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.

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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…

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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.

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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.