I’m wallowing in air,
real breath,
not a medicated haze
….a leaning back in the swing,
flip flops fluttering to the ground below,
feet dangling free against turquoise sky,
swooping through cool wind gathering hair,
backwards swoosh gathering me
up,  up,  up
until the heavens catch me,
pause
and release to free fall back into flight
kind of breath!

the kind caught on beaches,
and biking downhill
and on open roads with the windows rolled down
and the radio turned up loud

~a  school’s out for the summer kind of breath!

After all these years of gasped prayer and shaky tears,
tight chest heaving 0ut “help!”
while Dr.s shrugged helpless over asthma like this,
another nutritionist pushed a plain brown bottle across her desk
“I just learned about this.  I’d like you to try.  My treat.”
an ordinary miracle,
Albizia complex

While fear climbed up my spine
about another allergic reaction to yet another concoction
and the whole weary business of digging out
from another storm on my lungs

  hope whistled light to trust and try again,
and I nibbled off the end of the first loamy tablet
before I  even started the car
and it tasted like earth
(from the daisy family,  wouldn’t you know)
and my lungs smiled shyly as I drove

and for days now I’m feeling knots worked open,
a coming untangled
and undone with relief,
laughing and crying glad thanks
for generous air enough

and

 the whole possibility that my body will drink
again and again these great bountiful gulps of breath
lifts and billows beneath me
and my soul feels the motion of wind on a swing,
high on the sweet wild air.

This week was
grumpy rumblings gnawing at my tummy
as I let go of gluten and sugar and everything creamy
in a gasp for more air,
lungs so hungry

and digging miles of hard ground,
body scrunched down low,
hundreds of plants tucked in ready
for growing joy

of hurry biting like a nervous dog,
overheating and melting down
fear puddling in the street.

while wildflowers singing wisdom from roadways and fields
took me in,
tugging at the trueness
….they know it’s their highest praise just to be

and hubby and I finding each other’s hands in it all

and shadows not gonna steal  my peace away,
heart going light and defiant
against  the roar of silent monsters
beneath the bed

and I’m grateful still
for tears and scars
and turtles with wings.

“You need more scars.  You need to live.”   -Julien Smith  (The Flinch)

It’s been bliss to make nice again
with early mornings,
to raise my hands into still dark sky
and wiggle free,
unloading heavy things
into hands so warm and open and available
they tug the sun up through the woods
while the birds prattle joy
and candles burn slow,
flickering pear and patchoulli
and I take it in hungry
and my body knows the smile of Love
hugging me close
and grinning at my freedom
with knowing nod
….getting me
and eyes dancing welcome,
anyway.

It’s good to be welcome,
embraced by day,
and there is somewhere for the anger to go,
angry about  those horses harmed
and that mom spitting meanness at her boy
and all the hurtful wrong schmeared on thick and painful

and when I need to lay my mind down
on something soft and tender-strong
and remember the shepherd thing
and take in faithfulness wrapped in skin
and hear “yeah,  it’s bad,  but I’ve got this”,
even when my stomach screams hard
for justice and change,
and my  hands burn to throw rocks
at everything cruel,
to stone it until the rage drains off
and my heart goes all peaceable again,

I can dance on it,
paint and sing and shout and say it out
in stuff You take as prayer
so I’m making friends again
with mornings early
and for this tired heart of mine
it’s. pure. bliss.

Because I’m not done yet,
resting still  like dough before it’s bread,
paint before it’s dry,
a promise before the  keeping
and no rushes about it,
’cause theres still money in the meter
and it’s not mine to pay.

and looking with hard eyes burns
the becoming
and rushing doesn’t gain me time.
I won’t  let the details drag me,
just keeping  my love alive,
I only need to keep my love alive.

whispers, they walk softly,
time soaking soft  this stony ground
no harm no foul,  tired soul of mine,
so I’ll slow this mind on down
just keeping this tender  love alive.

(patience is love when you’re doing something stretchy.)

“On soft Spring nights I’ll stand in the yard under the stars
-something good will come out of all things yet
and it will be golden and eternal
just like that.
There’s no need to say another word.”
-Jack Kerovac

The one who calls you is faithful and he will perform it~1 thess

I’ve been taking some time
to get to know myself better,
playing with soul playdough,
listening to what the shapes become,
like a second shot at kindergarten
that lets my  muchness be.

I’m a wave rider,
art maker,   star gazer,  tree hugger,   joy finder,
truth teller,   song seer,   God believer
and I’m learning to think like a farmer,
dance like a child,
cry like a girl,
love wholehearted
rest in motion,
and follow my hope.

I like sunshine and breezes,
and rivers when they ramble,
roses when they climb,
peace when it’s real,
and while I’m a dreamy soul,
I’m fierce in a fight.
I hate war
but I hate slavery more.

I’m happy when I’m pruning,
coaxing the fullness out of broken and  silenced spaces,
nudging them into healing light.
We ’ve all got ’em,   those places
and nothing makes me quiver glad
like the strong fragile beauty
of  hearts getting free.

I like people more than paper,
facetime more than distance,
interaction more than book-writing
and playing more than perfecting.

So I’ve been un-sewing a book
that wasn’t ready to be born
and quilting pieces into playful material
for churning creative butter,
to nudge and tickle hearts childlike again.

I’ll be sharing some playhouse putty
from time to time
here
and loving it if you want to  play along too.