Our home, this universe is blackened beneath the shroud of hatred and loathing, disgraced, distorted with slander, sharpness, and scorn. This world, needs no more hate, needs no more brashness, biting bitterness that leaves teeth marks on the soul, and traces of tears on flesh. 
Gentleness is a master of tempers, a treatment for broken hearts, and broken people. A remedy for war, for witless assault, aggression of the human spirit. 
Gentleness is my grandmother's fragile footsteps, arriving on the brick porch, lighter than air, the delicate lilt of her voice; soft murmuring and melodies on the radio, crawling through the pint-sized speakers, like sunbeams; the pale moon suspended over an iridescent lake, in the hollow of a forest asleep; sea foam, candle light, a whisper in the night, a mother's lullaby, summer breezes, bliss, a goodnight kiss. 
If civilization were to classify gentleness as a gender, it would be female, as it is chiefly regarded by the male as frailty, a fault, a consequential mark in character. 
It is past due, though, that the masquerade ends, for a grand finale with gentleness, a theater production, where the ruby red curtains in all their velvet strung glory are parted to unveil that the falsely masked gentleness is in truth a character of refined strength. 
Gentleness indeed is not a riddance of strength, but an exercise of strength. 
Harsh tones are wind in the wildfire of oppression and brutality. Thereupon, let us embrace a gentle nature, thoughtful with our tones, selective in what we let slip from our tongues. Extend a hand to hold, a smile to bless, an embrace to savor, even for a stranger. 
Gentleness is but a wing in the flight of love, and love, faithful love, can redeem this blackened world. 
Title Quote: Saint Francis de SalesPhoto Credits: Wendy Bevan for Mary Claire Italy magazine, scanned by Diciassette (17) at www.thefashionspot.com.
I'm having a go at Tumblr, here. It'll be a sort of supplement to GMNYC.
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From the instance in which I was born, I was dying. 
Oh, how we consider our lifetime, as a line on paper, an infinite figure of points, lingering like eternity, like the immortal skyline. To not exist, and therefore to not know this is so, is a jolting, untenable notion. Even in assimilating the delicate laces of consideration, forming an ellipse to the enigma that belongs to such a unbounded, far-flung thought, I am incompetent in absorbing, in apprehending the concept of existing no more, not in any fashion or form. 
For the beloved, the departed, we scrape away soil, and tear a vacant wound in mother earth, to be a cradle for the milky sheath of bones, where the echo of a heartbeat still endures, whispering memories into the abyss of wind. And all this, a prelude to the dismantling of structure, all this, a practiced ceremony for a barren shell of bones and vessels that no longer envelope the slip of a soul. 
We do not boast the sovereignty to select the manner in which we will perish from this universe, but bestowed to us is the prevailing opportunity to live in the way that our heart pines for. 
For tomorrows are not to bear the weight we hinge on their impending promise, forevermore, and it is in vain to abide in tomorrows, or to haunt the days departed, when all we have to animate with our spirit, in any given instant, is the present. The materiality of death escapes me, most often, but I petition to die in passionate ardor for a crusade, for my breath to fade for nothing would be to suffer an inexpressible pain.
We are living, and we are dying. As seconds past, circulating with a quiet clap, parroting across the face of clock, measured still by the hushed whistle of breath, the tender humming of our heart, we are drawn nearer to an end, a final destination. This should not be a terrorizing thought, but a thought to encourage the omission of the arresting apprehension of fear, to discard the burdens of grudges and remorse, to offer love in immeasurable amounts, to be affectionate, and compassionate, in every enduring day. 
For to do this, is to die without regrets. 
Title Quote: Robert Frost
Photo Credits: Sasha Nikitin, Sita Marie, YouKnow505, and Anna Ådén.
The lovely Melissa Walker, a young adult author, and writer for magazines, such as, Teen Vogue, and Glamour, recently interviewed me for her new site I Heart Daily. If you like to read the interview, go here.
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