What we don't realize is that you can have a life-changing encounter, travel to a place that causes a shift in your heart, can meet someone who changes you, you can go, do, read, see, watch, something, anything, that makes it just a little harder to breathe. And you think, yes! Here I go, from now on, life will be different. But the thing is, that experience isn't full-grown, it's just the seed. It's the beginning, not the road itself. That's the map that you use as a roadmark, not the trail you'll walk. And it's up to you to decide to continue or retreat into routine and wonder why things didn't change. Too often we go through something revolutionary, good or bad, and then slip back into the normalcy of our day to day lives instead of choosing to do the hard work and tend to that seed. Then we finally take a step back and start asking ourselves why our life doesn't line up with our vision. How could that moment — the experience that mattered so intensely — seem not to have changed anything at all? That's the thing. You can have as many seeds but until you plant them, until you continually water them, until you die to self, choose to go through the process of growing...it's going to be a seed. What matters is what you do with it.
coffee wood mornings where the air smelled like smoke.
when you woke up, if you looked out the windows and stared past the trees, you could see the lake.
cold like swallows of ice water. metal cups in your hand.
late when we arrived, late when we left.
dancing fast in a filled music hall with strangers we'd never see again. my feet were tangled trying to hoedown.
an hour in the woods does a soul good.
small places like home nearer than before.
let's go back.
photo of me by kiley canon eos 3, kodak portra 800
I just need space to be sad,
lonely whispers into the gray rimmed room.
she turns her face to the window
that is not there and closes her eyes
to the tree that is not there and
touches the ground that is not there
and weeps. in her mind, it is summer.
in her mind, it only rains when
tight-lipped white-lipped women
sleep. water keeps company with moon,
dulling the pounding of rain on roof.
she breathes synonymous with the tide to the
ocean that is not there. and sleeps.
in her mind, there are seagulls.
when she wakes, there is a door.
this time of year, my thoughts shake and scatter. i muse and mull and look for meaning in every nuance.
i play piano again, pick up poetry, write messy words from wondering thoughts.
then there are late nights, piled up deadlines, cups of coffee . . . tangled like string. knit me a reminder saying, season by season, for such a time as this.
i need rest. a place, the space, to breathe. just be filled. i don't know what it will look like. i know what it will hold.
slowness. resting. being honest with myself and others. simplifying.
stretching and breathing through everything.
it's been a tough season. not leaves falling, pumpkins and orchards, hot apple cider season.
but this here and now place, these weeks winding around and around into months.
i've been living with so many layers. going through the whole gamut of emotions.
this is what i want
depth and richness
not shallowness and instant gratification -- fleeting
i want lasting
and there are cadences to that
bittersweetness rolling around on your tongue.
sorrow ringing and laughter singing and gratitude stretching through your soul, morning by morning.
i want the pauses that come between heartbreak and joy.
i want the evenings of weeping.
i want the afternoons of growing.
i want the hard days of planting, the long years of process and practice and belief.
i want to sow hope deep in my soul for the white walled years like winter winds.
i need the habit. the hours of work and wrestling. discipline.
to find myself remembering seeds grow unnoticed, at first.
walking barefoot in the fall with the smell of earth heavy, turning, changing.
i want to see that picture as a poem for my life.
able to see mundane as meaningful. turn routine into ritual. live wide eyed.
notice and laugh. notice and weep.
notice and work. notice and rest.
notice and make. notice and sing.
turning each sweeping breath into a prayer of thank you, thank you, thank you.
until there is no longer a hollow ache, a knotted lump, a tightness. but openness, depth, rest.
you, of breath and sky, I call soar.
cradle the swallow of air in your lungs.
weave your song into ribbons you leave
marking presence. your wings tipped with
whispers someone will one day softly drop
in your ears. these steps and stones, bare bones
are a soft place to land. settle. here is
where you will find flight, gather foundation.
dusk deepens, do not be afraid of night. there
is a time for rest, in wild violet twilight where trees
grow tall from wondering. morning breaks soon
enough, still your beating, still. your eyes leave
petals in the dawn of the world. at length, the sun stretches.
take your flightless arms and reach. this is when you
take heart to sky and find home beating inside you,
light like stars. this is a song you alone sing.