Hand in my pocket and heart on my sleeve….

The biggest,  warmest hello to your much loved eyes
and even mucher loved hearts.
I’ve missed you…..missed  sending out my words to you and feeling them embraced and safeheld.
I’ve missed reading the words you say in such uniquely your expressions,
missed our front porch visits and the texture you bring to my journey
with the stories of your own.
I feel as if I’m back from a long travel to somewhere scary
where I had to leave my broken jeep beside the midnight river
and hike out barefoot and without reception.
I feel footsore and rattled and slowed down hard.

I’ve had so much to say that I couldn’t say anything at all.
But I’m gonna let the words trip out in bumps and starts now,
because it feels like time and if I wait until I can talk pretty
I may get stuck in the silence.

My hand hurts.  Always.  In the most noisy and sometimes searing kind of way.
My making hand – the one I’ve used for being me.
My writing,  arting,  planting,  pruning,  driving, doing hand.
And I’ve done the things medical and alternative
but it still feels like potholes in my ride each day
and there’s this fear that rides along -Who are you now like this?
And what are you going to do?

And I answer “still be me” and keep on walking
but the night sounds howl a little louder and the shadows make my jumpy heart race.
Because my loss of hand is not the storming down,
it’s just the how I know to ride the waves.
When life is hurting hard,  my doing-hand is what I use to shoo the sting away
enough to work it through,  to process,  to find a way to stay
when my feet want to run and help me hide.

And so into the chaos,  the ugly question creeps:
what if there isn’t enough to me without what I can do or show or make?
what if I don’t get a seat at the table
without what my hands can bring.
And it comes thumping around in my soul’s basement
that dark-corner question:  “who will love me now?”

Life has a way of making us look at the things
we fear may grab us from beneath
in the places where we’re leaning into rest.

(And aren’t we all learning how to rest in unrest?
We may have different tangles to navigate,  but perhaps we all show up to our stories
feeling capsized at times.)

So, yeah,  the waves feel high, I’m calling it adventure,
and ready to say my things. 
I’ll be here following the river;  come ramble awhile with me.

“Creativity comes from accepting that you’re not safe,
from being absolutely aware,  and from letting go of control.
It’s a matter of seeing everything – even when you want to shut your eyes.”
– Madeleine L’Engle

“When the night is holding on to me
God is holding on.”
– John Mark and Sarah McMillan


rising and riffing a ruckus of joy…


Happy freshborn hope,
sweet bounty of more-than-enough-ness
breaking through debt so dark and deep and despairing
that the hollow grave  seems to bellow out slivers of light
all shimmering like jellybeans and jazz.

Happy glass-ceiling-smashing,
turning bitter waters  sweet again
as burden-flinging,  freebird-singing
love draws near to heal and nuzzle,
softens mind and quiets puzzle
and the music down inside blooming quiet

till it rises and riffs a ruckus of joy
and my feet get caught up in the current
and I dance without thinking
and catch myself in someone’s eyes
and realize I’m singing right out loud

with all that resurrection running through my fingers,
grubby from little nubs of pastels
and reeses peanut butter egg
and it doesn’t matter,  never mattered,
because still i can lean in and listen soft for feathery whisper low
(funny how it lives in the  quiet
and not in rush or strive or struggle)

and i melt and mellow
like peeps over a campfire
into the tender embrace
of strong, warm, shepherd kindness
and oh how this soothes and settles,
satisfies and solutions me,
raising me from the dead stuff I’ve believed
and loving me back to life
in all my parts and places.

“You step into my emptiness until it’s all gone,
you  slide into my starless night and shine like the sun…”

“sitting by the fire of your eyes…”

-John Mark Mcmillan

(well I went and skipped a week~didn’t post a whole week~
letting that sink in and grinning a little sorry
~i’ve got something cooking and just couldn’t leave
the stove just yet.  i love you wholehearted still)