drowning

alone in the churning waves, she fights to keep her head up.
but it seems like every gasp ends in gagging on salt water
again forced under the tumult, there is a moment of stillness that seems to stretch on forever
she risks opening her eyes to the depths as the cold leaches heat from her body,
it is more quiet here, but her solitude is louder
if only there were help
if only there were someone
someone to see her struggle
someone to hold her up
someone to add warmth in this icy place
then
then everything would be alright
with someone to hold her up
someone to stay up for
she could live again
burning lungs remind her
she cannot stay below
pressing up ward, the surface seems slow to come
but come at last it does
and with it the roar of the storm
but there...
there for a moment she thought...
yes! a voice!
behind the thunder, wind and wave
a voice calls through the storm
but the direction is lost in the chaos
desperate, she strikes out
clawing her way forward
but tired. so tired.
a moments lapse and an unseen rise
drive out the air and leaver her coughing and sputtering
but again the voice cries out
and again frigid limbs flail
‘till suddenly hand strikes hand
a shock of heat and life
then gone
grasping hands find nothing
crying, thrashing, shouting
two voices call ...or three?
and then, carried by some friendly current
the two collide
arms lock and suddenly,
for a moment the storm is a paradise
lonely no more, joy abounds in hope fulfilled
until the next wave presses both beneath the sea.
hoarse from shouting I sit back in the boat from which we all had fallen
we were, none of us, swimmers
not at our best let alone in angry storm and sea
and yet, confused in the drift,
we forget the boat and set our hopes on each other
driven to be alone no longer, she finally found her savior
only to discover, too late, that he had hoped the same from her

Schwester

In a mountainous place far away there is a lake with a many small islands. I found myself on an island draped with chains on which were fastened a thousand-thousand locks. Every link was fastened with keyless trinkets of every style, size and age. Birds flew from tree to tree, calling loudly and mocking the permanence of the chain with their flitting freedom.

I think perhaps the template for the human mind is such a place. Twisted from what ought to what is and locked away from itself in a thousand-thousand ways. Smiths and thieves, wizards and charlatans try the locks, pounding, picking and cantriping under the avian scorn from dawn to dusk.

When at last a heroine produces the Golden Key and one of the tumblers gives way, the birds fall silent with the opening of the shackle, and solemn swallows witness as a piece of what we were is released from the tangle, forever changing how we see what we are.

It is in that place the true greats (and those that wished to be) did their work. And I suspect that the histories of those who succeed there will be forgiven, no matter how mean or misshapen.

Hope

It's the coach's job.

To see the potential in each athlete and believe so hard in their ability to reach it that they begin to believe too.

That's the easy part anyway.

The human body and human mind are so astoundingly adaptable, that I've yet to come close to pressing my hopes farther than a player's potential. I have a good team this year. Very athletic, very courageous, very coachable. They've done everything I asked and achieved each goal I've set.

I can see them starting to believe in themselves...and in me. Good grief, that's the hard part.

It's hard to develop further than you're coached. They're a great team with unlimited potential so far the glass ceiling of my ability will let them go. Season opener today and my stomach is tied in knots. Should I have spent more time on X and not so much on Y. Did I research enough? are the tactics and formations I'm feeding them any good? They've done everything I asked.

Out of time now. I hope it was enough. I hope I'm enough.

I hope.