on if we could see what we carry

In a world of manifest metaphor, we carry our baggage by our sides and on our backs. Into suitcases, hold-alls, carry-ons and duffel bags, we cramp and stuff once significant others, bruises taken as children, rejections suffered at the hands of those more than us, dreams we were slow to claim and the crumbs of daily inadequacies that flake off to line the inseams.

We struggle with our mis-matched luggage; backs stooped, gaits shuffled; into cars, onto busses, taxis, shifting for space around our legs in coffee-shops, cinemas, cubicles at work, restrooms and parks.

Some people’s baggage precede them – taking up too much of your elbow room while others clutch them tightly to their chests, afraid the bones will fall out. We all move around each other in concerted rhythm; this sluggish dance of dragging trunks and lockers, weighted down by chunks of heart, reams of unwritten words; hard-drives of emails we never pushed the button on and what-ifs that clutter in-between.

We see each other for the mules we are and search for some luggage carousel’s re-assuring loop to offload and walk away straight backed; leaving hang-ups and let-downs to circle unclaimed.

scribbles…(1)


There is no elegant, poised way to clutch a crayon. As your fingers fist-wrap around the wax and shoulders hunch instinctively over paper, this world of adult falls away in scales.

The little stub of wax; is now the portkey to the land where imagination startles bright, where friends are forgiven with pinkie-hugs and “I want to be a discover and a explorer and a scientist and a writer and a doctor” is more within grasping distance than ever. “Draw outside the lines, the sky doesn’t have to be blue…” the voices different from the ones that built the scaffolding around you when you signed away your day between 8 and 5.

When the amnesia of adult sets in, and the priorities of living cloud and numb; find a crayon. Hold it.