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

Monday, July 30, 2012

Loving the Wind

you blow in.
open wide our curtains
and let the sun spill dancing across the floor.

your force pushes my hair back,
makes my breath catch
for all that living held within.

even the trees bend to hear your tales
and shake their leaves in
disbelief and laughter.

you make the clouds run
high above us, constantly
shifting these shaping dreams.

you blow out.

gathering the corners of the world to you
while I wait. afraid if I move you won't find me.
afraid more still that the open plains you now run will erase me from your heart.

At last after the wane of many lonely moons,
a soft caress sweeps over my down-turned cheek,
the hem of my skirt shifts slightly with the changing weather.

you return.
wrapping yourself around me, my bones stiff from the absence.
I breath deep the whispers of all the places you've been still buried deep in your skin.

and I smile.
delighted to feel you, however fleeting,
surround me again.

read to be read at{linking with Jen, dversepoets}

Thursday, July 26, 2012


 My friend Kimberly asked me to share over at her place where I found Holy Ground.  It is a link-up, so we'd love for you to share your most sacred of places as well...Join us there?

Then the lovely Sarah Bessey asked the question what is saving us, right now? and I knew these moments, sacred in their simplicity, holy in the ordinary, are what save me.

also? Just write what a beautiful direction..

 Our 15 hour car ride brought us through the Cumberland Gap, weaving slowly up the ribboned roads of the Appalachian mountains to my father-in-law's house, perched eye level with the treetops.  We unpacked our cramped limbs from our seats and promptly found our way to our beds just before the sun broke the horizon.

With the promise of seven days of uninterrupted time as a family we meandered through our routines – no clocks to adhere to, places to be, and only the lake welcoming us at the edge of the dock. 

I felt myself exhale, let go of the constant pull of forward driving days and thoughts to let myself sink into the beauty of time allowed to be still. And as is the power of staying present, my eyes began to see all of the holy pooling at my feet.

Holy came in paper bowls, bed-heads and the passing of cereal boxes over top of the boy so excited for the day that he was already wearing his snorkel gear so when an adult made the nod of the affirmative, he could race down that hill and be the first in. 

Holy splashed between us every lazy afternoon, burning hot across the crowns of our heads as our arms and backs crinkled sun-dried lake upon our skin. It came masked in sandwiches whose crusts, discarded by the four year old nibbler, became fish food and cause of delight. 

It settled slowly on boat rides and sunsets across the open water.

I watched as holy was exploded by men, whose love language is different then mine, painted multicolored love across the sky. It sat brilliant in the reflection of the fireworks and pride dancing on my children’s upturned faces. 

It circled around a solitary lamp each night, three generations slapping cards on the table. Voices rising in fake protest or the sweetest of victories, sharing hands and our stories while the stars winked their silent approval.

I found it tucked up tight next to my children in the bunk-beds their daddy used to call his own. Contentment tangled at their feet in the piles of old Pound Puppy and Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtle sheets. 

Holy was there at 3 am, eight hours after the storm rolled through, taking the power with it – leaving in its wake an uncomfortable four year old girl, stripped down to only her princess undies trying to stay cool. Even in the close to 100 degree stagnant heat, when she needs comfort, she still seeks my arms in the dark and presses my forehead to hers to find the rhythm of sleep.

When the morning came for us to leave our summit, I breathed in deep, letting the glory of those moments spent in quiet living tuck up deep into my bones. I let my head rest back against the seat as our car hugged the bending roads back down the mountain; 
 and I smiled at the miles ahead.


Monday, July 16, 2012

Starting Out For Home

I wonder out loud if cardiac arrest is common for 20 year old females.

I am fairly certain the sharp stabs of pain I feel
are shards of my broken ribcage, cracked open by this wildly beating heart.

I’d ask my sister-in-law, a nurse, but she’s already gone ahead with the others.

There are only two of us now waiting-
My father, collecting his thoughts, swallowing down rising emotions;
and me, practically tripping over this threshold of my past meets future.

I look into the face of the man that raised me.
Who called me Sunshine upon every waking, who pushed me to grow through every fear.
All that he means to me, all of the love and respect for him that I carry,
the uprooting of self and home I feel in these last moments of wearing his name;
sit heavy on my tongue, waiting to be declared.

“I think I might puke” is what tumbles out into the summer air.

He chuckles as he lifts the veil over my eyes that dart back and forth across his face, frantic for reassurance;
“This is good.” He says, his own eyes swimming in the depths of the moment.

He slips my arm through his as the soft wind blows the acoustic cords of “Tara’s Theme” over the tree line.

Gently leading me until the grass, cupping my bare feet, feels more solid and my steps, now sure, match his stride.

I find the smiling faces of the friends who witnessed the quiet bloom of this relationship,
the family who have loved me long before I could form my own name. 
I squeezed my eyes tight, just for a moment, overcome with the amount of love gathered here;
reminding myself to keep this moment tucked deep inside.

My reopened gaze falls on his face.
Each of our breath catches somewhere between the intake and expelling
until I feel the smile creep slowly across my face that mirrors his own.

Through the ceremony the birds echo the benediction given by the father-of-the-bride turned preacher.
Each trilled note, sway of breeze, fly buzz past was a reminder
that we belonged to the order of all creation,
and that our promises spoken in the alcove of poplars and pines would sustain us
as the years hurried past.

Beside me was the person with whom I had navigated so much of my adolescent doubt.
The voice that through phone lines sang me to sleep nights when I felt each of the 3,000 miles separating me from home.
The man whom when the doctor told me during my life-threatening hospitalization that he may not be able to save my leg; 
 would consider me no less beautiful, perhaps even more so for the fight I had shown.

With that kiss, pronouncing us husband and wife,
I knew I had found my way back home.