I like to write. It frees me of all the mind junk flying around in my head. Whatever I can't express in voice, I've always seemed to be able to get across in my writing. I've written poetry, songs, short stories, column-type writings. Most of them start off as simple journalings, go through a gestation process, and then by the time I finish the first rough draft of whatever it is, it has come into focus what type of media they were meant to be.

[ Arms and Rails | Good Friends | In My Mother's Eyes (song) ]

---

ARMS AND RAILS | ©2008 Julia George

Feeling the wind in my hair, the rush of evading impending death, the thought that pieces of metal are hurtling past me and yet I escape them... these I can feel in my convertible on the freeway. I don't need to get on a rollercoaster.

A couple days ago I heard of a boy "mysteriously" dying after riding a high-speed rollercoaster. He died for "reasons unknown." Interesting. Did nobody consider the poor kid might've had a heart attack?

What is our human need - (well, not mine, but then again I've never fit into this planet) - to face death and win? There are plenty of other things we can do to remind us we're alive.

Follow a butterfly with your eyes...

See a dog's love as he smiles up knowing his owner's as excited about the walk as he is...

Play tag with a thoroughbred.
(hard to explain. trust me on this one.)

Listen for silence.

I'll bet more often the answer to the question 'Am I alive?' will be found when we're still, and not when we're hurtling out of control like some superhero. We don't know what's around the next loop-de-loop, after all.

Or go ahead. More butterflies for me.

[ back to top ]

GOOD FRIENDS | ©2006 Julia George

I can count on one hand the number of those I would consider good friends. Of them, Ginger's my favorite. I can feel her penetrating stare of recognition from a hundred feet away and I feel her see me. If she's not looking, she recognizes my voice when I say hi and she turns around. We're connected. Ginger carries herself with an air of confidence and grace and her spirituality shines through in her eyes. She shows me by example how to be. And she, too, knows about the important things in Life...

Standing still in the sun, basking on the horizon in wonderment of what must be waiting just over that ridge;

The tickle of the hose water as it hits our lips and bounces off our nose, squinting to not get it in our eyes;

The simplest fun of laughing and running and skipping, playing our favorite "last-one-to-the-wall's-a-rotten-egg";

How girls covered in dust.... are STILL girls;

Of having confidence in who we are and not being afraid to strut it;

These are things Ginger and I frequently share in.

Yes, we are of different breeds -- she equine and I human -- but together we're 'of a feather' and flying.

 

[ back to top ]

IN MY MOTHER'S EYES | ©2006 Julia George

(in C Major | Irish-ish, flowing)

My mother's eyes looked deep inside me, to tell me I'm okay.
My mother's eyes looked far behind me to ensure that I'd be safe.
My mother's eyes let me know things, like she would never leave me.
My mother's eyes spoke volumes of how life it ought not to be.

And when she died I knew my mother's eyes, would tell me things were still okay.
I knew I'd see her in my visions when my dreams were on my windowsill.
My mother she would talk to me and say that it's okay.
And I would have to listen closely to see all that she would say.

My mother's eyes looked deep inside me, to tell me I'm okay.
My mother's eyes looked far behind me to ensure that I'd be safe.
My mother's eyes let me know things, like she'd never let me be.
My mother's eyes spoke often to me that she'd never leave my side.

But when she died I knew my mother's eyes, would tell me things were still okay.
When mine were closed she'd talk to me and whisper how my dreams would say.
What life was meant to be and then how I should notice everything.
And when my mother was away I could remember
.... and see my mother's eyes.

My mother's eyes looked deep inside me, to tell me I'm okay.
My mother's eyes looked far behind me to ensure that I'd be safe.
My mother's eyes let me know things, like she'd never let me be.
My mother's eyes spoke often to me that she'd never leave my side.

But when she died I knew my mother's eyes, would tell me things were still okay.
When mine were closed she'd talk to me and whisper how my dreams would say
What life was meant to be and then how I should notice everything.
And when my mother was away I could look in the mirror
.... and into mother's eyes.

[ back to top ]