Of facts and fountains…..

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So what if I am too tired,
too busy,  too foggy,  too muddled by details
that keep spilling over the edge of my lists and days
like an overstuffed laundry hamper spilling out onto floors that I wish
I could clear and clean and freeze that way.

And what if the nights aren’t strong enough to hold me at rest,
if the mornings smack hard of hurry and go
and if the money that I feel I must need won’t happen unless
I go faster and harder and better and more?
What if everything is just exactly as harsh and unrelenting
and jagged and disappointing as it sometimes seems.
Where do I go with that thought?

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Inside,  to the center of the place where I only ever need to be,
where dwells a  living Love who whispers truth
over all these facts pretending to be real,
over the barbed wire thinking that I sometimes painful feel
and here my heart collapses grateful into the friendly,  worn,  overstuffed chair
of arms that hold me firm inside a living rest
like a fountain pulled around me tender,
making dry bones live again.

I can rethink the messy stuff of living….it just is what it is.
And I’m free to love it all and thrive
just exactly as I am
now.

I love peace.

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“Don’t believe everything you think.”
-Byron Katie

In shadow and glare…..

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It’s planting time and I’m down in the dirt on my knees
a lot
so I thought I’d scatter some seeds and pour some water
on our maybe parched places
because the harsh glare of living dries us quick
and we sometimes need a little soak.

~You are mighty,   even where you’re weak.
Especially where you’re weak,
those gimpy places a powerful nudge
to tag someone in who is stronger that way.
Some dreams just won’t bloom
while we’re lone-wolfing it.

You are beautiful.
Devastatingly beautiful.
It’s that unique beauty that breaks the back of the slave-making system
that demands you “be like” something else.
Go ahead and shine……there’d be a dark piece of missing sky
without you.

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 There are seasons when you’re hidden,
protected beneath loving wings that can make you feel
unseen.
Don’t despise those quiet places;  there is wisdom in dormant things.
Your Spring will come.
Some seasons aren’t mild;  don’t fear the shadow
or the glare.

You’re no random bunch of molecules in motion.
You’re here by design,
artisan handcrafted.
(I’ve a gazillion questions,  too,  but I know it to be true.)
I see it in you.
A fierce beauty……..something stunning.
Just so,  so good.
And you’re delighted in by a Love that sings yes and joy and belonging
over your being.

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“I get thirsty people glasses of water,  even if that thirsty person is just me.”
-Anne Lamott

Love and lift to Leslie of Let a Joy Keep You
as my little zine zips across the miles to your hands this week.
Thanks for all the kind comments;  I love this community
and your shiny way:)

Rising a ruckus of joy…..

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Happy freshborn hope,
fierce bounty of more-than-enoughness
breaking through debt so dark and deep and despairing
that the hollow cave seems to bellow out a fountain of light
all shimmering like jellybeans and jazz;

happy glass-ceiling-smashing,
big-fat-lie-dashing,
turning bitter waters sweet again
as burden-flinging,  freebird-singing Love
draws near to heal and nuzzle,
freeing mind,  untangling puzzle,
the music down inside rumbling low

until it’s rising and riffing a ruckus of joy,
this big tenderness swallowing up the whole of my shame,
with all that resurrection running through my fingers
grubby from the stain and paint and chocolate and soil of living
and it doesn’t matter,  never mattered,
because still I can lean in and listen to living love
rain feather soft over my hunger

until I melt and mellow
like yellow peeps over a campfire
into the warm embrace of strong shepherd arms
and how this soothes and softens and settles and solutions
and satisfies,
raising me from the dead stuff I’ve believed
and loving me back to life
in all my parts and places.

blog copters
I disappeared for a week,  didn’t I.
It’s planting season and I’m dawn to dusk dirty and sore and just a tad overwhelmed.
It will pass.
And, hey I’d love to send a copy of the April issue of my Ripplesongs
to whichever name I draw from the comments you leave this week.
Everloving thanks for rolling through the changes with me:)

 

Of whispers, words and wonder…..

what if blog
What if it matters more than we know
when we let go a string of words
and they settle into sky,
taking up fresh planted space as they travel along
wrapped in light.

What if the things we say into air
never stop being there
and the stars dip low to listen
and the wind plays them across strings that only spirit sees,

just our own voices lifted hopeful,
defiant against the dull of discouraged silence;
what if the whole dry of the cracked earth  is hungry for that sound,
the one your yearning bundled into words
makes?

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And what if the sweet spot in our tomorrow
is hidden in the fruit of all that saying,
and gets released by pulling off the peel
with sounds so sharp with hope
that layers of “no” and “can’t” and “won’t” and “not for you”
and “who do you think you are?”
loose their bony fingers and let the fruit open,
making parched places bloom.

What if you don’t have to be smart or strong or able,
that Love looms larger than the chaotic rattle of things
and the dreams of your heart need only to be wild flung and watered
by your own faith whisperings
while Love does what only Love can do
and grows the spoken spaces
into flower and fullness and fruit.

blog star

“Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder.”
-E.B. White

I’m so glad you come by to have a read,  from time to time.
I feel like I’m sharing often my rough drafts with you,
tweaking and hovering over them sometimes months later to coax some light through.
I appreciate you being a safe space to share and explore.  If you’re reading this,  you are joy to me:)

Teardrops in the Wind….

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I post this each year…..please hear that it comes from a place of healing and hope
But I need somehow to honor these days out loud,
especially for those who maybe haven’t found their voices
yet.
And for all mothers everywhere, because our hearts bear always the stretch marks
of loving and letting go.

It was March,  1979.
Breezes turned balmy and I pulled off my shoes,
letting swollen feet tramp across warming earth.
I was pregnant with my first baby,
due St. Patrick’s Day.
For weeks I had ached for time to stop,
squeezing myself shut to the coming separation,
the word “relinquish” heavy on my heart.

But today the weather had turned
and hadn’t everything somehow changed?
Spring had come with her own dreamy wildness
and waves to ride far beyond the looming loss.

I spent the day sunsoaking,
watching the wind stir the tireswing
I’d played in not so long ago.

I was newly seventeen,
an “unwed” mother
with an unwanted chore:
to give my baby to someone she deserved.
Soon she would come apart from me,
gone before the leaves flushed out.
Their buds were fat and ready to pop.
Like me.
I went quiet with the knowing.

But this day was vivid lovely and it got inside me.

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As the sun began to dip low,
a storm of pain rumbled and hammered down urgency
inside my belly
as grownup voices began herding me into the night
and toward the hospital.

As my frightened parents gathered my things,
I lunged back inside for just one last moment alone
with the tiny life that had shaken mine
with her own gentle worth.

I lowered my heavy frame onto the bed,
and tried to sing a last lullaby
but could do only tears,
a fragile goodbye.

Following strong contractions downstairs and into the night,
I returned home with only fierce memory
of her tiny fingers and face.
But I’m forever marked by her essence,
often swept away by her melody
as it drifts across my heartstrings.

I recognize her song.

Thirty six Springs.
I honor each of her days.
And today I tenderly comfort the girl-in-me who carried her
before she was transplanted into the garden
that nurtured her to thriving,
and remember those shimmery days when we were just us,
when she was still mine.

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“I suppose that since most of our hurts come through relationship,
so will most of our healing,
and I know that grace rarely makes sense to those
looking in from the outside.”
-Paul Young

It’s sweet joy to send a copy of Ripplesongs March to beautiful Jeanie of The Marmalade Gypsy
With a whole heap of love:)