As a mom some of the most fun moments have been seeing a "coming of age" instant happen right before my eyes. Loosing the first tooth is a great example. It is almost tangible in the air - the transformation happening. These moments of awakening, newness and awe are such beautiful glimpses into the sacredness that surrounds us every day.
Jumping up and down delight swimming in all my bones Proud, excitement bringing me to age one dimension of “baby” falling out encouraged by the attention of my tongue wiggling back and forth on a mission Apart from me lying in my hand I examine it as if a piece of evidence Holding truth of what was what will never be again A goodbye, letting go but softened by the knowing a replacement waits to emerge and become proof of my new mature self With anticipation and giddiness I tuck it in the satin that below my dreams tonight will stay until whimsical wings fly in a whisper of fantasy and trade my naïve relic for a world of dreams A shiny, smooth sign of all that is to come All that will be.
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Have you ever had someone impact your life in unexpected ways? Shift your paradigm? Transform your narrative? I have. Here is my tribute to him. I miss you Billy O'Day.
Your hands worn, weathered, enormous They hung below your knees, back hunched and brow furled Your toothless scowl full of hostility and disregard That is what I saw That is who you were in the narration of my mind You didn’t speak Your indifference left the air empty But over time they wore you down Invitations to walk the woods in search of elusive swimming creatures Your pace was quick, not slowing for small talk or chatter You grunted a syllable or two at most These ventures deep into the woods They must have worn you down Wall of stone built One after another, lifted with determination and agony A wall built by a man, of individual stones So long, bold and solid This illuminated something in you that so few have This wall built from stone stacked on stone Something in you driving the endless structure to being Side by side Engine grease the only trace of touch Master engineer with hummed whistles and endless tune Summoning your assistance His presence smoothed your rough edges As the ocean relentlessly works against the sharpness of stone Honoring your presence and eagerness to please Gaining trust, deepening reassurances The breakthrough must have happened over time But it seemed to burst through like a full moon discovered as clouds pass through The light almost blinding It was always there but now could be seen You disclosed without intention The secret slipped past your lips You had created art You had something more We longed to see, we inquired, our eagerness was genuine It would be awhile before the unveiling It would be a dark, damp, brisk, unassuming evening You slide them out one by one You shared them with the gawkers Those enormous, weathered, beaten hands took brush to paint to paper Creating gentle masterpieces of creatures of beauty and serenity Bear, wolf, streams, fish The world you lived in and saw depicted so reverently You not only let us in on your creation You gifted them to us You bestowed on us those representations of all that is good You gave one to me You even let me pick the one that stirred my being Then after some time something moved in you again Your brave vulnerability struck You shared the agony and harsh reality Christmas mornings of reproach and intentional harm Gifts given only to the children who were not being fostered Sitting and tasting the unwanted-ness of your existence rubbed in your face This would harden even the bravest of hearts I wonder how many other stories are buried and not shared These stories could not write your narrative though The moon shone again You tinkered and carved and cut and stained Stretches of time spent building, crafting, perfecting A jewelry box A toy train Handmade, wooden outward signs of love Creations you would gift to children on those the darkest days of the year Sharing the love obstructed from your touch for so long Some days Your quick-tempered demeanor would still push through Your anger would rise and your intolerance would perk its nasty head The brutality of your life still left its mark That’s why that morning when you huffed in and threw your tantrum down on the kitchen floor like a dead rat I sighed and worked to ignore you What did I do this time, what did I forget, where did I offend you I have bread to bake and pans to wash I don’t have time for your frustrated rants You insist So I walk begrudgingly outside to appease the drama Up in the pasture you growl – it’s your fault you keep mumbling What? What possibly could I have done in the cow pasture to piss you off? We make our way It begins to dawn on me You crack a smile I am on to you A baby The calf is moments old You glow You glow brighter than any moon, stronger than the sun itself These creatures you fed, watered, cared for are bringing forth new life We gaze and gawk and gape and gawp and all those things Then perhaps the most profound moment happens You announce that it is boy – a boy calf And its name is…! A namesake Your pride and joy – my namesake Perhaps there is no greater compliment that I have yet to receive in this lifetime We are told to never judge a book by its cover We know that since we are small children Your cover is harsh, beaten, gruff, defensive and angry But one of the greatest gifts of my life is that you allowed me to open the cover You shared pages of trust, beauty, silliness, vulnerability, generosity, joy and depth Your chapters were meaningful and real I learned more from your story than any book I have ever read I gained more from you than any course I ever took My humanity was affirmed more from you than any homily I have ever heard Remembering times when all would gathering around Circles of sharing and song That sacred space in a two storied hallowed place Barn transformed into holy ground Adorn with simplicity and reverent moments of just being This space you did not enter Your distance kept you in solitude two twisted flights beneath I wonder Were you sitting in your own sanctuary? In your own sacred space Did you sit below and allow the grace to float down the stairwell To dance around your ears and invade your heart Perhaps Or perhaps not Time has humbled me and I understand it differently Since you are gone, I see it more clearly As you sat in solitude and silence Streams of truth rose to hold us up To enliven our spirits with depth and truth You were the grounding force that made our song and petitions real Your humanity sat as profound and raw holiness Gratitude dances forth You entrusted part of your sacred story for us to carry on Held with care – etched on our souls Woven into our beings and altering our narratives Shaping our truths in ways that refuse to underestimate the strength in vulnerability the gentleness hidden under abrasive textures the beauty concealed in starkness the paradox unwoven into a life with impact as bold as river currents A current of raging river water inhabited by creatures Creatures painted on your canvas Paintings written on our hearts The first time I flew on an airplane after being a mom I experienced something new. I was flying on a business trip so I was not with my family. I had the internal chatter going on in my head that I normally have when waiting for the plane to takeoff. There is something about the experience of entering into the sky in a big metal machine that always makes me pause and take stock of my life and its mortality. I know, I know...the odds of being killed in a plane crash are probably utterly less probable then driving in a car - a mundane daily hazard I embark on daily. But you can't tell my mind that. It triggers something in me - every time - when I sit back in that little seat and buckle my seatbelt and listen to the flight attendant rattle off their spiel, and feel the air from the vent above...every time, without fail - I think about my mortality. But not this time, this time I was a mom and it wasn't about me. I wasn't scared or nervous for my life, rather I was filled with this deep, utterly bottomless and overwhelming feeling -- what if I died and left my daughter motherless?! I panicked. Have I shown her enough love to last her lifetime without me? The thought of leaving her without a mom left me short of breathe and extremely sad. I thought about how my mission now moving forward was going to be sure to always share enough love with her that it could last her a lifetime. I had this other aha moment too...all those mothers. grandmothers, great-grandmothers....all those women before me...they had all loved their children in this deep way that seems eternal...but go a couple generations back and they are all gone. They are no longer here with us. I can't even name them much further back then three generations. This led me to think about the generations ahead of me.....my children's great-great-great....grandchildren. Am I responsible for sharing enough love to sustain through all these future generations? When they won't even know my name or think about my existence. Nothing like laying on the mom guilt, huh? As if we are not held responsible for enough as moms. But in many ways it provided me hope and assurance because it filled me with a deep sense of connection to my ancestors and descendants. All at once they all felt connected - those that were and those who are to come. I felt so shallow for not acknowledging this before. I daydreamed about all the moms and grandmothers before me who still stir in me and are part of my essence. I tried to honor them all through this poem...
If my love is so strong and would last long beyond my days here with you then perhaps you – my great, great, great grandma – perhaps your love still bursts in me how could it not? moving forward it is so clear Powerful, true. So, behind – more clear now I see perhaps why I find strength, purpose, being Thank you, I bow to you – you I did not know You who is me And I didn’t even know How could I not have stopped before now to say I acknowledge I am grateful Thanksgiving. Wonder. My hope – some day my great, great, great granddaughter will stop and pause and feel love. Love I share I pass on When my daughter was seven we began the journey. Seven Leaves is a book we are coauthoring. Our goal was to complete it before she was no longer seven...she is eagerly awaiting her 1/2 birthday in a few weeks...she is half way to 10! That puts us three years behind plan. Three years may not be that long for someone who has walked the earth as long as I....but for my daughter it is a significant amount of her lifetime. It is ok. It will happen. We both believe it will come - someday but until then I thought I would share a taste of it here.
If you have kids - seven year old kids perhaps - but we aren't picky - we would love it if you read it to them and then got their feedback. Ask them if they would want to know more or are they totally uninterested. It will be our totally unofficial focus group. We would love to hear the feedback! I am new to this blogging thing so I am sure I am breaking all the rules by doing this...but hey, oh well. I am feeling like putting this out to the universe, on this medium, at this moment - so here it goes...universe... Chapter One – Handstands in the Leaves The leaves make patterns of color more beautiful than my favorite dress-up clothes. The wind is chilly and tastes like a cold smoothie my mom makes. The sun is going down early and bed-time seems to sneak up earlier and earlier each night. I anticipate the next holiday as it approaches – Halloween! I plan to be a vampire this year. I already got my cape and white gloves - they aren’t really gloves because they do not cover my fingers. I love them though – they are perfect for my costume! I still need to find the rest of my costume from materials from around the house because my mom says we already spent too much money on the cape and gloves. I enjoy making up outfits so it will be easy for me to come up with something that is both fancy and scary. That is the look I am going for this year “fancy-scary”. My brother is going to be Tigger again this year – I think this will be the third time he has been Tigger – and that is a lot because he has only been alive for four years. He doesn’t care. He is just excited he can use face paint to draw on his whiskers. I, on the other hand, plan to paint on a spider and an intricate web on my face. I was in a play this summer - it was Charlotte’s Web and the spider was my favorite character. She wore a black glittery costume with gems and black designs painted on her face. I wish I could have been her! My brother and I were goslings so we had to honk and yawn when the story talked about us being tired. I could have had more lines but my mom signed us up late and we missed a lot practices because we had so many weddings to go to this summer. So we were goslings. I really did like the spider costume the best. I woke up this morning extra early to the smell of pancakes, my favorite breakfast – my dad makes the best pancakes. He makes the edges extra crispy just the way I like them. I smell something else though – what could it be? I run out to the kitchen “Bacon!” I screech. “Daddy, daddy, daddy – thank you!” I know it is going to be an extra special day – it is Saturday so that means it is “family day” and bacon on “family day” is a sure sign that it is going to be a good day! Tyler and daddy are going to Tyler’s soccer game. My brother loves soccer. He always says, “I play good defense and offense.” I like playing soccer too but I do not like watching it. I bring my books and toys so I don’t get bored just sitting there. My mom and dad refuse to read with me or play with me during the games because they like to watch Tyler score and stop the ball. So, I usually bring a blanket to sit on and play with my dolls or read. “Would you like to come to the game with me or stay home with your mom while she finishes painting trim for the…” my dad cannot complete his sentence before I scream aloud, “Stay home!” Tyler walks into the kitchen still sort of sleeping. He must have smelled the pancakes and bacon too. With excitement, I announce, “Tyler we have bacon for breakfast – bacon!” Tyler smiles and climbs up into the chair at the kitchen table. He still has his blankie. It looks like he wants to still suck his finger but he resists. “It’s a soccer day!” dad says to Tyler in an excited voice. Tyler smiles. My dad gives us our pancakes and bacon and pours me orange juice and Tyler grape juice mixed with water. We eat and eat and eat until our tummies are too full to eat another bite. “Thank you for the table,” Tyler says as he hops down from the table and then smiles. He knows he is funny. My mom taught him that you either have to thank the person who cooked the meal or say “excuse me from the table” when you are done eating. Tyler said “thank you for the table” one time and we all laughed and laughed. Now he always says it. He likes to make people laugh. Tyler and dad leave to go to the soccer game and I run into my room to change out of my pajamas. I look up into my closet and try to decide what to wear. I sort of feel like wearing my flowing black pants and turquoise and white tank top but then my bright pink sun dress catches my eye. I pull on it and it comes loose from the hanger. I put it on and grab my cloth bag full of dolls and line them up on the floor and begin to play. My mom peeks in at me once in a while. The third time my mom peeks into my room she asks, “Do you want to come outside with me while I paint the trim boards for the bathroom?” “No thanks,” I say and keep playing. After a while my mom comes back inside and asks again, “Do you want to come out and pick oak leaves with me to press to make cards?” I throw down my dolls and jump up. Now that sounds like fun. I love doing art projects with my mom. We head outside. “Grab a sweater it is a little chilly out,” my mom insists. I pick my black, button down sweater that has ruffles on the sleeves. We pick the leaves that are perfect, the ones that have bright colors – orange, red and yellow. My favorites are the leaves that have all three colors together. I gather them in my hands until they start to spill out. When I cannot possibly grab one more leaf I make a pouch with the bottom of my sweater – folding it up, tucking all my leaves into my pouch. This allows me to collect many more leaves to add to our collection. I think about all the different things I can make with the leaves and get excited. “Here let me take those from you and I will bring them into the house,” my mom offers knowing that my sweater pouch is about to overflow. My mom takes my leaves carefully, making sure not to crush any of them. She makes her own sweater pouch to carry them in. She turns to walk back up to the house. “Are you coming?” she asks. “No, I am going to stay outside and play,” I yell out. “Ok, I am going to start lunch and do some cleaning so come inside if you need anything,” she says over her shoulder as she approaches the house. I practice my handstands a few times and then on the fourth try I feel my body almost going all the way over and I get a little nervous and decide to do something else. My mom is inside by now and I look around and become aware that I am outside all by myself. This does not happen often. Usually my mom or dad or brother is out playing with me. I twirl full circle looking at the oak tree that we just picked leaves off of. I look at the play house. I look at our house. I look at the bluebird houses, the garden and the shed. I hear the creek moving in the distance beyond the trees. I keep twirling and this time faster, so now I can’t really see anything clearly. I just see color…red, yellow, orange, green in the trees, blue in the sky, white…lots of white. I twirl a little faster and then I see just one color. It does not really look like a color I am familiar with – it is as if I poured all my paints onto a huge canvas and they all danced together in swirls and rhyme. Then plop, I land on the grass and am cushioned by some leaves that have already fallen to the ground. I look up and see the clouds and trees above me spinning. I like it. It feels fun, like how my belly feels when I go down the “big-kid” rides at the state fair. Then it fades and it is just me, the grass, the sky and a blackbird crowing in the distance. I roll onto my tummy and place my head on my hands. I take a deep breath as if to drink up the moment – it tastes good. Then out of the corner of my eye I notice something. I am not really sure what it is, I have never noticed it before. It is like a door but it is not part of any building and it isn’t like normal doors that have handles or knobs. It just looks like it would be a door if it were something. I stand up. I walk closer and it invites me in. Not the way my friends invite me to their birthdays with a cute glittery invitation but somehow it invites me in. I don’t go in. I stand in front of it quietly. I feel my heart beep…that is what I call my heartbeat. I used to say heart beep when I was little and it is fun to say, since it makes more sense than heartbeat anyways. I hear my heart. Chapter Two - The Whispering Door -----ok time to run those focus groups and send feedback...do you want to read Chapter two?!?!----- Or you can write your own Chapter Two...that would be neat too...We would love to read it if you do! Burgundy Smile - this is a poem from the past. It was a bitter cold night, during the darkest days of the year. We gathered together as a family celebrating the sacredness of the season. We had all stuffed our bellies and were gathered around in circles of sharing. The circle I happened to plop down in engaged in a dialogue and sharing that chilled me to the bone and at the same time burned hope in my most central being. Outside youthful spirits played in frozenness and shrieked with delight. The absurd dichotomy of the two truths side by side shook something deep in my soul.
Perhaps you have had an exchange like that during this season of bitter cold and darkness? Perhaps the sunless, black days that surround you has evoked a vulnerability that spills out a depth within you that you had never met before? I wrote these words in response to my encounter this dark night because I had no choice. It gushed out of me like the air being released from an untied balloon - I had no control and the words spiraled out ferociously and left me a deflated balloon resting gently on the ground. Here it is... Burgundy Smile Burgundy shrouding yellowish white enamel Seen only when the story is funny or evokes a smile Proof of deep living in the moment Shared and only seen by others surrounding you Comfort that there are others – the same Stories shared – some years sad, some years strong Some surrounding one in extra pain Some highlighting our communal journey New players in and out Hard to believe one would want to enter in But wouldn’t want it any other way The depth shallow tides Meaningful spaces lackluster gasps for air Sledding down the hill – all night, first night 1000 times of thrill grasping to the handles Take flight feel liberated Set free no cares Bliss. Inside stories of harsh, brutal truth Connecting dots to find mystery within - to make sense Darkness bold words cut open Within wounds lightness, depth and warmth These two worlds side by side Experience hill, snow, frigid air Relive the story, tangled web. If we did this more often perhaps we would collapse not enough energy, stamina, strength But once a year the painting of our gums a dark and bold burgundy and a tearing open of our souls – Oh, yes once a year this helps me to cleanse, to ground and take flight once more. You smile – I smile. We find ourselves looking at the burgundy on each other’s gums deep down in each other’s souls And we can’t help but smile. |
AuthorSome times I write. Even less than "some" times I share what I write. For those moments that I write and want to share I have done so here. Archives
December 2017
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