Acres of Hope

They are the stretches of splendor that draw out a great sigh of relief as you gaze upon them.

They are the silk-laden skies of stillness that lead you to an undeniable peace.

They are the canvases painted with beauty, wonder, and awe that are undoubtedly the work of a masterful artist.

They are the endless expanses of clouds with the sun radiating above who reaches across countless miles to caress your cheek with rays of warmth.

Street Art

"Hey Sexy, where ya headed?" She heard his words as soon as she stepped out of the subway station, but they met her ears with no surprise. So often she scurried down streets-turned-catwalks filled with horn blasts and horny men. With every whistle or cloaked request for something more the pain returned for which she held her beauty responsible. Too many times too much notice had turned into unwanted action.

Now after every comment she scanned trash piles for paper bags to cover her head, or she at least vowed to drape a tarp over her body the next time she left the apartment. She was quick to wish away her golden curls, piercing blue eyes along with her comforting smile and attention-grabbing backside. Dwindling were the days she appreciated her beauty; increasing were the times she cursed it never once considering the artist who formed her. She didn´t know her beauty was a reflection of his own essence, the pride of his artwork. And so it remained the object of her disdain.

Her story is tragic, but its greatest tragedy is that its not hers alone, as far too many women claim it as their own. But perhaps their confusion can be illuminated with the light that corrected her misguided thoughts. One day her creator revealed to her his own radiant, awe-inspiring beauty. He helped her to understand his gift to her in being able to display this for others to see.

The result was of course beautiful.

Gone are the days of strutting down concrete runways lined with lustful eyes behind windshields and polluted with men´s unworthy desires. Instead she parades as a piece of art in the exhibit entitled ´Creation´. Like all other masterpieces she invites patrons of this gallery to be captivated by her beauty--a beauty that not only envigorates the eyes, but is also enriched by her mystery. She yearns for onlookers not to see her, but to behold her maker´s Beauty of which she is an incarnation.

Lessons worth Learning

Strength for the frailty
Hope for the longing
Trust for the pain
Faith for the not-knowing
Dedication for the time
Patience for the waiting
Humility for the brokeness
Honesty for the loving

Besos Frijoles

I´m quite fond of butterfly kisses. They always part from their sender with a heartwarming innocence, and they are received just the same. Even when shared between two lovers they simply capture the purity of their hearts´desire. But of course these precious gifts are best when they come from the eyelashes atop the big, hopeful eyes of a child. Every young heart knows that their love is wanted and worth receiving. If only we well-worn hearts had the faith of a child.

But I´ve recently found myself craving a different type of kiss--los besos de frijoles negro. Yes, black bean kisses. They still come with the same innocence, and their giver is just as hopeful. But beneath the black residue that they leave, there lies another message. It´s what I learn when the puckered lips of a three year old, bearing the leftovers of her dinner, find my own lips wihout hesitation. They impart a bit of her mess, and although it feels quite out of place, it momentarily becomes my own. But in a second´s time, my hand wipes away the traces of a learning eater, and I do so with joy because they were gladly given to me. For they come from a willing heart, one that wants to love just as she is, one that finds no need to hide what she´s been eating.

I just can´t get enough besos frijoles; perhaps because they remind me that I am a learning lover.