Fraying times and faded jeans…..

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I’ve got some unmet hunger for vacation
and no windows in this wall of work to climb through and feed it
so I sent my imagination on a relief mission
and it returned with a smell plucked right from a sweet spot in my childhood
….the smell of old weathered rope
creaking friendly beneath the tall tree standing regal in my back yard,
as I swooped skyward on a tire that scooped me weightless toward the sun

and as the windy breath of tireswing brushes over me fresh
again I’m swinging high,  toes poking clouds,
swept up playful,
slicing through sunlight toward treetops,
breezing through heaviness, dancing on air,
tummy squeezing happy with lift.

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And while my car’s still stuck in traffic and my list is smudged and long,
I’m caught up again in the song of that rope hugging sturdy some branch high above,
the worn bristle of it’s friendly grip hugged joyful in my hands
and somehow I’m feeling it again,  the finished chores and school’s out
and kicking off shoes that pinched and cutting short my faded jeans
to keep wearing all summer long until they’re fringed and frayed and yummy
and who knows what these fraying days
are doing to this heart of mine
…could be the good stuff of old jeans fading soft and friendly in the hard tumble of time.

I send you songs of freedom swinging you high,
of breeze and whoosh and swoop and glide,
swooping and soaring on willowy wings
swept up and away from heavy things.

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 “So won’t you fly high,  freebird.”
-Leonard Skynard

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)