"We're all just walking each other home." - - Ram Dass

Monday, June 25, 2012

And For Tonight

i take my heels off before my key turns the lock
easing the door open to ensure a quiet entry
into a house shrouded in slumber.

tonight, i was the part of me
that knew life before diaper changes
didn't carry a pair of spiderman undies stashed in her purse, "just in case"
whose stomach didn't bear the stripes of growth verses skin.

i pinned my hair up
put my makeup on
and quite literally danced out the door.

i laughed. too loud.
i talked. too much.
i felt the pressing of responsibility upon my shoulders
lift under the shoring of friendship.

yet now, in the dark, i re-enter.
without a light on or a face seen
i am aware of the presence of the lives i hold most dear.

i feel the electric current
of my life being pulled to theirs
of belonging, together.

i push back hair cascading over
dream dampened foreheads,
replace covers kicked off
by growing limbs.

and take the hairpins out, one by one
while the house pops, creaks, expands
to contain the weight of our love.

i peel off the layers of clothes
that smell of the stale and fleeting life outside
letting them pool around my feet as
i, emerge.

i am
both the girl inside and the woman i will become.

i belong
to grandeur and to servitude.

i speak
in wild laughter and whispered fairy-tales.

i expand
to contain the world and lives entrusted to me.

my current self
slides between the well worn cotton sheets
nubbed with the nights spent. secure.
and pull the covers of contentment around me.

i rest my head
ears lulled by the sound of life's forward momentum just outside my window.

my breathing slows
as my sleeping rhythm finds theirs.

and for tonight,
i am enough.

{linked with Jen, Just Write, dversepoets, Imperfect Prose} read to be read at

Sunday, June 17, 2012

This Life His Hands Have Built

I felt it fitting to pull this one from my archives for today, dusting it off and adding a little too. 

This man I've married? He loves differently than I do.  His love smells of wood shavings, of hard work. It is found in the quiet spaces of your heart. 

While I find tiny scraps of paper to write my love to my children, he creates a control panel box for fireworks. 

He, will light the sky on fire with his love.  He will stay at a table well into the night, silently stripping wires, drilling holes, muttering things about currents that i will never understand -

just so that he can watch his love explode and dance on our children's upturned faces.

This man. This father. Takes my hand in those moments, and without a single word spoken, through his touch I know our hearts are speaking. I am home. 

While we install hardwood floors this week at our house, I am reminded how unbelievably lucky I am to have Jason with me in this life.

As I watch (because, let’s face it, I’m useless in this regard) him work steadily, I love this floor not just because it is a massive improvement to the ratty carpet we are replacing, but because I see each board as another line in a love letter to me…every row measured and cut a new stanza, every bead of sweat dropped, life poured into my own.

This gets me thinking of all the love notes left for me all over my home:

The screen door he has to reset every time the kids and I try to use it…
the sandbox built of cedar…
the spackled walls of a bathroom I was ballsy enough to think I could handle on my own (I couldn’t)….
the train table in O’s room,
the built-in closet in A’s….
the camper he drove to get and stocked with groceries for a trip he wasn’t taking…
the kitchen ceiling, counters, cabinets…..

His hands crafted this sense of home for me.

Every mismatched outfit the kids land in for the day
Every birthday cake, steak, pie, kabob, salad he makes just the way I like them
Every car tune-up, oil change, breakpad
Every day spent at a job less than ideal
Every Christmas present assembled Christmas Eve by the light of the tree
Every 50 pound box of books he moves for me…again, annnnd again
Every “airplane” ride he tirelessly lifts the kids in the air
Every tear I've cried as he holds me in our bed

These hands shaped me into a wife, a mother, a friend.

These hands enclosed around mine as I brought forth two new lives
These hands that find mine while we're snuggled on the couch for movie night
These hands that absent mindedly run over my wedding ring, tracing the circle of our love
These hands that scoop up sleeping limbs and dreams and place them safely in their beds at night

His hands built this life for me…

{linking with SDG , Just Write, Imperfect Prose }
read to be read at here's the scoop. we link up on Monday and Tuesday, and voting for your 5 favorites starts on Thursday.  read, enjoy, come on back and vote.

Monday, June 4, 2012

pocket of sorrow, six feet deep

it rained.

i unpacked them from the car
all of us hesitant, unsure how to begin
how to act out here, in the rows marked with grief.

it was their first time standing at the foot of the deceased.
it was my first time bringing them into a part
of me that wasn't strong and all knowing.

i have told them about him.
how he grew me in his quiet love,
how the glass-top lake seemed to sparkle when he smiled.

i have placed their feet in the soil of my youth.
i have filled their lungs with the same country air.
and i have sung them to sleep under that Northern sky.

yet, for six years i had kept this place closed.
this place of heartbreak.
i had traveled alone, stood by his sleeping head and whispered my words to him as the raven called my grief from somewhere above me.

i brought to him now my new birth, signs of the life that continued without him.
Ava's pink raincoat appeared garish against the muted green.
their youthful breaths seemed indulgent among those that have none.

i swallowed against the anger that his arms were right below us
yet he could not fold them around these babies,
he could not hold me the way he used to that reminded me i was home.

angst as their warm new flesh traced his name on the cool hard stone.

they watched me, unsure -

as my eyes flashed
jaws clenched
until at last i gave way to the well of tears.

and in the holy reverence of childhood,
they did not retreat.
they stayed right there in the moment with me

as a window into their mama's soul was reveled to them:

in my heart, lies a pocket of sorrow, six feet deep.

i knelt down and pressed them to me
allowing their warmth to find the spaces grown cold,
never so fully aware of just the thin strip of earth that separated my childhood and my motherhood.

around us the rain made
soft pools in the dirt that i had watched
cover him with darkness all those years ago.

i felt their strength flagging me on each side
the divinity of their pure love poured out for those they had never met
slowly healing the red of the fresh raw.

i stood and faced the tree line, hands finding mine in the organic rhythm of mother and child.

today, i knew this ground not only cradled my past in its belly,
it had allowed for love to grow us here.

and to this cycle we will always remain -

part of this ever turning of soil,
this risky business of bringing to the surface both death and new life.

{linking with SDG , Just Write , imperfect prose, TOYS}
 read to be read at