Teardrops in the wind…..

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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
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.

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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.

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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.

Thirty three Springs….the love and ache.

Saint Patrick’s Day 1979
Daffodils bloomed,
breezes turned balmy
and I pulled off shoes,
letting swollen feet tramp across warming earth.
I was pregnant with my first baby….due today.
For weeks I had ached for time to stop,
squeezing myself shut to the coming contractions
and separation,
“relinquish” hanging heavy on my heart.

But today the weather turned,
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 gently rock the tire swing 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 who could be what 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 painful storm struck
and hammered down urgency inside my belly,
as grownup voices
began herding me into the night
and toward the hospital.
I couldn’t do this.
It was bedtime and I wanted to crawl under the covers
and cradle the life inside me again.

My body betrayed me,
forcing me into a cold sterile world of tight lips and disapproving eyes.
As my frightened parents gathered my things,
I lunged back inside for just one last moment alone
with the tiny life that had shaken my own with her gentle worth.
I lowered my frame heavy onto bed….sing a last lullaby
but found only tears,
a fragile goodbye.

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

I recognize her song.

Thirty three Springs of her beautiful life
and I honor each of her days.
Today I tenderly comfort the girl who carried her before
she was transplanted into the garden
where she grew and thrived,
those shimmery days when we were just us,
when she was still mine.

(thanks so much for reading along and letting me share this part of my heart with you.)