 100 times and biked across Canada. And so much more.

Here I sit next to my computer, typing out in words something so deep I feel as though I were about to split apart. It's not about the traveling or the excitement and rush of diving from a plane... it's about looking life straight on and proclaiming "Come on! I dare you!"

I can't do it. I never could. There is something broken in me that won't let me be reckless or bold. It won't let me love or hold onto joy. Any joy I do feel is held for less than two seconds at most. I can't cry either. And because of this, I cannot dream.

Not long ago, and yet what seems ages for me, lived a man with a million dreams.

I wish I did.

Webs of Power

I look up and see my own reflection in a borrowed mirror. The reflection is not smiling. The thought passes through my consciousness that my feelings at this moment, and all my accumulated thoughts are insignificant. There are billions of other people on this Earth at this precise moment, many of them staring at their own reflection, and all with complicated emotions. All of them insignificant.

But as I stare at myself, a new perspective shifts into view as though I were taking off a blindfold. It's a simple thought, but it changes everything. I begin to smile at my reflection. For the revelation I have just discovered will affect everyone around me. And the revelation is this: Everything I do affects those around me; they in turn affect everyone around them, and those affected affect others and it goes on until I have managed to affect the entire world. Day after day I unknowingly affect others, and unknowingly I consent to being affected by those around me.

As I look in the mirror, a thought of intricate webs, thorough connections and unseen paths of energy compel me to smile. If this is all it takes, why not give it a try?

What a strange new world of responsibility and freedom as I stare at my own reflection... because in the exact same way that my face reflects in this borrowed mirror, my smile may reflect in the eyes of those around me, and maybe we won't be so insignificant after all.