My soul hangs on the soles of my shoes.

I reflect on all that I have done and not done.
My reflection, I stand on my soles.
My soul hangs on the soles of my shoes.
On shoes, I picked, buckled, and laced, maybe not.
My reflection, woven through yours, maybe not.
A pedestal or a pylon, either, if flipped around.
You can judge how much pedestal or pylon, hopefully, some of both
I have a judge, but I deny you not.
My reflection has judgment fractures, too.
Your reflection is not mine;
well, maybe I did block your light, sorry.
Maybe I gave you light, that feels good.
I reflect on all that I have done and not done.
But not too much, just enough to know,
My reflection stands on my soles.
My soul towers into the stars.
Maybe not.
My soul stretches into infinity below my soles
Maybe not.
I reflect on all that I have done and not done.
~jennwren

A Winter Sea Side Town

The sun had recently set, and the remnants of the ebb suggested this seaside town was ready to pull the shades and slumber. A brisk offshore wind picked at my garment seams for a way to get inside and chill my skin. The occasional gust did manage to lick my neck. The idea of hot tea or coffee lurked in my immediate wishes. Despite the cold sensations, the homes and restaurants glowed. The foreboding weather emptied the streets, and the village seemed indoors, performing end-of-day routines such as dining, visiting, and winding down.

The last family outside passed across the courtyard, struggling to keep their dog focused on getting to the front door. My dog-loving traveling girlfriend, Sarah, did not necessarily help. Her gentle demeanor attracts everything in his world, including the young, slobbery-snouted dog. The happy dog paid Sarah handsomely in slobbers from head to toe. We spent five minutes wiping the drool off her new all-weather jacket.

I love to experience and share moments like these. Come with me or invite me, and be ready to explore.

Up a Creek

Stepping into the world against the normal currents may seem complicated, scary, and impractical. Perhaps not. It is a bit of work. But the work does have rewards. The secret is to keep paddling and rest in the eddies. Keep moving upstream, swimming, resting, and repeat. No promises, but one day, you might reach the source of life for your river or solid muscles and good bone density. No matter what, paddling upstream will elevate you to new heights. Otherwise, there is nothing wrong with kicking back and floating down the river. Drifting with the current is a suitable way to pass the time, taking in beautiful scenery. Enjoy, encourage, or taunt the occasional passing paddler going in the opposite direction. Floating down the stream is less work. No paddle is required; keep going downstream until you eventually flow onto a stagnant body of water and settle to the bottom, taking place among the fossil records.

Gray and Gray

It was many moons since my most valuable treasure sailed away from the shores of my soul. Every day, I walk these piers alone, hoping that perhaps one day, my gem will sail home. I may miss my treasure, but I know that my treasure is also missing me. The feeling grows even harsher, like a giant storm roaring in from the sea, knowing that your ships and shores may never pass again. Some understand this feeling well. Some may know what it is like to leave the metaphorical shores of your daily beloved. The feeling in the heart comes from the longing to connect with the missing pieces.

The Daily Wave

Unlike the other tourists, I headed out to see the city of York in the very early hours of the morning. I seriously enjoy seeing places in the early morning hours. There is something to be said about watching a town or village waking up.

Ponder the thought that every day, every hour for millions of years, we have formed a human wave around the planet by waking up in the morning.

I take part daily in that wave from my small, self-centered view of life. I cannot see the wave. It's not like our Stadium of Life is shaped like a bowl.

I walk the area during the day and nonpeak hours as much as possible when I visit a place. Seeing a place at least twice affords me the license to say I actually visited.

The scene is from Clifton Street facing South East. Time of Day 0728 and the sun rising (0732)

Shambles

The tour guide asked, "Do you know why they call this the shambles?" I mumbled too loud, “Because they are a mess?” “Not exactly, but I will share with you shortly,” said the tour guide, throwing mystery words and rolling his eyes back in my direction.

The street is called the "The Shambles" because the road is full of shambles. I was like in my head, “Duh,” I am still not there. What the heck is a shamble? The suspense was stringing me along. Finally, we arrived at "The Shambles." Filled with anticipation, I was ready to see my first shamble. Was it metal, wood, or a combination of both? Turning the corner onto The Shambles, my eyes scanned high and low, looking for anything I had no term. The medieval scene drove us tourist imaginations into a curiosity of the life in those years long gone. The human’s ability to manage and interrupt the world in the 12 and 13th centuries was very different from the 21st century. Reading medieval history often feels cruel and unusual. So, what could a shamble be in the context of my literature readings about the early centuries when people believed in ghosts, evil spirits, and demons as real entities?

The guide stood before a shop window, leaning slightly on a large window ledge. Or at least what I thought was a simple large window sill. Then he explained using a visual illustration that the window ledge is the shamble. I spoke up; that shelf is a shamble? Yes, this is a shamble. The merchants hung their meats over the storefront window shelf. Above the shamble was an old rod with original metal hooks. The meat hung from the hooks, and some smaller pieces for sale were sorted on the shamble. The tour guide added that these hooks were originals and, in medieval days, hung meat for sale and that the large shelf below was also original and held other meat items for sale. The street became known as the Shambles, named after the storefront window ledge.

So, the word shambles entered my vocabulary with meaning and a visual. I had wrongly assumed that Shambles met something, being a hot mess. That was yesterday. Today, the word has meaning. :)

My surface is well waxed.

I do not worry too much about straying. I do stick to the waterfalls I am accustomed to. My surface is well waxed and quickly sheds even the heaviest adorning downpours. Like any storm, I can see the shower of desire and lust pouring from the cumulonimbus cloud of love at first sight. The drops and often showers of courtship bead off my façade. Safe behind my walls, I can hide from love at first sight.

I watched you fall in love with me, then watched you fall out of love. I held out until you gave up. My first impression, my first sighting, is not someone to fall in love with. However, your best bet is to fall in love with my second impression found deeper inside without a map to follow.

If you love me, you love me, say so; if you love me at first sight, wait for it. If you love me at second sight, say so.

I am scared to talk about love. You, too, should fear talking to me about love. I do not want a love that does not meet me where I am. I love to meet you where you are, but I do not wish to park where we are. To ease my fear means taking on a woman who has the self-centered and selfish pursuit of her grandiose dreams. Maybe you should just go climb Mount Everest, you will have guides, sherpas and a better chance of survival.