A singing river runs through it…..

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I’m wrapping up a long and demanding growing season with Rivergreen,  our family business and livelihood,
and it’s been a bumpy go,  with me longing for change,  body and soul.
I’ve been wading out deep in swirling waters,  listening for the yes of what my heart is thumping,
and I’m answering a knocking and a nudge
to build something new,  not with soil and seed and stone,
but with the words I love to cobble and craft into copy and stories and song.

I’m happiest there in the river,  swept along and caught up in the flow,
choosing words like pebbles and sifting through rhythm
to paint pictures to share and to show.
It’s my growing joy to wordsmith for others,  giving voice to their own heart’s rustle and rhyme,
until their story is fleshed out and finding big air,
and they’re hearing their own vein of song.

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And I’m calling it Singing River,  like the sound of Muscle Shoals,
because I feel the life-blood in my spirit,
the ripples,   the current,  the pulse.

And I carry a tenderness for the people
who lived here first.
Before.
Somehow part of my heart beats on a drum for them,
for recompense,  for healing of the land,
for every way that a collective heart can be restored.
I want what I build and leave behind
to honor these,  and the River who runs through it all.

Opening for business soon:  The Singing River Wordshop.
Big dreams and baby steps:)

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“So this,  I believe,  is the central question upon which all creative living hinges:
Do you have the courage to bring forth the treasures that are hidden within you?”
-Elizabeth Gilbert

 

of pots and pans and wings…..

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It’s been long hours driven inside from the cold
and I’ve been cooking to stay close to the fire,
making food with love for body and soul
because sometimes it’s the only way I know
in the muddy places
and so there I stand,  heart a little shaky,
hands solid on the shiny purple of the onion
that I slice through crisp
as the tears run down a healing tide

and I breathe in deep the smell of sunshine crawling up from fresh split peppers,
and the heat climbs,  too,  from my hands soaping dishes
in a sinkfull of prayer poured out over steaming water
and I hear again the sound of singing river
grooving slow across the buried things inside
until the song opens true
and captive things break loose
and I feel it stilled,  the quaking
of this heart running scared.

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and while I pour another lazy stream of olive oil
I pour out,  too,  the song that’s getting unstuck down inside
and a warm breeze grooves across my heartstrings
until my feet have to scoot and slide
and  I feel again safe-held
inside wings that don’t force or squeeze
and heaviness slides off into the water
as I tug free the drain.

I wish you oil and warm and water and light
and a fresh song rising:)

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“What’s lost is nothing to what’s found,
and all the death that ever was,
set next to life,
would scarcely fill a cup.”
-Frederick Buechner