decade of delicious disappointment…


Hello,  final week of my forties,
these last sips of a deliciously disappointing decade;
farewell to a beautiful battering,
the breaking down of fairytale ideals.
You shook and sifted my heart
until I began to see
the real stuff that dreams are made of.

It was a brave decade  of bold moves
and chilling changes,
swing and a miss….repeat,
swing and a miss,
striking out,
again and again
and I celebrate this.

I swung my heart out,
the hollow silence screaming back at me
like a noisy mockingbird prattling on about
trying harder and getting stronger
and then something  sweet and tender and true
in the whoosh,  whoosh,  whooshing
began soothing my soul sorted and saved
from some “isms” driving me to despair.


All that swinging and missing stirred up such a breeze
…the wind of my failing  singing me free
and now at last I’ve come to believe
that I am
not my swing.

The crack of the bat that I’ve longed to hear,
the sight of the ball sailing high and clear,
the cheer of the smiling faces in the stands
…that roar doesn’t fill me.

There is a roomy space instead for the blue of the sky,
the kiss of the sun soft on my face,
the deep whiff of fresh wild air
and
I’m leaving my forties fairly sure
that I’m loved still.
for just who I am
and it’s enough…I’m enough.
And this is pure gift.

In a few days I’ll be fifty and I’ll  swing away
for the sheer joy of it…..because I get to
and it’s good.
And whether I hear the sharp sweet crack of the bat
or sing of the breeze,
I’m grateful for another day to be dazzled
by the simple glory of just being me.

decade of delicious disappointment…


Hello,  final week of my forties,
these last sips of a deliciously disappointing decade;
farewell to a beautiful battering,
the breaking down of fairytale ideals.
You shook and sifted my heart
until I began to see
the real stuff that dreams are made of.

It was a brave decade  of bold moves
and chilling changes,
swing and a miss….repeat,
swing and a miss,
striking out,
again and again
and I celebrate this.

I swung my heart out,
the hollow silence screaming back at me
like a noisy mockingbird prattling on about
trying harder and getting stronger
and then something  sweet and tender and true
in the whoosh,  whoosh,  whooshing
began soothing my soul sorted and saved
from some “isms” driving me to despair.


All that swinging and missing stirred up such a breeze
…the wind of my failing  singing me free
and now at last I’ve come to believe
that I am
not my swing.

The crack of the bat that I’ve longed to hear,
the sight of the ball sailing high and clear,
the cheer of the smiling faces in the stands
…that roar doesn’t fill me.

There is a roomy space instead for the blue of the sky,
the kiss of the sun soft on my face,
the deep whiff of fresh wild air
and
I’m leaving my forties fairly sure
that I’m loved still.
for just who I am
and it’s enough…I’m enough.
And this is pure gift.

In a few days I’ll be fifty and I’ll  swing away
for the sheer joy of it…..because I get to
and it’s good.
And whether I hear the sharp sweet crack of the bat
or sing of the breeze,
I’m grateful for another day to be dazzled
by the simple glory of just being me.

decade of delicious disappointment…


Hello,  final week of my forties,
these last sips of a deliciously disappointing decade;
farewell to a beautiful battering,
the breaking down of fairytale ideals.
You shook and sifted my heart
until I began to see
the real stuff that dreams are made of.

It was a brave decade  of bold moves
and chilling changes,
swing and a miss….repeat,
swing and a miss,
striking out,
again and again
and I celebrate this.

I swung my heart out,
the hollow silence screaming back at me
like a noisy mockingbird prattling on about
trying harder and getting stronger
and then something  sweet and tender and true
in the whoosh,  whoosh,  whooshing
began soothing my soul sorted and saved
from some “isms” driving me to despair.


All that swinging and missing stirred up such a breeze
…the wind of my failing  singing me free
and now at last I’ve come to believe
that I am
not my swing.

The crack of the bat that I’ve longed to hear,
the sight of the ball sailing high and clear,
the cheer of the smiling faces in the stands
…that roar doesn’t fill me.

There is a roomy space instead for the blue of the sky,
the kiss of the sun soft on my face,
the deep whiff of fresh wild air
and
I’m leaving my forties fairly sure
that I’m loved still.
for just who I am
and it’s enough…I’m enough.
And this is pure gift.

In a few days I’ll be fifty and I’ll  swing away
for the sheer joy of it…..because I get to
and it’s good.
And whether I hear the sharp sweet crack of the bat
or sing of the breeze,
I’m grateful for another day to be dazzled
by the simple glory of just being me.