Holding space for mystery….

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Sometimes words fall,  scrambled,  at the feet of one you’d hoped would hear,
scattered like tiny stones,
so that instead of understanding and connection,
you hold your story alone.
In reaching out to try and build something real,
to find and clear where wires crossed,
sometimes relationship is restored;
sometimes you must grieve what is lost.

These are hurts we’ve all wrestled and known,
feeling shut out from a place that once felt like home

And it trembles so hard,  the possible loss,
that I’ve often rushed the process and betrayed my own heart.
I want to unlearn those hurried ways
to be sanctuary and shelter and my own safe space.

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Because what if we don’t need to know right now,
what if un-knowing is a safe place to be,
that sometimes mystery is the most honest space we can hold.

Being misunderstood is not fatal to our joy.

Once I accept that my words have not been understood,
that their spirit may never be heard,
I can begin to forgive
and in forgiving,  to heal.

In forgiving  I gain a soft and open space
where my soul clamped down tight with wound before.

When your heart stops thrashing to be heard,
it gets freed to sing more songs.

Sing them fearless,  friend.
Love will always sing along.

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Thanks for coming around,  even in my messy-in-the-middle times.
Right now it’s where I am.
I love that there is beauty even in struggle.  And I want to keep it real.

Been swimming in The Book of Forgiveness by Desmond Tutu.
Healing waters.  A masterpiece.  Every line artful and alive.

“We do not heal in isolation.
When we reach out and connect with one another –
when we tell the story,  name the hurt,  grant forgiveness,
and renew or release the relationship – our suffering begins to transform.”
– Desmond Tutu

Feels like growing young….

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I’m into something real,
that has my heart grinning surprised,
my world a little rocked
by this wild, brave,  fear-defying adventure
i’ve been wilding for my whole life long,
and didn’t have a clue,

so simple and subversive,
this business of forgiveness,
that frees me up  when I go there
instead of numbing or running (oh how often I do),
trusting instead Love to hold me while I feel,
and when it rushes me,  the hurt and anger,
I release a river of forgiveness
and the pain is swept away

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and even though I’m still on the ground where I sat down earlier,
hearing the birds still making their music
and a plane humming faraway in the sky overhead
as if nothing has changed,
somehow everything has

because I’ve come  uncontaminated,
heart gone light
where the knot burned hot before
and I feel soft like a child
waking up to the morning of all that is good.

Yeah,  it’s that good,  forgiveness,
and maybe I’m the last to know
that it is freedom,
this art,
this gift we give ourselves.

Kind of feels like growing young.

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I know you know.
But we forget,  don’t we,

because sometimes we carry the hurt too long
(‘cause it can feel good to nurse the anger)
and we forget how heavy
until it metastasizes

and we’re caught up in the symptoms
instead of pulling up the root.
I’ve been practicing it alot,  lately,  as if an art,
like a yoga practice,
and,  holy wow,  what a sweet difference it’s making.
Just had to sing about it some:)
Thanks for riding along.

I wish I could send each of you some handmade love;
thanks so much for your life-giving comments on last week’s post.
They’re dear to my heart.
My smiling son drew Bren’s name from the bag.
I’ll be sending some handmade goodness up to her in Canada
and if you get a chance to stop by her blog,
she’s a painterly artist with a beautiful soul.

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“Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself.”
-T.D. Jakes
(from Let it Go)

thick with wild hope…

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My lap is full of January,
these simple bells,  one for each day,
my heart poured out in bits of art
that keep the stories stirred
and speaking.

I don’t want to forget these riffs,
the horse and rider and rushing water,
blackbirds and hawk and torn feathers beside her,
another year marked with a yes and a go,
crossing the bridge and whistling loudly hope,
of freebird and primroses and stepping into the flow
and open wide and yield inside
down where the soaring grows.

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And I’m feeling new spaces
in even old places,
done with grieving things done and gone,
and I’m letting new eyes
open me wide,
fresh born hope lighting me up inside,
forgiveness  lifting off the weight of hard time
till even my air is going softer,
amazed at the grace,
grinning and breathing
and whispering thanks.

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January has been intense,
a whole lot of living for just one month
and I’m feeling the wild hope
I dreamed of as a child;
when the words find me
I’ll wrap them up and share
because you’re on my mind always
with an always kind of love.

“When hope is not pinned wriggling onto a shiny image
or expectation,
it sometimes floats forth
and opens.”
-Anne Lamott

(and,  hey,  I disappeared from google reader for several weeks.
I believe I’m back,  restored,
but I think maybe you’ll have to sign up again.
oh bother,  I know.
If you see me there,  will you let me know?)