Even Song

Even when the night dances so dark on your mind
that your peace splinters tears,
when life feels over-budget and overdrawn
but under-spent;
in the ache and stall and prickle
and in the fear that can sit so heavy on a belly
that you freeze clear through to your spine
…even then it is there,  rumbling low,
fluttering hope.

In the fear that your mistakes may cost more
than you can ever help to pay,
that you may have loved much but not well,
may have caused more harm than healing,
more thicket than clearing,
more frustration than good,

that a stray word or exhausted miss
may have broken things so hard
that the
final word
is suffering.

Even there in what could quickly become despair,
a bud burns still inside to open,
to sizzle and surge and batter through rock
and shriek life into all that died.

In the stabbing glare of all you may have wasted
or wandered off from,
there’s an epilogue unwritten still
but swirling always fierce with hope
that won’t let go even when you must.

It rumbles new beginnings,  new pages,  new leaves and buds and seasons,
that what was lost may still be found,
that what was buried may yet live.

That in all of the loss and leaving,
in the dreams that died in the shell,
your heart is safe to lean in to what’s coming,
into the quiet thunder that’s humming
resurrection,
hold steady,
it is well.

“What is this breaking,
this hopeful re-making,
shifting stones,
addressing dry bones,
dizzying me with blessings,
intercepting my grieving
and raising the dead all around me.”
– Enuma Okoro

Happy Springtime,  dear you:)
I’ve been busy living like a farmer and I realize I say that every April or May; it’s as true as ever.
I’ll be back regular now – thanks for being your loving selves with my
dirty,  achy, sunburned,  tuckered out Springtime way.
You are a lovely garden and I plop down grateful in your gentle shade:)

Even song…….

Even when the night dances so dark on my mind
that my peace gets shut down hard,
when my life feels overdrawn and over-budget
but under-spent;
In the ache and stall and prickle
and in the fear that can sit so heavy on a belly
that I freeze clear through to my spine,
even then it is there,
rumbling low,
fluttering hope.

In the fear that my mistakes may cost more
than I can ever help to pay,
that I may have loved much but not well,
may have caused more harm than healing,
more thicket than clearing,
more frustration than good…..

that a stray word or exhausted miss
may have broken things so hard
that the final word
is
suffering.

Even there, in what could quick become despair,
a bud burns still inside to open
to sizzle and surge and batter through rock
and shriek life back into all that died.

In the stabbing glare of all I may have wasted
or wandered off from,
there’s an epilogue unwritten still
but swirling always fierce with hope
that won’t let go
even when
I must.

It rumbles  new beginnings,  new pages,  new leaves and buds and seasons,
that what was lost may still be found,
that again what was buried may live.

That in all of the loss and leaving,
in the dreams that died in the shell
my heart is safe to lean into what’s coming,
into the quiet thunder that’s humming
resurrection,
hold steady,
it is well.

“And in great decay comes great renewal.
Life finds a way out
of the darkest spots.”
– Tyler Knott Gregson

Rising a ruckus of joy…..

blog seeds
Happy freshborn hope,
fierce bounty of more-than-enoughness
breaking through debt so dark and deep and despairing
that the hollow cave seems to bellow out a fountain of light
all shimmering like jellybeans and jazz;

happy glass-ceiling-smashing,
big-fat-lie-dashing,
turning bitter waters sweet again
as burden-flinging,  freebird-singing Love
draws near to heal and nuzzle,
freeing mind,  untangling puzzle,
the music down inside rumbling low

until it’s rising and riffing a ruckus of joy,
this big tenderness swallowing up the whole of my shame,
with all that resurrection running through my fingers
grubby from the stain and paint and chocolate and soil of living
and it doesn’t matter,  never mattered,
because still I can lean in and listen to living love
rain feather soft over my hunger

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

blog copters
I disappeared for a week,  didn’t I.
It’s planting season and I’m dawn to dusk dirty and sore and just a tad overwhelmed.
It will pass.
And, hey I’d love to send a copy of the April issue of my Ripplesongs
to whichever name I draw from the comments you leave this week.
Everloving thanks for rolling through the changes with me:)

 

blowing grateful bubbles….

bobbing to the surface now
after being rolled by a rogue wave of fatigue
that seized and slammed me low
spinning  me dizzy,
whitewater pressing down heavy,
slow panic setting in

when the tumbling tossed me a memory
….little girl me standing in the breakers
full face to the foam,
arms stretched wide
and waiting to be  swept up and under.

I LIKED being scooped up
and tossed into tumble,
rolling like an otter and delivered to the shore
laughing with the freedom of it all.

And so again I’m letting go,
relaxing into the shoreline roll
and coming up laughing,
still sputtering and blowing grateful bubbles for the wonder of:

~these dandy little drops of Vitamin D
…..turned my vicious little heart attacks of a hot flash
into warm flushes.
hormonal happiness!
(big thanks to Kathy of Paper Pumpkin for her gem of advice!).

~raw honey, new breeze,  fresh whispers and busy angels,

~loving comfort singing my name,
gathering the pieces that I am
and putting them back together in all the right order

and even when it’s not all right,
it’s alright.

“The world is all gates,  all opportunities,
all strings of tension waiting to be struck.”
R.W. Emerson