Tree Home

My heart is full yet my body is weak following a weekend, that made up for the lack of sleep with profound questions and experiences, both true and real.  I am sold out for the movement of love and cannot help but dance daily in its wake. Deep conversations have become currency while experience is held as dear as the depth of thought behind it. An overflow of lives abounding in love and joy is eagerly apparent. Smiles accompany serving just as answers accompany our prayers. The year of the Lord's favor is clearly upon this group of believers, doers and dreamers and thus my heart is full.  Full of life. Full of thanks. Full. 

Teens are more aware than I have ever seen. The questions being asked are as intelligent and profound as the answers being sought after. This is a byproduct of so many and so much that have made the roots of this tree of life grow. Leaders devotion to prayer, service and love transcends numbness and ignorance to preach a gospel of invitation, acceptance and rebirth; in a way for the blind to see it and the deaf to hear it. How important a kind smile or encouraging text is from a person who is your biggest fan and loves you for who you are. And to have a group devoted to each other as well as four thousand others, not only rocks the boat of status quo but rains light into a darkness dimmed by the words of the songs they sing and hardened by the products and truths they are sold. In a society bankrupt of the real, these innovators preserver through the awkward and the sacrifices to reveal truth of identification. Truth of reality. Truth of something bigger. True

I am because we are. I am blessed. I am joyful. I am thankful. I am passionate. I am in love. We are. 

Community is built upon the bricks of people's lives and erected through the hammering of conversations and memories made. This home I have found myself in is richly placed on a base strong enough to withstand any storm of circumstance and crisis. By placing belief that relationships create the most suitable concrete for pouring and friendships yield planks both strong and sturdy, a home becomes solidified for a long life of tradition, interaction and life lived in full. Our. The word means more to me now than ever before. To be apart of something bigger, a movement on the tips of toes, a community submerged in the dance of life, an adventure worth telling stories about, a courting of truth…that is why I am here. Because love is here. Because truth is here. Because hope is here. Because God is here.  

Home is the tree house that we have made. All are welcome. All are invited to play. 

Meetings...

I am surrounded by meetings about meetings about money. Conversation splashes in the puddle of its depth while numbness wins the night and begins to recruit the day. Caffeine allows us to do nothing more and technology commands isolation in this quest.

(being aware of my surroundings at a coffee shop)

Mornings like this.

 The sun is lazily creeping into the cloudless sky on a morning plagued by the chills yet bounding in promise. Rays flirts with the courageous leaves still hanging and ignite belief that today is in fact a gift. Headphones block out needless distractions while supplementing my a.m. experience with the fitting soundtrack. Melodies are loaded with slow rhythms. Lyrics seem to hold more than syllables and commas. Natural acoustics go hand-in-hand with mornings like this. Listening moves to hearing as emotions are linked to the brisk awareness that fall is fading fast and winter's chill will soon overtake the resistance. Coffee has logged long hours to solidify its position of comfort, warmth and hug like status. So. On days like this. Their services are requested and reputation is not only solidify but becomes legend. The perfect blend of tradition, familiarity and taste. One sip reminds you that bitterness is as temporary as the passing of the twelfth month and hopelessness is a casual hint that we need each other to get through. 

Wind I cannot see moves the slender trees, whose fall dieting and shedding, leave them open to the flowing force. A dance ensues. Gusts take the lead and branches follow suit. Swaying with perfect lines honed from their rehearsal of years and years. A love story unfolds. I watch and wonder why we are often to busy to realize that this is where it all began. Where love taught us to dream. Where laughter taught us to move. Where life began its pursuit. 

The window through which I look is not entirely clean yet the little imperfections warrant truth. I peer through it as if to gaze into another world. I am inside yet aware that my soul craves to feel the story this window is telling. My soul longs to be apart of a love story. It yearns for partners to dance with and to be thrown into a story worth telling. This window separates me from the outside world but my mind easily connects what I know to be true about the suns waning presence and understands life is lived on the other side of the glass. Life is lived where wind blows, trees dance and songs are sung. 

            DEEP ROOTS

Lazy as a leaf whose adventure is not his own

            Ambitious as a vine whose sight soar always up

Simple as a yes whose answer does condone

            Optimistic as a kid who’s as full as his cup

Today marks the start of it all

            Time passes yet moments linger with hope

Hearts gather to honor their call

            Dreams flirt, dance, cuddle and elope

You and me and her and him

            A group unruly related only in time

Without the other the world fashions grim

            Fight back and love claims a witty rhyme

One,  two…three four seven

            Gaggles, herds, schools, flocks

Artistically adding to get eleven

            The movement of the grandfather as it tocks

Green enough to grow with ease

            The wind carries feelings of home

Dirt covered blue jeans from working bent knees

            Explorers unite to where their roots will sew.

Staring Contest

I got in a staring contest with a dog today. I was walking. He was sitting. I say he only because I believe his name was Aaron.  And a better description than sitting would be staying put. I contemplate freedom only when I see someone that lacks it. Aaron lacks it. So I thought about being able to go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I like freedom.

Aaron was probably thinking the opposite.  If Aaron were a human being he would be that old gray haired man with spectacles on the tip of his nose. He would only wear wool; on his upper body and his feet.  People would say things like “that Aaron can really tell a story” and “ Aaron is so smart.” But Aaron is a dog.

Aaron has lost his bite. Or at least I think he has.  He did not bark at me. He did not run about disregarding the leash around his neck. Aaron stays put. “Has he lost his excitement for being alive or is he tired of being a dog?”

With a sigh, which I saw with my eyes rather than hearing with my ears, Aaron reached out to me. Aaron must have had one of those mornings. I have had a lot of those.  Or maybe one of those weeks. Or maybe one of those doggie years. Dogs think way more than we think they do. Dogs are way smarter than cats. But not as smart as horses. Horses are really smart.

I stare. He stares back. I keep walking. He stays put. I keep staring. He keeps staring back. I feel sorry for Aaron. He stares back. He has a gray goatee. I keep walking and staring. He stares back. Aaron is the best at this game. I am playing a game. I do not think Aaron is playing.

I wander what Aaron is doing right now. Probably staying put. Probably just staring. Aaron is a dog. 

I pray.

I sit. I kneel. I wait here.

I listen. I pause. I listen more.

I see. I wonder. I make believe.

I repeat. I rehearse. I give thanks.

I ask. I wish. I hope for.

I indulge.

I ponder.

I wrestle with.

I am. I waver. I am not?

I read. I think. I draw thoughtlessly.

I breathe. I smell. I sigh deeply.

I acknowledge. I slow. I reflect upon.

I swear. I praise. I live aware.

I pray. 

  Words of advice, “that is not a tanning bed”

I am a Pop Tart. My name is Brody. And today I want to tell you a tale about time travel and truth filled omens.

So there I was ,shooting dice behind the Wheat Thin families’ house with my best friend Chad, he’s a Pop Tart as well a ginger, when a flash of light filled our Cupboard. The two dice added up to seven yet were not celebrated due to the lack of witnesses. Chad and I had already hopped Spaghetti’s waist high fence and were on full tilt toward the unknown before the die had a chance to stop their dance.  Stopping only to wink at the coed cupcake twins, Rachel and Stacy, our pursuit was swift and determined. Nothing this exciting had happened since Brian’s dad, Stu, sang in the hit “Blue Box Blues” and brought honor to his now famous Macaroni family.

Chad was the first to spot the one we deemed responsible for the flash. Even from first glance, the man seemed oddly familiar to me. As we bravely moved in without hesitation, I was knocked off my feet in boredom when I realized it was just another Pop Tart like any other. As I dusted myself off, a crowd had gathered with copycat curiosity. Sighs of mundane awareness bellowed forth as all understood the excitement was for naught.

Minutes passed and Chad and I deep in disappointment became aware of two things. One, we were now alone with the kill joy and secondly that upon further inspection, the Pop Tart  that created such a fuss looked exactly like my dad who left my mom and I when I was three. Chad, always at a loss for words, stared with a stereotypical glance of confusion. “I…I… who are you,” I mumbled. Stepping into the light out from beneath the shade of the top shelf I heard the words “my name is Pete. I am from the future.”

A different  intro to a short story

Hello. My name is Pete and I live in a refrigerator. I know what you all are thinking, wondering and dying to find out... the answer is no, actually rent is really cheap and yes, the light does go on by magic. But, back to the “what” and “why”. Like I just told you, my name is Pete. My mom calls me P. K.; you can call me Pete. And this is the story about how I became a real life hero, ended a civil war and met the apple of my dreams.

Oh yeah... I'm an apple.

To set the scene please make an effort to throw out all preconceived notions of my kind and let the tale speak for itself. Background information needed for those not familiar with our history is as follows, so listen up. Just like your history is plagued by intolerance and prejudice for being different, so to have our eras been settling for below average morality and humility. The age old feud between reds and greens dates back way before your famous Johnny Appleseed discovered what we had known for centuries, apples cant fly.

                

Lazy Daze

As I sit to write at my computer I must admit two things; first, is that my feet are cold but the feeling is unique to the season and so I resist an unnatural desire for wool protection, secondly the tie-dye T I sport is not my own design yet I have been known to claim its splendor as my handiwork.

I yearn today to paint a picture of an hour of my day that took place at the “lazy daze” coffee shop in Irvington, Indiana. My media will be mixed so I hope, with a full heart, that words, rhymes and imagery will produce justice of atmosphere and the regality of its spirit.

Outside, sit patrons whose inviting nods, lend part ownership and part comfort to the unknown. Beards are in season as well as conversations drowning amidst binding worn novels whose pages turn as quick, if not with more pace than the protagonist’s sword and the lyrist’s quill that dreamt them up. This is a haven where leaves fall and are given the proper attention, kids roam in exploration of the familiar, and the concept of name tags seems to be as foreign as it is unnecessary.  Rust takes on a new role of chic and tables, whose legs have been unleveled in wake of coffee dates, eager pooches enslaved to the spot and an uncanny attention to people and not details, promote connections of shape. Circles to be exact.

Enter the rectangle, not square, door and your eyes go on vacation to a place that is the norm to so many of those who walk amongst us with 4 rather than 2.  Art can be described as a new answer to an old question. I am not sure what the question originally was but I know the answer was found somewhere between life and creativity. Couches hug the right angle to the left of the entrance and appear to be molting. The vision of the original hue has long since shed, denim and corduroy being the catalyst of change.  To sit is to give into temptation. I indulged. The wrapper, in which this comfort is judged by, is perfect in its interpretation. Here, time moves at a different pace. Here, books have been finished and ideas different than most, have been thought. Here, I am.

And there Joanie is. Behind a booth, antiqued with flavor and history, stands a overtly jovial female toting what appears to be the softest shirt ever made and hair thrown together in her style not yours. A smile that plays with your optimism ensures that customer service is not clearly followed or defined. A quick attempt for my order and my wallet escapes without acknowledgement. Banter begins and the verbal jousting that ensued between my roomy and Joanie was beautifully simple. Man. Woman. Joke. Laughter. Smile. Smile.

Orders morph into friendly requests as interaction glues three hearts to the moment. Art tickles the properly aged walls with jokes of paint and lines of poetry. Machines are just that, machines; glistening is not what they do best. This statement of truth is appreciated and materialized into twelve ounces of blissful relief.  Grab the flimsy yet effective foam like cup of liquid joy and hold off on reverting back to making the tough life choices that are now surrounding the shop. 

http://www.lazydazecoffeehouse.com/