Sundown and trail's end….

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As the sun sets on August
I feel wrapped in wonder and grateful relief
for the cool change that’s come.

It scared the bejeebers out of me,  the path I chose,
to dive into the why of my fatigue
and come back here each day to tell about it.
Just the idea of saying I’d show up here daily
and then go to work serving up a fresh scoop of my heart
in print,  where anyone could read it,  felt like jumping on a fast train
barreling away from the rest I ached for.

I had to shimmy past some panic each day,
to work and tug and sometimes wrestle the words out
but they came,  just the same,  and I found the something
I didn’t know I was looking for.
So grateful,  that.

It humbles me that another soul would take the time to come around
and read the things that I write down
and share the bounty of their heart with me.
I feel richer,  so much richer,  for that.

And,  hey,  if you’ll leave me a comment here,  or in yesterday’s post,
and let me know you’d let me gift you a bit of art I made as I was processing the month,
just some treasures from the trail,  I’d love to send you some love.

“Such love does the sky now pour
that whenever I stand in a field
I have to wring out the light when I get home.”
-St. Francis of Assisi

Thank you again for being a part.
(I’ll be back in a week)

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who'll stop the rain….

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It’s raining and I’m sorry.

“But our company comes this weekend….”
the voice on the other end of the line wailed,
disappointed.

“I’m sorry.  It’s just too wet to come.”

“But I really, really need this now.”

It’ll have to wait until the ground dries some.
And we’d make it wicked muddy…
really fob things up.  We’ll get in there as soon as this rain stops
I can’t say when.

Exasperated sigh.
“Well,  I guess we’ll see you when we see you,”
the voice bristled.

I’m sorry.
I watch at the window
as rain falls down all fat and steady
and inconsiderate.

Damn rain

Wait.
I love the rain.
It’s just that  I’m feeling……what is that…… guilty?
Guilty and anxious because I’m not pleasing.
 Because I’m not being lady bountiful.
Because I’m not putting the weather right?

Oh Lord.

I wonder how much of my inner life
 I’ve spent apologizing
for  rain? 

“Letting go doesn’t mean we don’t care. It means we stop trying to do the impossible, that which we cannot,  and instead focus on what is possible,
which usually means taking care of ourselves.”

-Melody Beattie

I’ll be posting all month,
resting my soul
….know that you’re invited and welcome to join me.

the play's the thing….

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.

decade of delicious disappointment…


Hello,  final week of my forties,
these last sips of a deliciously disappointing decade;
farewell to a beautiful battering,
the breaking down of fairytale ideals.
You shook and sifted my heart
until I began to see
the real stuff that dreams are made of.

It was a brave decade  of bold moves
and chilling changes,
swing and a miss….repeat,
swing and a miss,
striking out,
again and again
and I celebrate this.

I swung my heart out,
the hollow silence screaming back at me
like a noisy mockingbird prattling on about
trying harder and getting stronger
and then something  sweet and tender and true
in the whoosh,  whoosh,  whooshing
began soothing my soul sorted and saved
from some “isms” driving me to despair.


All that swinging and missing stirred up such a breeze
…the wind of my failing  singing me free
and now at last I’ve come to believe
that I am
not my swing.

The crack of the bat that I’ve longed to hear,
the sight of the ball sailing high and clear,
the cheer of the smiling faces in the stands
…that roar doesn’t fill me.

There is a roomy space instead for the blue of the sky,
the kiss of the sun soft on my face,
the deep whiff of fresh wild air
and
I’m leaving my forties fairly sure
that I’m loved still.
for just who I am
and it’s enough…I’m enough.
And this is pure gift.

In a few days I’ll be fifty and I’ll  swing away
for the sheer joy of it…..because I get to
and it’s good.
And whether I hear the sharp sweet crack of the bat
or sing of the breeze,
I’m grateful for another day to be dazzled
by the simple glory of just being me.

decade of delicious disappointment…


Hello,  final week of my forties,
these last sips of a deliciously disappointing decade;
farewell to a beautiful battering,
the breaking down of fairytale ideals.
You shook and sifted my heart
until I began to see
the real stuff that dreams are made of.

It was a brave decade  of bold moves
and chilling changes,
swing and a miss….repeat,
swing and a miss,
striking out,
again and again
and I celebrate this.

I swung my heart out,
the hollow silence screaming back at me
like a noisy mockingbird prattling on about
trying harder and getting stronger
and then something  sweet and tender and true
in the whoosh,  whoosh,  whooshing
began soothing my soul sorted and saved
from some “isms” driving me to despair.


All that swinging and missing stirred up such a breeze
…the wind of my failing  singing me free
and now at last I’ve come to believe
that I am
not my swing.

The crack of the bat that I’ve longed to hear,
the sight of the ball sailing high and clear,
the cheer of the smiling faces in the stands
…that roar doesn’t fill me.

There is a roomy space instead for the blue of the sky,
the kiss of the sun soft on my face,
the deep whiff of fresh wild air
and
I’m leaving my forties fairly sure
that I’m loved still.
for just who I am
and it’s enough…I’m enough.
And this is pure gift.

In a few days I’ll be fifty and I’ll  swing away
for the sheer joy of it…..because I get to
and it’s good.
And whether I hear the sharp sweet crack of the bat
or sing of the breeze,
I’m grateful for another day to be dazzled
by the simple glory of just being me.