Instead of Lamenting

How does it feel to shift your thinking from aging to transformation? 

I feel like it's going to take some getting used to.

When I notice the incredible diversity and exquisite, raw beauty 

of decaying logs and stumps, it becomes somewhat easier...

especially when there is new life growing from decaying wood.

Aging calls for its own kind of grace.

A seesaw between accepting the creaks and groans and relinquishing to them;

and refusing to let them rule your days...moving anyway, staying young hearted.

Not giving in to the age old (no pun intended) story

that we diminish as we age.  Rather, making our story 

one of transformation into something vibrant, fertile and lively.

 

 

I Hope You Make The Time

 Let the "soft wind knock you over and destroy

all the partts of you that you never really needed anyway."

Considering the parts of me I never really needed anyway

is a fertile place for contemplation.

I don't know about you but my focus is getting things right,

doing the best I can, lamenting my forgetfulness, and wishing my body

would cooperate with all the physical things that need doing...

not to mention practicing the inner qualities I desire, 

such as patience, kindness, generosity, and good will toward all.

I dare say, the longer the length of your stay on earth

the more likely circumstances knock you over and destroy parts

you may not need, making this message pertinent and comforting.

"It's okay to not be strong sometimes."

May we give ourselves and each other the grace

to release the requirement to 

cover every base and scale every mountain...

to ugly weep in public without embarrassment...

to express sorrow without being labeled "debbie downer"...

to rage at injustice...

to laugh when things are somber...

to be flawed to perfection.

PS: I struggled with adding, to respect those who disagree with us...

I  wrote it several different ways and erased it each time.

I don't have the strength in this moment to say it with conviction.

This makes me sad from the inside out.

That being said, I still think its something worth pursuing...

even if it means scaling a very steep mountain to get there.

After Grief

 "having sensed the barest hint of sun still buried

like a bulb beneath the horizon, and decided

that's all the proof it needs to say its own

small yes to life in this new season."

This...these words describe how it 

feels to be alive in this vast universe...

yes, minuscule as we may feel,

we can sense the barest hint of sun

and murmur our own small yes to life...

Each one of us is doing this in our own unique manner.

Eeking our way through our days with

everything in us as fuel toward the sun of goodness...

We know who we are and who we wish to become.

We will not be deterred from our goal.

We're in this together.

We are not alone.

Like the crocus,

in our reach toward the sun...

we find ourselves in a field of blooming.  

Hope

There is a catch in my breath every time I read this.

It describes how hope feels these days...

dense and dark and sorrowful

and utterly beautiful.

"It lands in my body with all the fragile gravity

of mist suspended in light."

This description is so precise it steals my breath

and steels my resolve to cherish it 

beyond every ounce of strength I possess.

Yes, hope is the thing I'll follow 

in the darkest times, a living root I'll cling to

as it tenderly threads through the rich soil of my sorrows."

Oh my heart...a living root as it tenderly threads through

the rich soil of my sorrows.  

Everything inside me sighs in recognition of this truth.

It touches the sorrows I hide from and lets them breathe.

It reminds me how this "living root" also threads tenderly

through the rich soil of my drudges and my delights...

If I concentrate, I can almost detect its slow, steady winding...

circling and spiraling...

 grounding and centering me in the mist of hope.

 

 

Wage Kindness

"Wage your sorrows as blankets for the shivering.

The thought that my sorrow could be useful to another

is something I have not considered. I would like it to be true.

This lets sorrow have its full range,  even though it seems a stretch 

to actually end one's shivering.

"Wage your despair [to] feed the fire of hope."

Yes, feeding the fire of hope.

My despair is plentiful and ready to blaze.

"Build bridges for the repentants, for the returning.

Yes, even them. Wage an open hand in forgiveness."

These are the lines that propel me to share this poem.

I confess to a certain amount of cynicism given

our history in this country.  May our forgiveness

bring about truth and fairness.

May it not feed a fire of revenge.

Wage yourself against the evidence of dying,

and give life to another."

We are all in the process of dying...

bringing joy and gratitude

into the gravest of situations

is resistance of the bravest kind.

It is everything.

 

Lives In My Chest

I don't know about you but this "messy, howling creature"

has been acting this way for quite some time now.  

I'm not sure it's necessary to calm her down...

better to give her a magic carpet and a map to places 

that need to hear her roar.

Perhaps lend her a band with trumpets playing reveille

to gather goodness into one giant song 

weaving us into one boisterous chorus,

with speakers reaching every heart...

to reconnect us and put an end to indecency, 

 so we remember the forgotten,

 rebuild and strengthen fairness...

applying it generously...leaving no one out.

 Return honest justice to our lands and people.

Then we can begin repairing what's been broken...

 healing what is ailing...

 reconnecting neighbors...  mending divisions...

 honoring lost lives...  comforting those hurting...

letting teachers teach... evening the playing field...

ripening what is unripe in ourselves and our world.

Let's welcome this "messy, howling creature".

We need her.

We need us.

 

Sing From Your Soul

". . .over every holy place of death

 in your story."

This quote touches 

a very tender place for me.

There have been deaths 

in holy places in my story, 

so excruciating I can no longer resurrect them,

 leaving blank places where I long 

to hold vivid, precious, memories.

"Serenade the dry, cracked pieces..."

My serenade is

 the opposite of musical...

it's a circling around, 

focusing my mind

on what shards of memory are there...

and peering through the haze 

hoping my body will help

 my mind recall the treasures 

of when my girls were small.

The wonder of it is this...

the wild beauty exists 

in their presence today...

and that's what matters most...

for which I’m infinitely grateful.