Healing in harsh places……

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I’ve been living into some larger parts,
spreading wings in gimpy places
and letting raw things speak until old shame bleeds through.
It’s a shiver to stand in the open like that,
leaning brave into the hope that gentle ears will hear it true
and hold it tender while the knife slices clean.
Healing often happens in such ways.

But sometimes healing comes when winds are bitter,
when words splinter like rocks knocked over ledges,
and the pain shatters trust like a crush fracture
and you betray the one you’ve learned to blame
because it’s  habit to believe that you deserve standing stoic in the cold.

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When your heart goes tender for the one you’ve asked
to hide away the pain,
and compassion begins to blossom for the one
you stood in the corner in shame
(that’d be you,   m’dear),
healing happens even in harsh places.

It’s a healing thing to a world of hurt when you begin to show yourself a little love.
Compassion isn’t just for others.
There is enough to cover us all.

Light and love and liniment
to your own listing places,
especially to those parts of yourself
you’re just beginning to learn
to love.

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“But you can’t get to any of these truths by sitting in a field smiling beatifically,
avoiding your anger and damage and grief.
Your anger and damage and grief are the way to the truth.
We don’t have much truth to express unless we have gone into those rooms
and closets and woods and abysses that we were told not to go in.
When we have gone in and looked around for a long while,
just breathing and finally taking it in –
then we will be able to speak in our own voice
and to stay in the present moment.
And that moment is home.”
– Anne Lamott

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:)

a little love story…

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I hold a warm and tender memory of a Valentine’s Day long ago,
before those awkward years when my body seemed to shoot up way too high and lanky and sooner than my schoolmates grew into theirs,
and my dark hair too stringy and my soft voice too weak
and a fog rolled in and shadowed some years in lie.

I was seven then,  and jazzed with heady delight as I scrambled down
the hill to the creek with my heart-covered shoebox hugged in close,
feeling the delicious shuffle of valentines and even some happy rattle
that I hoped would be candy tucked inside
a particularly generous envelope.

I’d worked hard containing my excitement ever since morning
when we’d been released from routine to deliver our valentines
to the pink and red boxes with names printed over the slits
we’d carved to receive the offerings dropped inside.
Then,  we’d been give an rubber band to secure the contents ,
safe and hidden,  until we got home and could finally open them.

It was the sweetest torture I’d ever known.
Even thought we’d been instructed to bring a valentine for each child on the list sent home,
and I’d spent hours at the kitchen table carefully choosing just the right one
and lovingly writing the names,
my tongue pressed between my teeth as I slowly penciled my affection
for each kid I watched with wonder each day at school,
I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d get more than a hand full.

I didn’t feel pretty,  didn’t dress like the popular girls
and was fairly terrible at catching pop flies in kickball.
I didn’t expect to get anything from any of the boys
and maybe not much more,   besides.

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But here was a whole box full of little white envelopes with my own name printed on the fronts.
I gingerly opened and studied each card,  some signed,  some a mystery,
but one from each kid in my class and even from pretty Mrs. Clark
with her smooth,  silky,  not-at-all- stringy hair.
It felt like a box full of miracle and my heart could barely
contain itself.

This feeling was an intense kind of goodness.
I was being affirmed,
noticed in a way that let me feel it slowly
and without the painful stares and glaring demand to process it all quickly
in the smooth way that I lacked.
It was one of the most powerful things I’d ever experienced,
feeling both safe and known.

It wasn’t,  of course,  a safe or loving community at all.
Because kids will be kids
and my idealism was,  well,  idealism.
But seeds were dropped deep into that tender girlheart of mine
that have grown into powerful longing for community and tribe
and loving support.
It helped stir a passion for tending the gardens in my life,
for the beauty of whispering  life-giving truth
over another being.

I’m so grateful I  get that here, with you,  dear reader and friend,
and I thank you for the honor
of getting to speak into your life from time to time.
Maybe these days the words sound trite,
but it’s honest and true and ever so worth writing down.

I love you.
I do:)

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“I don’t want something special.
I want something beautifully plain.”
-Anne Lamott

the tender tone of true….

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You know how sometimes you feel the sting of disapproval
so sharp inside yourself,
feels like you have to curl your toes hard into the ground
to keep from bolting from where you stand?
(especially venomous is the judgment
of your own over-zealous ego)

I think that toe-curling thing is quietly exhausting.

There is an effective antidote,
your own soft,  soothing,  kind-hearted voice
filled with grace for just exactly who you are
right now.
(yes,  your own voice……God can use you a lot in your life,  you know)
Choose it well,  the tone of voice you use with yourself.
It infuses the music of your life.

“It’s so awful,  attacking your child.  It’s the worst thing I know
to shout loudly at this fifty pound being,  with his huge,  trusting eyes.
It’s like bitch-slapping E.T.”  -Anne Lamott

Yeah,  I know I’m taking this quote out of context.
But it kinda works,  and besides,
I find it hilarious:)

making room for miracles……

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Stuff is just exactly as broken
and shaky
and gimpy
as it is
but hardly hopeless
and oddly beautiful in the coming undone

So I think I’ll just re-think the tremble
and not crumple up small and slide down under
the coming-up-short,
trying to fix the wobble
so things go smooth
and the flaws don’t show

’cause even though it may stop the squeak and crumble
when I flatten out low,
I wasn’t born to be the wedge
under shaky table legs
so maybe we’ve got something here
that isn’t quite real.

Let’s find another,  truer way.
Cause I don’t want to spend another day
feeling homesick
for me.

“It’s good to do uncomfortable things.
It’s weight training for life.”
-Anne Lamott

I’m here every day this month
resting my soul by posting each day
the song stirring in my heart.
Join me if you like….I love your company.