Daughters of the dew….,

2015-05-10 19.42.47
(a love letter to that bit in each of us that can feel driven, at times, to try too hard)

You’re fresh drop of dew from the morning of all that is good,
born to dance in the sunlight and dream dreams that grow up
around you like flowers in the rain
in a world that goes dry
and cracks the earth where you scatter your seeds,
wet by tears that you cry in the night.

And when the rains come you can lose yourself for trying
hard to make something happen when your seed goes into the deep,
because it can feel a little naked when they go missing from sight.

“Just rise,”
I hear the rumble from our hollows,
places that can feel a little like drowning while others seem to look on unconcerned,
a bit alone because you feel a need they cannot see
and your mad struggle can jerk fistfuls of their hair
so that they back away in the dark.

Listen,  little dewdrop,
you can’t feel it in the push and wrestle,
but if you lose the claw and grapple,
and go still just beneath your shoulders,
you’ll feel them there…….firm hands of support.

You’re not drowning as it may seem.
And nowhere near alone.

Always they’ve been there,  these loving arms,
felt only by those who stop thrashing
and find that they don’t sink
because buoyancy endures what we fear
and you were born for these wild waters,
made to rise and float and ride.

Let go your demand of the being beside you
and let yourself be supported in the only way they know
because when you stab your need at them
it drives a wedge  you may not even mean
and you may both miss out on the bloom.

We’re meant to travel these wilds together,
seen and celebrated sisters,
a collective. life-giving dew.
Rise,  friend.

“Survivors have to work hard to live each day and to make something new
out of seemingly nothing.  A client told me that no one understands this about her.
All she must muster from moment to moment.
Without propulsion behind us,  it can feel futile to thrust forward.
Stuck in gravity
Yet there is an alternative called magnetic levitation.
This is where great stuff is made.  Magnetic fields can make possible
flying cars,  floating cities,  and hovering trains.
Big things emerge when we rise above our circumstances.
You really can be lifted up.
The thing is,  your star,  while set in a storm,  might just shake out to be spectacular.”
– Rachel Awes,
from her fabulous book The Great Green Okayness

I’ll be sending out a little love bomb to Jeanie of Marmalade Gypsy this week.
I love this stuff:)  Drawing another name from this weeks comments
for a fresh handwritten,  homemade package
from my heart to yours.
It’s joy when you come around!

Living loved or driven…..

I wrangled out a post yesterday,
pushed it through the sieve of some sleepless hours
and tried to coax some juice to share.
Because it was time and I wanted to find the lovely
and serve it to you here.

Then I dumped it in the trash
because it felt forced,
driving me,  and then I felt them like a song,
the words I scrawled on the console of my old work truck
in red lipstick,
wrote them down bold so that maybe my heart would hear it stronger
in the wounded place where I sometimes go bloody
in the heat of a small day.


Because sometimes my hungry places want to carve it somewhere big
“I am here”
“I matter”
“Do you see me now?”
As if only something beautiful or important enough
might repair the holes I hide.

Like the lipstick on my console,
I’ve decided to just leave them to the light.
Let the guy at the garage scratch his head and puzzle:)
Lay my unloved places bare
so that Love can find and heal and fill them there.

It’s risky business,  leaving yourself open to love.
But I’d rather live loved than driven.

The words scrawled in red lipstick across my gimpy parts:

“You don’t need to justify your existence.”

– Don Miguel Ruiz

(big glad honest sigh)

I’ll be sending out a package of handwritten love to Lisa Moreland this week.
Gonna plunk names into a hat again this week to draw for
another little personal love bomb
from my heart to yours.
Thanks for coming around:)


The wild of wind and willows….


It’s been a strong wind stirring up
the undersides of my leaves
in the wild way of spirit
when she moves to kiss the pink
back into white knuckles clenched
and it’s beautiful how she calls me out to hear the whoosh and whisper,
to walk out farther into the big open field of my heart
and lay me down beneath the willows

because sometimes you can’t un-hurt people with your simple words.
Sometimes you can’t un-break things.
Sometimes you have to put your hand on the cracked bowl of your heart
and just let it be wide and hollow,
filling up with mystery in the way you welcome something that you treasure.
To cherish your own space.


To pat your hand lightly on your being
and cluck “you can’t fix this”
and let the soft brush of the willow branches
sing their way over you
the way things that don’t go brittle do.

They bend and billow and ride the wind
and whisper that I can,  too.

I wish you her willowy way,
to stand strong into your softness,
into the full of your own skin.
To be the whole and all
of you.

“Breathe into being kind.  Grow into your substantive heart.
Embrace your vulnerability,  courage,  and might.
Walk forward with your whole being.
Be all this,  but please don’t be nice.
Nice is small.
It implies pretending no other layers exist.
It can’t hold hungry children or fishermen in their boats.
Nice arms will break and nice vessels will sink.
Only what’s real can be strong.
Only what’s true can hold empathy.”
– Rachel Awes
(From her magnificent new book The Great Green Okayness)

I drew the name Leigh Eades from the hat this week.
Will be sending a little package of handmade love her way.
Dropping more names from this week’s comments
into the drawing for next week.
Willowy love to you all!


A basketfull of being…..

“Write,”  I tell myself.
“Write already,”  my voice pleads.
“You’re too full of unwritten things.”

So I try to find words
to fit around the swollen things inside
but every word I try is just too short,
too tight.
All the words I know
don’t fit.
Instead, I carry the story inside and trust life to teach me the language.

I want to show up true
and bring you something real,
but my heart is churning the butter of what I’ve been living
and it’s not ready yet.
So I’d like to share my process…..the how of my heartshares.

I keep a journal with me everywhere I go.  A sketch pad,  really.
I jot down thoughts that drift and rattle,
phrases and whispers I want to remember
right alongside my lists and living.
Same sketch pad holds my work as a professional gardener.
It’s all one big messy hodgepodge.

When I go still to write a post,  I pull it from the bramble of those fresh-scribbled hours
so it  doesn’t feel  false or faraway.
That would put me off and not satisfy.
It helps me scrape out the juicy pulp of the present.

So I start with a pile of quilt squares….the messy stuff of my sketch pad,
and begin to sort and play.
A lyric that spoke,  the name of a flower that moved me,  a phrase I wrote down to ponder,
a birdsong,  a movie line,  a question,  an ache,  something from my running gratitude list…..
it’s a treasure hunt and I love what I discover,
to learn what life has been saying while I’m busy in the bustle.
That’s the sweet and salty of it all.

Then I get to put it together and make a gift of it for you:
a basketfull of being.

It makes life grand:)
Thanks for dropping by my garden
even when I’m still on my knees.
I love your company.

I’m reading “The Four Agreements” by Miguel Ruiz
Or maybe it’s reading me.  So beautiful.  And fascinating.

“Just to be alive is enough.”
– Miguel Ruiz

(I drew the name “Karen Woodfin” from the mix in last week’s giveaway.
A package-full of love is on it’s way from my heart to hers.
I want to do another one this week….it’s buttery to my heart right now.
leave a comment and your name goes into the hat:))

Teardrops in the wind…..

2015-03-21 12.25.39
I post this every year….a healing,  loving ritual

because I need to somehow honor those days out loud,
especially for those who maybe still haven’t found their voices
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.

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.

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

I lowered my heavy frame onto the bed and tried to sing one 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 seven 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 I remember those shimmery days when we were just us,
when she was still mine.


Thanks for giving a listen.  For being a witness.  I hold it as a gift with love and thanks.

“The dark does not destroy the light;  it defines it.
It’s our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows.”
– Brene’ Brown

“When you get to the place where you understand that love and belonging,
your worthiness,
are a birthright and not something you have to earn,
anything is possible.”
– Brene’ Brown

I’m celebrating life this week and want to offer up a package of goodness,  Stargirl style,
in a drawing.  Just because I can.  And it makes my heart smile.
I’ll draw a name from comments and make up a gift box
full of handmade art,  handwritten love,  and beautiful little surprises
picked especially you.
A little love bomb:)
Just plunk a comment in the box and I’ll send your name into the mix.