Kisses

There’s something in the sharing of feeling beyond understanding of language, where supple lips meet and tongues swirl to be lost in dizzy delight, or where cheeks brush in a softness of silk and kisses linger in the air of personal space.

Mine begin early from pooches, my blue-eyed girl first after thumping down the hallway in good morning squeals, her nails nicking the wooden boards as she bounds over her petite brown-eyed sister gliding for a hello too. Licks come fast and frenzied and a scratch on their head settles them to snuggle beside me, one by my chaise lounge of greying blue and the other resting her chin on my feet under my desk.

Then come the boys, usually one by one and in quick succession during a work and school week, or as a stroll that can be hours apart every other day. Their sleepy good morning kisses can be warm and soft, even over chiselled jaws, or come in a fleeting hurry to get out the door. They can be the lightest of pecks on cheeks that sometimes glide by with no skin contact at all and go beyond the ‘hob-nobbery’ of air kisses. Other times, one simple kiss lands with such powerful intent, loaded in boundless love that overwhelms and leaves me sopping in nourishing love. As little lads, we sometimes played games of butterfly and fish kisses that led to such laughter, of tigers and Eskimos too.

Lucky for me, I still have hello and good bye kisses from Mum and my brother who has spent all of his nine lives and is looking exceptionally well these days. And Mum’s partner, my partner and aunts and uncles, cousins, sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews … from families galore. They're hello and good bye kisses on cheeks and lips, automatic and customary, ones of habit steeped in deep memory and others brimming in open love. And from friends too, kisses and squeeze me tight hugs come with a depth of appreciation, care and love, and understanding of no matter what.

Kisses can be the obligatory greeting hello between acquaintances and colleagues, more heartfelt than the handshake. They can grow in warmth with hugs of thank you and good bye and air kisses of serious connection, even though lips may not touch and it’s the caress of skin that locks the energy. That can feed lingering thoughts over lunch and in meetings, of good byes in passionate, locked lips where hands cupping and caressing become part of the kiss and all is lost to tantalising tingles and hearts in jitters.

Then there are those ‘others’, the ones where a kiss landing lip to lip takes you by surprise and you wonder whether if mouths were slightly open, you’d go all the way, and the secret within of wanting to go all the way. Or the online flirt that could be a kiss if that person stood in front of you and you imagine what that kiss might be.

Of course kisses are never all Daphne and tulips and there are those soaked in sadness and laced in loss and blue, the ones weighted in tiredness and burden that require a sit and unravelling of the day. These kisses can be an exchange that lessen the load and strengthen a connection.

Regardless of the intent and expression of any kiss, all carry their own reservoir of precious, pooling droplets ready to fall into a garden of ripe and rich. I'd wilt without them.

woman blowing a kiss 

Recent Comments
Katherine Gregor
"A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous." (Ingrid Bergman) Kisses are very inti... Read More
Sunday, 07 February 2016 08:38
Monika Schott
That's a lovely quote from Ingrid Bergman and perfectly true. A kiss says so much. Thanks as always.
Sunday, 07 February 2016 19:00
Sue Martin Glasco
Kisses bring us good health--emotional and physical. Thanks for sharing your thoughts and experiences with kisses. I enjoyed th... Read More
Tuesday, 09 February 2016 04:40
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4 Comments

A storming ride

Speckling ideas, partial and fragmented, brewing in twinkle yet without spark. They’re more a hazy glint of thoughts that fade in and out faraway, sometimes flashing as a glimmer of something and then disappearing with the flutter of an eye lid.

Time ticks. There’s nothing more.

Until that hazy glint grows and feeds the head with a heavy might. It whips at limbs that become tired and limp.

Tingling tangles of thinking, eyes darting in flurry as people look and stare. And then comes the squeeze within a vice of lead and excruciating dread and a body rippling and tensing in terse.

Clashing confusion and rumbling ruin, ranting and raving. He is, she was. You’re it, you’re not …

Words overflow in an electrical storm of despair and are hammered by floods of entwining and interconnected molesting vines. They meld as a mash of mess spiked in diamonds tainted in venomous credibility. They shred through everything but understanding.

No sense of semblance, just mad irrationality shared with rationality, spewing fire and ice in bursts of hate and desperation, gasps in bated breath … roaring and ripping into everything and everyone in its cyclonic wake … It’s too much. End it now!

And with that comes a release, an excretion of toxic waste that erodes at the soul of essence. 

The crescendo tumbles, spiralling down, down to flat as grey.

The electric storm of fire and ice dissipates and the free-fall-to-nowhere ride funnels into a black hole. All that remains is a gentle reverberation.

Quiet after the storming ride. For now.

 

Recent Comments
Katherine Gregor
What a wonderful, powerful verbal expression of the colours and frenetic movement in Van Gogh's painting.
Sunday, 24 January 2016 13:23
Monika Schott
Thanks, Katherine. ... Read More
Monday, 25 January 2016 20:52
Rosy Cole
Moni, this is living the art! A roller-coaster of a ride!
Sunday, 24 January 2016 17:20
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4 Comments

Let me take you on a run

 

 

The same bitumen road greets my warm up walk to the roundabout with the double-storey house on the corner - my cue to start running. My feet and hips are clumsy at first, a swagger to an out of tune country and western song. My right arch begins to burn and I wish my foot would settle into these runners that aren’t new anymore. Under power lines swaying with little sparrows I stomp, past sleeping homes with gardens of fan palms and cacti tinged in an early morning dew and native trees filled with birds squawking and chirping in chatter. Nothing else stirs, not a single car travelling between home and work or school, not during this Christmas break.

My jarring knees feel the stress of my weight and remind me of the few kilos I’ve gained since I stopped running two and a half years ago because of lower back niggles. Back then, running up to 15 kilometres at a time was the norm. Then one morning a couple of months ago in the midst of Spring and after being cooped up swimming and practising yoga indoors, I laced up my runners without thought or plan and took off. That exhilaration of freedom was addictive and I've been running ever since.

Across a road I stride and down a small street lined in old red brick and modern homes with backyards of parrots devouring apricots and peaches, around the corner from where my ‘second mother’ once lived. The term ‘in-law’ does no justice to her love or that of the family that accepted me as theirs many years ago. I missed her this Christmas. She sat on my deck last year, eating Christmas lunch beside Mum and the family. I almost destroyed the Poinsettia she gave me for the table. I’ve never been very good with pot plants and thankfully after rushing out to buy a top strength fertiliser, the plant is shooting nourishing new growth, a sign of things to come I hope.

A heavy breath to release, although I’m not sure what’s being released. Something is shedding. I feel lighter. My breath relaxes into a steady pace as I cross into another street, not gasping at all, just steady and in rhythm to my feet.

The hum of a car behind alerts me to my surrounds, the first for the morning. It passes from behind me on the other side of the road. I always run to oncoming traffic to be sure of what’s coming at me, particularly because I don’t wear my spectacles when out running. Speaking of which, I double back as I miss the street sign that takes me along the top of the river bank.

Doves coo, wattle birds shriek to screeching galas. Green all around me now – grass and eucalypts, wattles too, and tiny plants surrounded by plastic rabbit protectors. Eucalyptus on a fresh morning always smell good, like an invigorating, lemony cough drop. In summer though, that green dries to spindles of ideal fuel, as we’ve just seen in the Christmas Day bushfires down the coast. Over 100 homes lost and the fires are still burning. Wye River down there has always been a favourite of mine. I’ll live there some day.

Running cleanses me, even when I catch a whiff of red sauce cooking in someone’s kitchen and I imagine a grandmother in her dressing gown preparing pasta for lunch for her grandchildren, as my mother does. Running clears my head, blows the cobwebs of thoughts from deep crevices and clears blockages. Insights can be amazing.

I turn a corner and swerve into the middle of the road to pass the blue-hulled boat in its trailer hitched to the back of the grey four-wheel drive. Three fishing rods stretch up high from holders strapped inside of the boat. It’s always there, parked on the road side, sometimes in a cloud of sea and salt. A dog inside the house barking a string of ‘don’t come in here’ from behind the window is always there too.

My breath quickens, yet it’s still at a comfortable tempo without first run gasps and the dread of collapse from not being able to run any further. Around another corner and a vacant block of land lined by the stark pale grey of a new concrete path, inviting me to run on it - no chance, not with these knees!

This could be my last run for the year, unless I’m lucky enough to squeeze in one more on New Year’s Eve. It’s been a year, one that allowed me the chance to work with great people, two in particular who are warm, strong, caring and astute with a thinking of challenge and understanding, one of which is acting for me and my writing. Two great wins this year, akin to finding two needles in a haystack!

Two cars pass by. This part of the world is waking. Up an incline and my breath turns to panting. Sweat dribbles into my eyes and blurs my vision - as if I can’t see already! An open hand wipe clears away gathering pools of wet.

Around another bend and I’m almost at St Thomas’ and three quarters done. Marriage equality was hot this year, and so it should - love is love after all. Australia, you’re falling behind.

My knees ache. It’s such an oxymoron at this point – tiredness thumping in, yet a mind still cleansing, purging. Keep going. Not long to go. Need to be fit for travelling next year. It’s good for my health too. Helps to recover from any unexpected illness, like my skin cancer this year. That was three months of recovery and no activity and feeling like a caged lion, and dealing with the mental anguish of that ‘C’ word. Panting. Keep going. Just like the Syrians and so many others fleeing their homes. They kept going. Such determination and fortitude, such contrast to the gluttonous talk of greed and ego and futility of mass shootings. My pace quickens without effort.

Two utes turn from the next corner, on their way to work with tools and a wheel burrow stacked in the back. I’m almost home, where another driver has recently entered the household, just when two young men distressingly left theirs after a tragic car collision. Two others in the car are in hospital, one in a coma and the other, with a broken leg and back. Such loss of young life, such grief of families makes the reality too real, life too fragile, especially when my young men are friends of these young men.

Heat sets in and I’m beginning to roast. Keep going. Not long to go. I’m conscious of my head and shoulders falling forward and the sweat pouring from my head and face, down my neck and onto my chest and back. Straighten up. This planet is roasting too and thankfully, the summit in Paris on climate change has seen countries come together to address it. Whether you believe in climate change or not, it’s a positive to be looking after our planet. Poor Paris, it has had its own enduring year.

On the home stretch now, my street’s in sight. Keep going. Be fit. A slight gasp. Two more driveways ... and home, just as the sun rises over a terracotta tiled roof. Gasp and gasp, hands on hips to hold me up.

An enduring run after the excess of Christmas, after the year that’s been. The next one will be better. They generally are. Best wishes for your 2016 year.

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
What's so remarkable about this is how it puts everything in perspective. It's as though the picture, or kaleidoscope of images, f... Read More
Wednesday, 30 December 2015 15:33
Monika Schott
Hi Rosy and thanks. It's the wonder of running, time to just be and process. Happy new year to you. May dreams come true in 2016... Read More
Thursday, 31 December 2015 22:08
Anonymous
Good for you! I wish running would feel like an accomplishment to me. Instead, it feels like the torture. Have a great new year.... Read More
Friday, 01 January 2016 00:49
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4 Comments

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Beautifully said, Rosy. Cheers to you. X
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Thank you! It was! Glad you enjoyed! :-)
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