Writing My Mind.com: November 2018

# 61:

When you teach, when you try to open the mind of someone who is resisting, be content to plant a single seed. Begin with one thought.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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# 129:

Some of us are so busy praying,
we forget to listen.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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# 145:

The truth does not depend on what you believe.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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W hat was I thinking?

Too eager to accept a dare? Afraid to back down?

How absurd it all seems now, about to step out on this wire so incredibly high above the crowd.

~ by Russ Allison Loar
~ Artwork by Jolantasketch
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# 184:

The end of all wars will require the end of certainty.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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# 202:

Perhaps another word for God is Being,
something whole in which we have individual parts,
but still, always part of the whole.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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# 201:

Sometimes, honesty and kindness come into conflict.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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# 236:

We believe in illusion.
That’s why we wear clothing.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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# 220:

If you truly care about this world,
you must live with a broken heart.

It has always been so.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

# 215:

Perhaps the difference between General Relativity and Quantum Mechanics is a product of multiple realities with borders than may or may not overlap, along with realities beyond our scientific capabilities to perceive.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

# 199:

My writing is about: What I have learned,
what I am learning, and what I need to learn.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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How Far?

How far is infinity from here?

~ Text & artwork by Russ Allison Loar
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# 118:

Stubbing your toe is God’s way of
testing your vocabulary.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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# 119:

Though the elements of cultural decline
may be momentarily popular,
they will not escape the verdict of history.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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# 68:

What if we have come here
from the future, not the past?

~ Russ Allison Loar
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# 94:

Poetry: What it means is more important
than how it’s dressed up.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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# 40:

Instinct is another word for God.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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Under The Bed

I remember seeing a white, colonial building fronted with columns on the day I was left at the orphanage.

At least this memory was always in my mind, but knowing how insatiably curious I’ve always been about my biological parents, my biological circumstances, I knew that I may simply have been filling in the blanks of the great mystery that was my first two years of life. After all, I have absolutely no memory of the mother I'd lived with more than a year.

Then one day when I was in my early twenties, I went there. It was the first time since being left for adoption. I'd phoned a social worker who agreed to meet with me, to tell me some basic “non-identifying” information about my parents. As I approached the address, the building came into view. It looked exactly as I’d remembered: A white building, colonial style, columns and all.

What followed is a blank. I don’t remember the foster family I lived with for the next six months and I don’t remember being taken home by my new parents. Many years later, my grandmother told me that for the first few months, every time the doorbell rang, I’d run and hide under my bed. It took me a long time to shake that fear, and even now, I still get the urge once in a while.

~ by Russ Allison Loar
~ Painting by Erin Payne
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# 109:

# 114:

However inspired they may be, your holy books were not written by God, they were written by men. However inspired your holy books may be, they do not represent the will of God, they represent the will of men, and so are flawed, imperfect—human. Read them, learn from them, see their strengths and see their weaknesses, then set them down and continue.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

# 95:

# 34:

# 45:

Suburban Twilight

Suburban twilight,
Punctuated by porch lights
Welcoming weary workers home.

“Hello darling,”
She says,
“I missed you,”
Her bare shoulders
Framed by the thin straps,
Too loose,
Of her tiny, translucent dress.

This never happened to me.

A bunch of soccer ball boys,
Too young to go on a date,
Stand together in a jagged circle
On a grass-dirt field
While their parents lie to each other
About nothing in particular,
Waiting for the game to begin.

Back on the boulevard
Commuters swim upstream,
Fighting their way back
To the suburban spawning grounds
For a few hours of fun
Before it all shuts down in sleep,
And regret.

~ Poem and photograph by Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

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