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.

Grace for the green…..

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Living miles below the cloud line
while my heart strums chords of blue,
and I cry sometimes over shadows I find
looking back at me through you

Yeah,  I’ve been writing sad songs:)
It’s what I do when my heart holds close a story that I can’t yet tell
because it’s muddy waters and timing is everything
and my love for one born to me while I was still too green
is stronger than my need to turn loose the stormy waters
from inside myself.

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But I’m done being mad at the little girl green that I was,
the one who tore out her heart and tucked it into the soft white blanket that I bought at Belks
when they told me I could choose one gift.
One impossible gift to wrap her in,  with my heart stowed away inside.
I still remember how it burned like electricity the first time someone spit
“you gave your baby away?”

But the tears wouldn’t come.
Oh,  they came in floods for the wanting her.  For the missing her.
For the not being enough for her.
But I never cried it out, the pain of landing hard on the cold floor of judgment
as one who abandoned her child.
Those tears swelled in a tender place behind my ribs,  un-cried until now.

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 At last they pour
because it came like a surgeon’s knife,  her words
crisp and clean,  and somehow Love has a hold on me
and I’m bleeding out the tears from a place scarred deep
and pouring on forgiveness to the girl I used to be.

I release her, too,  this other child,,
5 months pregnant,  scared and green,
caught up in a story way bigger than me
at the edge of seventeen.

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~ I share this for all of us who carry grief over impossible choices.
No matter what we decided.
Because there’s a hefty sort of grace for it all
…………………………………………..

“Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process
is the bravest thing we’ll ever do.”
-Brene’ Brown
=============================================

I blog out my living and breathing,  sometimes messy, and it’s been swirling waters
and tear-stained keyboard for a few weeks and I’ve got to be true;
it’s just where I am.
Thank you for coming around and sharing the road even when it’s muddy.
~ ~~~~~~~~~
I do have an October zine to give away
Leave a comment and you’re in the drawing
with a heap of joy and love.

Teardrops in the Wind….

blog forever

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.

DSCF8286editededited
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.

blog blossom
“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:)

Teardrops in the wind…

DSC03621editededited
It was the March of 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 on St. Patrick’s Day.
For weeks I had ached for time to stop,
squeezing myself shut
to the coming separation,
the word “relinquish” hanging 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 gently stir the tireswing
I’d played on 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.

DSC03584editededited

 As the sun began to dip low,
a storm of pain rumbled
and hammered down urgency inside my belly
and grownup voices began
herding me into the night
and toward the hospital.
I wanted to crawl into bed and hide beneath the covers,
cradling the life inside me one last time.

 My body was betraying 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 heavy frame onto the bed
and tried to sing a last lullaby
but could do 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 her melody
as it drifts across my heartstrings.

I recognize her song.

Thirty five  Springs.
I honor each of her days.
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.

DSC03712editededited
I know.  I post this each year.
I will until my heart feels it to stop.
Somehow I need to honor those days out loud
where anyone can read them,
to raise my voice for others who maybe never found their own.
Thank you for letting  me share.
Hold it gently,  please.

teardrops in the wind…

DSC04058editededited

It was the March of 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 on St. Patrick’s Day.
For weeks I had ached for time to stop,
squeezing myself shut
to the coming separation,
the word “relinquish” hanging 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 gently stir the tireswing
I’d played on 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.

DSCF8312editededited

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
and grownup voices began
herding me into the night
and toward the hospital.
I wanted to crawl into bed and hide beneath the covers,
cradling the life inside me one last time.

My body was betraying 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 heavy frame onto the bed
and tried to sing a last lullaby
but could do 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 her melody
as it drifts across my heartstrings.
I recognize her song.

Thirty four Springs.
I honor each of her days.
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.

DSC04076editededited
Thank you for taking the time
to read my story.
It’s sweet comfort to share
what life tried to bury in shame.
I welcome the light.