What’s the color of my soul?
What are the shades of my spirit? What songs do the secrets of my heart sing?
Do they whisper when the wanna shout?
Do they belt when they wanna dance?
Both happy endings & sorrowful beginnings are filling the pages of my life books & filling my staff with notes.
Base & treble. Staccato now pause.
Take a deep breath & just look at the beauty of the symphony.
The roller coaster of my thoughts somehow describe a personal intuition.
Like pictionary for my soul describing my conversations and interactions with God.
Personal conversations & interactions
That reveal His activity in my life & His personal attention to my concerns, questions, fears & doubts.
The word air prayer has been haunting me so maybe I should pray harder.
Why can’t i ever be enough for myself.
I’m enough for those around me who love me.
Aren’t I blessed, but I make so many mistakes.
Again beauty for my sunrise.
Actions are a part of my sunshine.
More of Him & less of me
and anything that I contain is through His being.
He isn’t a part of my dance.
He is my dance.
For without him exists no harmony to move to.
What can my ego claim?
What are the c.o.l.o.r.s. of my soul?
Behold the paints, but where is the easel?
Blue for R&B and Soul.
Baby blue for a boy.
Pink for the pressure.
Yellow for the highs and lows.
The vivid, pictorial intuitions of my spirit somehow… someway display the things I can’t accurately describe in my relationship with God.
One day I pray to put them on canvas.
Not a tattle tale.
I just like to write.
I love to write.
That’s how I won.
How I won through my living room window.
How I won on the bedroom room floor.
How I won during that middle school move.
It’s how I try to win through change.
Transferring my fears & concerns to poetry & song somehow makes it lighter or more enjoyable to feel.
It makes me feel talented.
That I too might deserve to be gifted.
Not for insanity’s sake, but for the peace of mind it gives me.
When I write I feel like I’m doing something right.
It feels good.
That’s how I fight.
That’s how I love.
But who am I?
Who is Rachel?
I can barely recognize her through all this smeared dust & stained glass.
I see tooth marks & glass scratches like out of a horror movie.
I see rain.
I smell the mist of a pretty green field.
Like a pretense to freedom.
I see a little girl the corner.
She looks scared.
God’s sunrays lightly pierce through her window nudging her to love Him back.
Little by little she holds His hand & responds to His generous pursuits.
For her heart is safe & well respected here in this safe haven of gratitude & love.
Who is this woman or this girl?
I’m getting to know her & when I reach that peak and taste the bitter sweetness of her heart, taste the salty, wet teardrops of her soul dry or fresh
Recognize childhood memories or blocked mistakes or when I force myself to accept how tender she is to God I like to look at her just a moment longer.
A disgusting gasp in the mirror can’t compare the the sudden gasp of excitement or recognition.
Even dare I say an awe or respect.
I am pretty.
And I have a beautiful soul.
But my beauty comes from that soul.
I could go on & on
My gift is like a trumpet spouting endless notes of jazz.
My pen can never stop writing.
It’s the operative part of my soul.
My connection to the Most High in heaven.