Compost, joy and gumption…..

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My heart hurts.
Bad.
And I don’t want to run from the pain or hide out in false places,
but I’m not going to sink down into the ache and go dull to the salt and sizzle of living,  either,
so I’m hurling clods scraped raw from the clay that I am
like bottle rockets exploding thanks,   setting fire to the night,
because there’s fierce medicine in the kind of joy that won’t sit down
and with perspective comes a healing tide.

And for the record,  I’m not gonna lie that I’m grateful for this heart-rip,
either,  ’cause I’m not.  Nope.  Not one bit.
But I’ll say this true,  from the bottom of my bruises,
that I’m grateful,  yes I am,  for this pile of shit dumped fresh
because I believe in compost
and I won’t waste this.

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So let these punctures dig and poke and pull out plugs of my hard ground
until I’m soft and open and full up with air and sky and yes and fruit
and fresh and ripe and dreams growing thick on the vine.
Go ahead and fertilize me.
I’ll love life more for it.

And so,  dear life,   I’m gonna lean into the grace to square my shoulders,
hold still like a rock star,
and dare to let you love me back,
with a crazy kind of hope that won’t leave the dance floor.
And I won’t busy this pain on down but I’ll taste and listen
and let my lens be dipped in truth until I’m seeing clear
and knowing deep the Love that covers and keeps me here
because when I don’t trust your goodness
I don’t even see the light when it’s burning through my fear.

I’ll surrender everything but this joy.
That’s not ever gonna be on the table.

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“But trading joy for less vulnerability is a deal with the devil.
And the devil never pays up.”
– Brene’ Brown

~

Of poetry and sand….

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I’m smitten,
fresh in love with the sweet,  tender brilliance
who designed breeze and feathers and muscadine grapes
and the way sunlight dances on water and calls to the questions in me,
calls them churning and tumbling from my muck
into the soothing,  sorting flow of a cold river running deep and true,
whispering me awake and shiny where my hope
got stained.

I wonder if our lives begin and end and are colored mostly in between
by what we think of him,  of her,  of this God who is both and only
and more real than earth and stars
and who is of all beings most misunderstood
because He’s a poet,  I think,  and our hearts are poetry-poor
and that kind of connection takes some time and a lot of relationship
and enough humility to ask a lot and listen even more

and this thing called trust
which may mostly elude me
except how I plop down childlike in the sandbox of my heart
and make castles and stories and orchards and art

but still I feel it,   that my little piles of sand
shaped by grubby hands
and offered up with clumsy grateful joy
are dear to heaven somehow
and there is Love enough and laughter,  too
to cover me and make enough
out of the little things my hands can do.

“Love once said to me
I know a song,
would you like to hear it?

And laughter came from every brick in the street
and from every pore in the sky,

After a night of prayer,  He changed my life
when He sang,
“Enjoy me.”  “

-Teresa of Avila

 

 

a bouquet to believe in….

It seems the world is smoldering
in pretty poisonous lies
and my soul droops a little weary,
heavy with all I can’t trust.
So I made a list of what I can
and it lit me up inside
and grew my peace to see
just how much I can wildly believe.

I believe in seeds and sanctuary,
hot baths and cool breeze,
in seasons and stories
and music and farming
and angels and acorns
and options and dreams.

In starshine and moonglow
and coffee and compost
and Christmastime magic
and moms and dads
and the reckless mercy of a loving God.

I believe in pruning and dancing
and vineyards and wine,
in fresh plenty grace,
even when it feels like I’m sucking it
through a tiny thin straw,
and in slowing down and losing the rush
(which seems to stretch the straw wide again)

I believe in real hope
– that it’s just about stronger than anything,
and that false hope is strong too,
but without the power to change.
I believe in desert
and in beauty
….that it isn’t the same as pretty.

I believe we’re born with our art inside us,
that we come alive as we let it out

and that resting is stronger than striving,
that clotheslines make life smell better
and that there is truth that  is brighter than day.

I believe in twinkle lights and naps
and rainy day rhythm,
in loving wildlife and killing mosquitoes
and that praise springs in vivid color and motion
from every growing thing,
whirling and twirling with wild affection
for a creator who is indescribably  good.

I believe in the smell of baby skin and  puppy breath,
fresh turned soil and pie in the oven,
that there is a peace that can override circumstances,
a love that never fails,
and that impossibles happen
often
and without fanfare.

And in you,  dear friend.
And that we’ll be okay and thrive
together
no matter whatever.

 

the music of me….



I want to believe in rest,
the kind that found me on the mountain
~ soft and supple
 and scary to step into
like fog on the ridge
that would surely give way
if I lay down
the heaviness of me.

Rest is so like trust that way.

 But I wanted rest.....needed it
 my molecules charged with rush,
jarred to attention,
 soul strings strung tight
and plucked hard,
plinking shrill,
too fast,
feeling broken down and hungry for rest
with no way to feed it.

~help~



And in that quiet breeze it came
as I sat on a stone
that had clung to mountainside
for longer than I'd known air,
sunning myself like a sleepy newt,

 I began to remember 
what I'd forgotten to love,
brave songs long quiet inside myself
and I began to hum

Rest me again till I’m mellow and peace
songs from my belly flowing  free
Strum  these heartstrings sweet and low
till they  play effortless the music of me.

“The question begs, do we appease those who would laugh at us,
or touch those who will remember our song
and help them to remember theirs?” -Brooke Meservy

Coming into canopy, again….

Crispy and cluttered and coming undone
I come,
crawling into the lap of love,
my “what if”s coaxed
into caring,  capable hands.

and I go calm as living breezes
croon over me soft
with kisses of courage
and nuzzles of comfort

-this love is clever enough,
doesn’t even need my strength,
just wants me,
my real,  true colors.

I go still
as soothing shelter coaches my soul
to cast off the cares,
toss the control,
and let it captivate me,
this clean cooling light
that cradles,
comforts
and companions.

Yeah,  I’m covered.
It’s all covered.

I wrote these words last July and posted them here then,  too.
Just needed them again….needed to tuck in beneath them
and let them work on the tight knots in my soul.

Always I thank you for coming around to let me share.
And what do you think of these paintings I’ve been playing with
for outdoor spaces?
I’m kind of over the moon about this happy experiment
….they do make the woods sing!