Of whispers, words and wonder…..

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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.

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“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:)

Learning to love the lion of things…..

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I will be grateful for the fires of winter
burning into the deep,  hard,  steely cold,
for the crackling sounds of earth giving up her strength
until ashes and coal
re-heated the heart and bones of me

and my soul sings thanks over old,  dirty snow,
over the slick of ice that skidded and slowed
what wanted to go faster,
wanted to outrun the gray skies closed in harsh
and find pretty things that pull my eyes
to softer places easier to see

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  and I’ll call them good,  the little luminaries
in the bitter slow-going,
the bright little beings flocked close around the birdfeeder
and life calling me sometimes out
onto streets I didn’t want to travel,
for the ways it made me braver
and tugged me farther into the wilds of my soul
where seeds waited long for me to sing warm breath
over their hard little shells
until they,  too,  went green and glowing
.

and how odd that maybe it’s a rich thing ,
how slowly winterness melts and thins,
and draws it out long,   this waiting
for the stuff of fruit and herb and light and loam and bloom
and I’m grateful more than weary
for the lion of even tiresome things

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I’m learning to love both the lamb and the lion of this thing called living:)

“….gone are the dark clouds that had me down,
it’s gonna be a bright,  bright
sunshiny day.”
-Jimmy Cliff

I’m gonna give away a copy of the March issue of my bright little zine,  Ripplesongs,
to the name I draw from the comments left on this post
……..jump on in,  if you like!
I’ll post the winner next Sunday:)

the dance of fully living….

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It’s coming on a shaking loose the stiff of shoulders tight with cold
and the wide outstretching of a thin ice sky,
the sweeping and springing up fronds of things greening,
unfurling,
un-dying,
uncurling into life

And I want to come unwrapped
to feel the sun on skin still pale,
to be lifted free of weary things,
go wide awake and fearlessly
stride right into the turn of earth as wildly she goes spinning,
boldly dipped and twirled into the dance of fully living

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I want to be scooped up
like a bird on currents gliding,
to ride the waves with bold abandon
instead of hiding
or numbing
or just not dying

as I sense the season greening,
turning slow into the springing
all this rolling,  warming,  peeping
my heart bellows to parts still sleeping
how I want to really live
while I’m alive.

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“When it’s all over,  I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular,  and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up having simply visited this world.”
-Mary Oliver

I so wish I could read this out loud to you…..could work the tech support necessary.
It’s meant for the hearing,  not the reading.
I will learn this skill,  I will.

of pots and pans and wings…..

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It’s been long hours driven inside from the cold
and I’ve been cooking to stay close to the fire,
making food with love for body and soul
because sometimes it’s the only way I know
in the muddy places
and so there I stand,  heart a little shaky,
hands solid on the shiny purple of the onion
that I slice through crisp
as the tears run down a healing tide

and I breathe in deep the smell of sunshine crawling up from fresh split peppers,
and the heat climbs,  too,  from my hands soaping dishes
in a sinkfull of prayer poured out over steaming water
and I hear again the sound of singing river
grooving slow across the buried things inside
until the song opens true
and captive things break loose
and I feel it stilled,  the quaking
of this heart running scared.

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and while I pour another lazy stream of olive oil
I pour out,  too,  the song that’s getting unstuck down inside
and a warm breeze grooves across my heartstrings
until my feet have to scoot and slide
and  I feel again safe-held
inside wings that don’t force or squeeze
and heaviness slides off into the water
as I tug free the drain.

I wish you oil and warm and water and light
and a fresh song rising:)

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“What’s lost is nothing to what’s found,
and all the death that ever was,
set next to life,
would scarcely fill a cup.”
-Frederick Buechner