Fresh new thank you notes at lap 58

Delivering up some thank you notes as I trot into lap 58….

Thank you,  life,  for showing me that clear is kind,
for swatting me hard sometimes when I’m not direct and nudging me
to ask better questions instead of parking myself in comfortable assumption.

Thank you,  Brene’ Brown,  for “paint done” –
and Candace for “keep talking – don’t quit talking yet”…
and that I’m learning,  learning to do relationship better.
For how beautiful is understanding

Thank you,  local honey,  for being the sweetest medicine I know.

Thank you,  big gold house on the hill,  for holding us all safe through the storms
and keeping a roof over my grateful head.

Thank you, last golden minutes before the sun slips down behind the mountain,
for bathing me in glisten and glow enough to last the whole night through.

Thank you,   pain and exhaustion,  for teaching me that if I say “yes”
when my heart means “no” that I’m doing a terrible thing to myself
and to people I don’t want to hurt.
For growing a stronger “no” in me.

Thank you,  all my messy art journals,  for showing me how to make investment
in my own heart – that it’s the streambed of my tomorrows.
For being peace and purpose and play to me.

Thank you,  Truth,  for letting my questions tumble out – my ugly, raw and angry stuff –
to rest unanswered in your light until they lose the power to throttle me.

Thank you,  Anderson,  for your gentle,  merry way.
For your kindness even when I’m unhinged; I appreciate every minute.

Thank you,  Autumn,  for being warm compassion and healing balm.
Your presence and words this year were pure gift
and my heart is stronger for it.

Thank you,  Katie,  for feeling like home away from home
and for stirring my aliveness with your strength and smile.
And for reminding me to rest.

Thank you,  Hope for inspiring dreams to bubble up life again,
for calling to the beauty-maker in me
and tugging me to find new ways.  I’m forever grateful for you.

Thank you,  hard conversations,  for teaching me courage.  For letting me practice my baby steps
into braver waters.

Thank you, Tom and Beth, for being friendship and fried chicken in the lonesome.

Thank you,  trust,   for coming on slow but sure where I’ve felt jilted.
For finding a place in my heart even where I’ve locked down afraid of being gullible again.
For helping me be open and also shrewd…..for teaching me to hold the line taught between the two.

Thank you,  truth-tellers, for being healing drops to my eyes – for helping me to see
that I don’t always see so well.

Thank you,  God,  for being only mercy when I feel hurt and hard.
For wooing me back to my head on your chest every time I spin out.

Thank you,  Candace, Libby, Gay, Patty, Risa, Marcia, Katherine, Pam, Claire,  Karen, Barbara, Eva, Jennifer, Mary Beth, Elizabeth, Lorraine…..gosh, ya’ll.  You blew me away!
I don’t even know what I would have done without your kind gift last August.
It was a suffocating time and you threw open a window for some fresh air.
I could breathe again and I don’t know enough thank you words.

Thank you,  people who offer “do you want to have a pray?”
It’s a gift of rare beauty to join hands and invite God.
I love this as much as I loved knocking on doors with alongside a friend when I was young,
maybe to sell girl scout cookies or ask someone to come out and play.
Standing together knocking is a sweet spot in my soul and I’ll always appreciate each ask.

Thank you,  Jason,  for your kind, encouraging way.

Thank you,  Audible,  for good reads while the miles passed long beneath me.

Thank you,  old green jeep,  for going and going and going still.
You take me there.  And sometimes make me stay.
And I like our relationship:)

Thank you to some of the sensitive heroic nurses who patiently helped my Mom make her way home.
You are unsung angels and I couldn’t begin to walk a mile in your shoes.

Thank you,  dear body of mine,  for going weak all over and feeling awful when I lie.  You say it strong to make
me honest.  Especially to myself.  Thanks for helping check my thoughts when I’m sleepy to what I’m doing.

Thank you,  brave ones who strip off the label of “victim” and own powerful their stories instead.  You
challenge my self pity and excuses;  I’m grateful for your candles burning potent in the dark. d
You shift things more than you know.

Thank you,  Mom,  for teaching me some things about living and dying.   About being strong – maybe even too strong.  For the way your presence sometimes lands still like a gift and for praying from a clear and peaceful place.
I look forward to togethering with you again someday.

Thank you,  Dad,  for lifelong learning.  For making yourself oatmeal and frying eggs and finding new ways.
For your weakness and your wonder – I’m richer because you’re you.

Thank you to the different ones – the atypical and off-center.
For being both brave and weak in the ways we sometimes punish.  We are all the greater for you
and I wouldn’t want to live in a world where you don’t lead us.

Thank you,  Langston,  for making me wrestle.  For challenging my perceptions and making waves
where I wanted an oversimplified calm.
For reminding me that people are worth the pain.

Thank you to my dearests – Bryan, Hannah, Peter, John, Amanda, Lance, Danielle.  For stirring me always to be curious,  vulnerable,  unsettled,  fluid,  and half-crazy until I do better.  For making me a more humane human and this world a friendlier place.

Thank you,  little table in the woods,  for sharing your space by the river while I play with pens and paints
and write out what I hear the wild wind saying.  You help me let the river flow through me and make all the work worthwhile.

Thank you, you beautiful noble people of Snowbird and Birdtown,
for letting me be a small part of your lives
You have my heart.

Thank you,  pressure and struggle,  for not leaving me the way that I was.
That I don’t have to fear my failings and fumblings

Thank you,  Singing River,  for growing inside me until I’m bursting with the soul spa I’m carrying
to full term.  I can’t wait to discover your name and offer you up to serve and be seen.
You feel like the best part of me;  thanks for hanging on.

Thank you,  new courage,  that sometimes finds me being transparent in the middle of a shamestorm.
For the growing grace to just stand there naked until my fear gets tired of fearing and love gets to find me like that and heal some of my unloved places.

Thank you,  lungs,  for filling up with air every day fresh and fueling my comings and goings.
I’m your biggest fan and so appreciate your flexibility.

Thank you,  dear soul of mine,  for becoming more discriminating about the stories you make up about why things happen.   I appreciate your growing patience before you rush to craft a narrative that may hurt on my body and mind.  Thanks for recognizing when you might not be seeing it true.  This feels like becoming free.

Thank you,  drivers who respect instead of rage.   You make all of our lives more livable.  And every minute you take to be kind is a sweet rain of goodness on dry places.

Thank you to the helpers – the ones who come alongside when trouble happens.  You are the salt of the earth;
we’d all be in a world of hurt if not for your heart to show up and risk.    You make it do-able to be human.

Thank you,  real apologies,  for being said from hearts that know how to kneel down and serve love.
You heal and re-set us.  And give us grace to go again, restoring relationships and building the bridges that move us
forward over busted up places.  You are bottomless brilliance and may just save us.

Thank you,  Lisa, Sandy, Donna, Jennifer and Karen,  for being forever-friends who hear my things
and let me wail and show me grace even when I’m frantic as life is burning down my fear.
For being a finger away on the chat when I need to tag someone in.
For showing up in the hard stuff.  You’re a gift to me,  I know it.

Thank you,  Janet,  for being my sister-friend who loves me always.  I think I’m most myself with you and it’s scary sometimes to be that real and test again the waters “am I still okay?  Still loved?” With you I’m always safe and this is no small thing in this great big wide.  You and David are pure gold and harbor.

Thank you,  midnight hours,  for being quiet and draped in moonlight.  For the stars you offer so gentle and the whisper to put things right.  For the way you strip away the clutter
and offer up the living room to roll out my thoughts and prayers like paint chips on the floor.
I forgive you the intrusion and welcome your tap tap tap on my window.

Thank you to the physical therapists who worked me so good.  My back thanks you so hard!
It’s joy and relief to know what to do to keep my parts all playing nice with each other.

Thank you,  soap and showers and all the bathtubs I have loved.
And Epsom salts,  I heart you forever.

Thank you,  Thistle Farms in Nashville,  for inspiring me wildly.  For showing that crafting and social justice and healing can team up successful to do big good.  For Love Heals.

Thank you,  Pisgah Forest,  for being a living picture of restoration.
For sparking my vision for bigger things.

Thank you, boots that keep my socks dry,  gloves that keep my hands warm,
and all the hats that have shielded me from the sun this year.
You give my skin a fighting chance.

Thank you,  problem-solvers,  for solutions and finding better ways.

Thank you,  cider-makers,  for turning humble fruits into tart bubbles
that sing welcome end-of-day songs.

Thank you,  laughter that shakes my belly – you’re better than pie
and a staple in my life.

thank you,  Bryan,  for working to find your footing on this steep and slippery slope
and knowing sometimes the passwords and prices,  and for holding my hand
warm as we pray in the night.

Thank you,  life,  for being both beautiful and hard.  And exquisitely painful.
And worth living for all the moments and days.  I will believe that you are precious,
that people are priceless,  and that the turn of the decade has ushered in our finest and most fruitful days.

Thank you,  dear ones who read the words I write down,
for the gift of your listen.  This is no small thing in this loud and busy world
and I’m honored that you take the time.

I used to think that when I reached almost 60 I’d be old and wise,
yet somehow I feel as if I’m still just on the cusp of getting a clue:)
My bag is,  however,  heavy with fresh new thank you notes.
Thanks for letting me dump them out and share.

Of decades and dearness….

It’s a new decade
and my one little word surprised me quick:

When I was a girl,  there was one warm little word that could smooth back the hair
from my upset and calm the afraid-and-alone of me,
sometimes offered by my mother and also my grandma Creasy
when I was particularly deserving.
“Dear”
“You dear little thing”
As I grew too big and clunky,  the word became reserved for babies
and petite girls who minded their manners and kept their thick shiny hair tucked
neatly back off their faces.
For puppies and lambs and darling things.
It meant worthy of notice,  of affection,  of protection,  of love.

The remarkable thing about being dear was that
it seemed to come without a single bit of effort on the part of the beloved.
It was as if the essence of the dear one squeezed sunshine and smile and safety
like orange juice from another soul.
It was delicious to be dear,
a soul-soothing energy that made it okay to be seen.

It was potent pain to lose your dearness.
To become un-see-able or worse,  unacceptable,  by love,

As I’ve journeyed through the years I’ve learned and un-learned to hustle  for my dearness
the way you do when you’re still figuring it out,
and I hurt on hearts,  mine and others,  the way you do
when you’re not sure that it’s settled already – your unique value –
in the grand design.

This past year was gift in that it stirred the deep of this primal pain
as I lost the body of work I’d created over the past decade to a hard drive crash
while my mother slowly died
and layers of my shell peeled away,
begging the scary questions we toss like covers in the night.

Several months before she passed, I began to make old photos into cards and write my love
and memories in bundles for Mom to draw from when she needed a lift.
In this way she let me say how dear,
let me lay my heart on the foot of her bed
and feel a home once more in that place.
As I listened and longed for some words in return
I felt it keen the hunger to feel dear again to her,
the little girl of me reaching for her smile.

She was unable to give it,
and so one of the gifts in her passing is a sharp sense of purpose
standing up strong inside where it once felt like a dream being dreamed
a torch to say the things – to say how dear – into our motherless places.
Those holes left behind by the imperfect lives of our mothers and by our own
imperfect capacity to receive what she had to give.
We wound our kids without meaning – even in wanting only ever to love.

This year I’ll tend the memorial garden in my heart,  in part,
by making space to say the things out louder,
to cluck soft and hum tender over our dearness.
To honor my mother and the mother in us all.
Because we’re here for just a few short seasons,  like a wisp,
and I don’t want to leave any of my love ungiven.

So here it is,  dear – my one little word.
And here’s to our dearness.

“You have to find a mother inside yourself.  We all do.
Even if we have a mother,  we still have to find this part of ourselves inside.”

– Sue Monk Kidd

Dancing hope defiant…..

I need to dance with a barefoot heart,
to twirl in the darkness of the wee hours
and wriggle free,
unloading heavy things
into hands so warm and available and open
that they tug the sun up through the woods
while the birds prattle joy
and the candle burns slow,
flickering sandalwood and spruce
and I take it in hungry
and peer into the face of light.

so there is somewhere for the torment
to tumble out and go,
all this anger over unjust things
that hurt the ones I love
while my stomach screams hard for help and change
and my small hands burn to take hold of everything cruel
and make it stop,
to make this big world well
until it goes kind and peaceable and just.

I want to rest deep and also live awake.

So when I need to lay my mind down
on something soft and tender-strong,
and remember deep the shepherd psalm,
and take in the love that speaks truth into storm
so that the fog and the cold doesn’t take me,

I can dance on it,
can paint and sing and write and move and shout and love out loud
in stuff that speaks like prayer
until my vision climbs up higher
and my heart holds firm to peace
and I breathe into hope that is defiant
against the dark.

This is a little re-write I shared a few years back
and it moves me that it’s stirring fresh again inside
and I share with a fresh sprig of new-grown herb
and serve it up with love:)

“The belief is that enough hope and tenderness will lead to world peace,
one mind at a time.    All nations will come together in kindness and justice,
swords will be beaten into plowshares,  spears into pruning hooks.
This is a little hard to buy with a world stage occupied by so many madmen,
and so much suffering.  But setting aside one’s tiny tendency toward cynicism,
in the meantime – in Advent – we wait;  and hope appears if we truly desire to see it.”
–  Anne Lamott

Prickles and portals and play it again….

Sometimes into life’s overwhelm come soft days
so thick with grace
that the volume gets turned up
on your dreams
so loud that it drowns out some fear,
shaking dance back into your feet
until your heart starts taking on hope
like a ship sinking fast in a sea of fresh mercy
as heaven storms down light so fierce
that it swallows up the dark.

When you’re not there right now,
when all you can feel is the cave you crawled in
bone tired and seeking shelter
and the gloom works it’s way on your soul
and you’re hungry for good air and tall sky
but you feel as weak and small as the yelp
that gets stuck in the dry of your voice
( I’ve known this place)

Can I remind you,  friend,  that it’s there still,
that place where darkness got sliced until the light spilled in;
still there waiting with the warm buttery peace of something realer
than what you can see,
waiting to wrap you again in that firm strong love
that breathes courage
back into all your despairing places.

It’s there now waiting and you can go there still
along the backroads of your mind;
where maybe even as a child
you felt it sweet in someplace truthful and gentle
and it’s there still like a portal
where you feel free and profoundly okay.

You are brave enough to lean on in;
Open wide and go again
to that door that is uniquely gift to you,
where you step into the undriven purpose
of being welcome and known and affirmed with great affection.

Go stand in that place and let love sing down her songs over you again.
You belong,
the starry heavens whisper.
You belong.

“Fear is the cheapest room in the house.
I would like to see you living in better conditions.”
– Hafiz

Tender goodbye mornings…..

It’s been twelve days since my mother left this earth
and I’ve lived each one of them,
lived them full and awake and as tenderly open as I know how.
The days just before were some of the most intense that I’ve known and I’m not ready
to unpack those and make words for them yet.
But I’m up before the sun to remember the gifts that found me these days
in the exquisite pain of love.

For the heave of relief that her considerable suffering is no more,
that her body and being were able to rest back peaceful into those everlasting arms
that she trusted to carry her home.
And for the memory of her smile as she leaned into the turn.

For the fog that wrapped the next morning as I made my way to work,
as if the clouds understood my need to disappear for just awhile
and so came down to offer cover those first gritty hours.
And the chores that let my hard tangle of feelings get dirty and sweaty
and walk hard and long until they drained off soft again.
For the fatigue that came from work instead of waiting.

For the black and blue swallowtail that fluttered around me slow,
and then around again and again in soft circles around my face
while Hope watched and cried because she said she saw it happen to another
the day after she too lost her mother
and my heart felt it like a massage
and my breath went deep.

For the kindness of friends who
loved me in it all
and let me say my pain.
And the song that came alongside to walk me through
* Let it Fall* by Over the Rhine

For the goldfinches who flew alongside my window.

For a table thick with laughter and family and Mexican Train
and the soul food of being there loved.

For time on the deck with my sister while the stars bent low to kiss the ridge tops
and how we felt it thin the line between here and there
and got to say our things and listen and understand;
For the butter and balm of that starry night share.

For the project that wouldn’t wait and was lightning strike to my tired places,
a jolt into a focus that gave my grief a shelf for keeping until.
For the way it challenged my art making expansive and stretchy
when I wanted to curl up and just not.
For the deep breath of yes between my bones when we finished.

For the kindness of words written on little bites of art – the magic
of cards that travel through the mail to rest in my box.
And for the gift of needed provision that arrived just exactly when,
like care packages from heaven.

That the food poisoning didn’t kill me
though, Lord,  felt like it tried:)

For the kindness of hands that tugged the sadness from my feet
and rubbed the weight from my shoulders with a sigh.

It feels a primal sort of pain to lose a mama
and I fling thanks for the goodness of mine
and for every drop of comfort and challenge  along the way.
Today I will tug free the words I’ll share at her service on Friday
and God it feels daunting to pick up the pen.

Thanks for letting me  prime the pump and share with you here,  my treasured friends.
I appreciate your kind listen.

“‘Cause rain and leaves and snow and tears and stars,
and that’s not all my friend,
they all fall with confidence and grace,
So let it fall,  let it fall.”
– Jerome Detweiler
Over the Rhine

Riverly resting along…..

I lay awake and watch the stars dip low and call me out onto the porch
where I lay down my resolve to sleep
so early that the moon hides still behind the house,
the bright quiet of her shine
crisping the only edges of the yard and dusting the treetops with silver.
I wish for poetry but feel only dull;
the tired of me can’t rise to dance in the beauty rolled out here.

Until I lean the tiniest lean – just a slight nod of spirit
into the hush-away from all my questions humming.
Shhhhhhh – rest here now for just this breath.
Rest.  here.  now.
And as I breathe and then breathe again,
click goes my heart and open it swings
to this ordinary moment,
showing up like a weary traveler
to the unremarkable slice of time happening just exactly now.
The present.

I wonder how many friendly welcomes I’ve rushed on by,
feeling like a stranger in an even stranger place
just because I’m clinging stubborn to the season passed,
the one I’ve known and loved.

Breathing here,  now,  feels truer.
I can feel the changes work the rough edges of me over until I smooth
to the road that I’m on
and so the travel goes lighter.

And if I go quiet enough I can hear her,
river flowing~flowing~flowing
singing love that rolls over fallen things
and quick around stones that won’t be moved
and when they clash she sounds like music
and it lifts me,  too,
above my broken down ways
until I’m riding a new rhythm
into the living I’ve yet to do.

“I think there ought to be a little music here:
hum,  hum.”
– Mary Oliver

The making and the medicine…..

I’m coming back from a hard prune,
grateful to see little tenderlings shooting up fresh from the cuts.
It’s tricky to celebrate the shears and their scars and I’m not there yet
so I won’t pretend to hurl thanks for those slices;
instead I’ll say quick the pain
and then share the medicine
because we all need the balm when life cuts like a knife.

Doing the big-girl-panties work of grieving the loss
of my old jalopy laptop and it’s hard drive crash
which swept away every picture and bit of writing I’ve made for the past 15 years.
Every last word and image
(except what I’ve shared here on my blog or in journals and notes to loved ones).
I’d let my backup lapse for the last weeks of Summer struggle
when our cash flow dried up with the rivers,
waiting for the Autumn rains which would hopeful stir the flow.
The back-up backup I thought was in place was not.
The loss has felt crushing.

Also, the “miracle” shot I’ve been taking for my asthma
stirred a full blown rheumatoid flare which has my body red hot with swollen pain
and feverish for weeks after each injection.
Pressing through to do my daily work in the hot Summer sun
has felt like a Survivor challenge
and sometimes the frustration runs down my cheeks without my permission.
But grace has swarmed in – even sometimes as bee stings (!)
Who knew?  I work among honey bees and they seem to know when I need another shot
of their anti-inflammatory wonder:)

Then I got my heart broken in a double-you-over kind of way
and so the pile of hard clippings grew
until the bare of me felt barer still.
I know – this sounds dismal – but please read on;
I won’t tell you a forest fire without the rain

Because when losses start to pile like branches tossed to flame
it can feel like un-love and here the story can get spun
because we’re meaning-makers – we need to make sense of suffering
and when it comes storming we get busy writing our narrative
because it makes us feel a little control.
“It’s all my fault” even feels a balm because then we can know.
And knowing,  even if it’s false,  feels better than uncertainty.
(this is what the great teachers say)

So while I was making up my story I remembered (thank you dear friends who remind)
to lean into the heart of wisdom
where I’ve learned to find my rest
and do the messy, often awkward stutter-step of going open again,
of unfolding my angry hurt where I clamped down tight
to seal myself off from feeling it all too hard.
Courage to let go,  to open the fist of me and breathe instead into the waves as they wash in
– it came as I prayed help…me….trust,
help…me…open,
help me

and in ways I couldn’t manage or imagine
I began to feel again the river flowing,
to sense the whisper of buttery quiet truth in it’s unassuming way,
“how do you feel when you prune something you love?”
Prune something that I love – I know this feeling well,
have spent years there in my work.
I feel hurt for the hurt but hope for the next…..like “please feel the love”
because this is temporary ache and your roots know what to do.

 Good Lord,  how perspective paints the pain a healthy shade of true.

And so I’m landing bumpy but safe
in a place with no despair.
Ache,  yes.  But without the burden of hating the cuts
there’s this energy enough to draw from these roots and pull life on up
into every space left barren and bleeding,
to draw deep from the river that keeps flowing
and to hope and yes and open and rest
and flourish untethered into the flow.

So I will celebrate it,  this creativity that we share
with the fountain that never runs dry.
Will celebrate both the making and the medicine,
and lean, open wide,  into the next try.

Thanks for reading along while I process.
My words here sound way smoother than the wrestling it took to get me to them:)
Forgive anything that sounds trite or oversimplified – still finding the wordsand spilling them slow.
I appreciate you,  dear reader friend,
and can’t wait to share what may grow in this freshly pruned place:)

“But grace can be the experience of a second wind,
even though what you want is clarity and resolution,
what you get is stamina and poignancy and the strength to hang on.”
– Anne Lamott

And still the moving things….

I’ve been moving through some changes and it’s been a gnarly sort of stretch
but also beautiful and grow-y.
Always the paradox – the God-breath and the grit.
So, still from the soup, I want to share some of the stuff that’s been moving me:

~  all of the extra oxygen in my lungs (!)
I took the shot.  The one I’ve shied away from for several years because too many risks.
But then the risk of un-living my life seemed to loom larger so I dove in
and did the risky deed the doctors recommended
and I can breathe all the way down
to the bottom of my lungs.
This feels crazy big and I’m sometimes giddy with air.

~ the way the early evening quiets the heat
the dusk gentles the sun,
and how the river sings my dry places soft again.

~  the courage that’s somehow finding me to be transparent in shamestorms,
to stand sometimes unmasked until my fear gets tired of fearing
and love gets to find me like that
and heal some of my unloved places.
The whole getting better at not hiding thing.

~ for the fields of yellow where horses graze with the foal
who trots along playful like a dolphin born into a buttercup sea.

~ for the mishmash of music making my summering sing,
including Willy Nelson Sings Gershwin,
and Lauren Daigle’s Look Up Child.

~ for how I’m learning to live in a rest that can weary what wants to drive me,
can just demoralize it because the joy I keep tapping won’t lose it’s fizz.
that I can cry angry,  heart-broken tears and still trust the Love that’s holding me
and plant myself peaceful in this place.
How this is stronger than the certainty I crave.

~ for the high places and skies that ride these ridges
where I can listen to the wind words.

~ the way life is giving me soft moments with my mother
that I didn’t know I needed until I find the girl of me running hard to plant her flowers
and bring her beauty and make her eggs wet and find the words
that have fluttered far from reach before this tender time when we’re both bent low
so that maybe we can see each other’s faces true.

~ the compassion of friends who see my gimpy places and smile the same smiles
that warm me when I’m strong.

~ the first ripe veggies of Summer,  elderberry syrup in my tea,
and all the brave moves that let us be fresh berries splashed with cream
and served up sweet instead of growing mold in the back of the fridge.

“You are not too old,
and it is not too late
to dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out
it’s own secret.”
– Rilke

Thanks for your patience with my heavy Springtime ways.
It’s coming on Summertime and the living is easier
now that the planting is mostly done.

Of life-living and so-telling…..

I’ve been standing in the strong winds of the word that found me for the year –
blameless –
winds whipping high with opportunity to blame like crazy,
to max out my capacity to resent and hold grudge.
(isn’t that the way these things go – you get a word and it challenges you so)

Yeah,  my little word has been riding shotgun while I wrestle with the wishing
to slam down my gavel and spit reasons why I’m right,
to stomp my feet to make it fair,
to lock my jaw and close up tight
because the way I see it is the way
and I want to keep my mad about it.
( sigh:))

The urge to say I told you so – there they are,
the words that can hiss and rattle alongside my longing
to be grace in gravely places.

“I told you so”
-is there even a shimmer of light in those self-righteous little words?
That I was able to predict something that heaven never wanted,
able to say the worst before it had the chance to happen
and then get to feel like I’m on higher ground?

Ewwww

When I get over myself and look with love I can see a little clearer
the choices that I’m choosing,
because when I leave this planet and burst blazing into the next thing
what kind of fire do I want to have lit with all of my telling?

I want to have told things that massage hope into silent questions,
that knead whatever light someone holds until it expands and fills their lonely places,
telling that rubs away the anxious rumblings that can make a hurting heart feel separated from love.
To say how you don’t have to be clever enough, or strong enough,
or fast or smart or good enough –
that you’re already there and wrapped in love enough
to help and heal and hold you close through anything
and maybe someone can open and receive it
because another someone told them so.

God how I want my told-you-so’s to be life instead of darkness.

You are worthy and wanted and welcome
and I want to tell you so:)

“Certainty is missing the point entirely.”
– Anne Lamott

(i’ve been a bad blogger lately – thanks so much for coming around
and saying even when I don’t get by to visit as often as I will soon.
I miss our visits)

Even Song

Even when the night dances so dark on your mind
that your peace splinters tears,
when life feels over-budget and overdrawn
but under-spent;
in the ache and stall and prickle
and in the fear that can sit so heavy on a belly
that you freeze clear through to your spine
…even then it is there,  rumbling low,
fluttering hope.

In the fear that your mistakes may cost more
than you can ever help to pay,
that you may have loved much but not well,
may have caused more harm than healing,
more thicket than clearing,
more frustration than good,

that a stray word or exhausted miss
may have broken things so hard
that the
final word
is suffering.

Even there in what could quickly become despair,
a bud burns still inside to open,
to sizzle and surge and batter through rock
and shriek life into all that died.

In the stabbing glare of all you may have wasted
or wandered off from,
there’s an epilogue unwritten still
but swirling always fierce with hope
that won’t let go even when you must.

It rumbles new beginnings,  new pages,  new leaves and buds and seasons,
that what was lost may still be found,
that what was buried may yet live.

That in all of the loss and leaving,
in the dreams that died in the shell,
your heart is safe to lean in to what’s coming,
into the quiet thunder that’s humming
resurrection,
hold steady,
it is well.

“What is this breaking,
this hopeful re-making,
shifting stones,
addressing dry bones,
dizzying me with blessings,
intercepting my grieving
and raising the dead all around me.”
– Enuma Okoro

Happy Springtime,  dear you:)
I’ve been busy living like a farmer and I realize I say that every April or May; it’s as true as ever.
I’ll be back regular now – thanks for being your loving selves with my
dirty,  achy, sunburned,  tuckered out Springtime way.
You are a lovely garden and I plop down grateful in your gentle shade:)