Confessional

hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple …

I’ll tell you a secret … I’ve been a little distracted lately.

Harried.

Fractured.

Busy.

(Which — I’ll tell you — is a very modern and grown-up kind of brokenness.)

But today, I went for a walk in the woods — something I haven’t done for months now. 

I disappeared into a hole in the trees — freckled dark shade and lush underbrush.  I felt alive and at peace, and when I came out, I walked home and rustled through the bookshelves until I found this little gem by Mr. Cummings (or cummings, if you like) … 

It’s a poem, but today I’m saying it like a prayer… For me and for you:

e.e. cummings

May we stay hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple, always. ❤  

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Thoughts in Progress

Quiet

A black-and-white photograph of a pale rose, the focus lightly blurred, the petals unfurling.

Come in, Love,
and shake the rain
from your shoulders.

Come —
let the storm lash
the panes of the windows,
the thunder rattle
the bones of the house.
Here we’ll make Quiet 
the way some people
make Love.

(I’ll tell you a secret:
Sometimes they’re one & the same.)

Let’s not talk of the world
outside the door —
the storm has snapped
the wires to this place,
and no outside voices
can reach us.

We will not eat at the table, 
but here on the floor,
the blanket smoothed out,
the glass bowl full of
petals and candlelight.

There’s a broken husk
of pomegranate.

Bread.

Wine.

The still air empty between us,
and the invitation 
to fill it.

Hush. ❤

 

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Book Talk

A little hope for your Monday morning …

I have a lot on my mind tonight. There are some big changes around the bend for me, and as I stand on the margins of them, it seems right to be quiet for a little while. 

To think, and let the empty space stretch out its limbs.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t have some light to share today. I’ve been perusing through my favorite Mary Oliver poems again, and this one, somehow, struck me as right for the moment.

Enjoy, friends. And happy Monday…

“The Fist,” from Mary Oliver’s collection, Thirst.

 
Today — I promise — is an invitation…

Again. ❤

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Confessional

this is what my subconscious sounds like …

 

Insomnia Diaries — 7/20/2014

  

if i should be
transformed

then oh — let the gods make me
a bird

to sing my secrets to the ear
unheard.

*

at night the bush below my window
burns —

the nest inside
catching like tinder.

one small bird leaps up,
alight, feathers on fire,

its body beating and beating
against my windowpane

its song one long scream
that tears through my sleep.

*

in the dream that comes later,
it breaks the glass —

(a fist)

(a torch)

and goes careening room to room,
setting the whole house

ablaze.

///

 

{A note on the text:  The excerpt above is part of a brief series on living with insomnia, and it’s taken from my personal Insomnia Diaries … a collection of post-midnight scribblings that help me understand what’s going on in my sleep-deprived brain.

This is darker than my usual fare, and — if I’m being honest — I hesitated to post it.  I am sharing, however, in the hopes that my words might help you understand the insomniac in your life just a little bit better.

And another thing: the subconscious can be a scary place, but it has much to teach us.

For that I’m grateful. ❤ }

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Almost Poetry

brave words for fearful people …

Go out into the world:

a rain-spattered window, with bare tree limbs beyond, rendered in black and white

Go!  Yes, you — though you are fearful and fragile and small.

Go broken-winged and bent-boned and beauty-starved… Lovesick.  Stardrunk. Skydizzy.

Or go sharp-eyed and sober, if that’s how it is — the hunger for the light a clenched fist in your stomach.  A hand, opening slowly in your chest like a flower.

If you are frightened, use it.

If you are desperate, use it.

Let the jitter and snap of your fear drive you scrambling up the cliff.  Grasp the sudden handle of the crescent moon, and haul and kick your way to the top.

Go!  Go by sea or land or air, or in the unfettered flight of your dreams.  Go alone, if you must.  Drag us with you, if you can.  

Just go.  And keep on going…

a pale blue and pink sunset sky, framed by bare tree limbs

Yes, you. ❤

 

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Thoughts in Progress

other tongues …

 

 

I have spent my life in the company of those who like to talk about words. Their power (so they say) mightier than the sword.

But words are just one language, and — hear me — there are others.  

Ones I am just now beginning to learn…

15winter4

*

 

In the last light, I go walking down the road to the woods.  

I shake the sun from my shoulders — watch it fall like glass prisms, shattering on the pavement.  

(The light is only multiplied in the breaking.)

So I stand there in the circle of winking shards … and look up.

Open my arms.

Turn slow.

This — trust me — is language.

smallthing5

*

Then, too, there is the language of flowers.

Frost.

Sea-spray.

Stars.

There is the language of the shutter, opening to sun.  The language of paint sliding slow against canvas.  The dancer’s body, turning in a slow circle.

The language of skin.

*

So.

*

Feel my hands now, pulling you against me.

Feel my head tucked under your chin, my breath against your neck, my fingertips at your lips in the gesture of hush

as we stand still — so still —

and the light rains down around us —

breaking…

 

*

*

*

breaking …

*

*

*

 

Oh, Love.  Put away your sword.  And just stand here with me, silent:

15winter2

… speaking. ❤

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