We gather to eat our meal
Six-year-old hands do all they can to refrain from digging in Impatient wiggles in chairs as slow-moving parents bring last morsels to the table Finally we all take our place Hands linked Brother and sister holding too tight on purpose Mother and father reaching out gently and firmly The tradition is engrained All know the drill Proclamations of gratitude are spit out No need to take turns All that is shared peppers the room with insight into the gratitude within Thank-you’s for sunshine and salt shakers and family and puppies Sometimes someone even remembers a thank-you for the food, the sustenance that brings these hands all together Then one sardonic, quick-witted soul states in exasperation “Thank you for everything and everyone, AMEN.” Can it be over already the son pleads through his prayer I am done with this Enough already Everyone giggles at the finality this brings to the evening’s moment of gratitude Eating ensues until all are satiated Unaware at how pivotal this prayer will be At meals to come all thoughtful proclamations of gratitude are cut off Disrupted by the youngest one’s need to move forward The magic phrase that halts all other inspired words “Thank you for everything and everyone, AMEN.” Done. Silence. Emptiness. It doesn’t sit right It is a manipulative way to keep from deep gratitude Mother and father shift their weight Battles to deepen and expand this ritual seem hopeless The words feel like face slaps of insincerity Until One evening, beaten down by the hectic dance of the day We gather to eat our meal Tired hands can barely hold on tight enough Elbows sit on the table holding up exhausted beings Silence for a moment Then a sincere, steady, sweet voice says “Thank you for everything and everyone…” More silence. Hands are clasped a bit tighter as if to freeze this moment in eternity It is complete It is enough There is no need for more The simple inclusivity embraces us all It wraps the angry politicians into our space It encircles the bruised oceans It remembers the lonely prisoner It celebrates the bountiful love shared It honors the ancestors from long ago and of recent past It calls to mind the neighbor battling cancer It leaves no one and nothing out Our hearts expand in gratitude Our simple prayer draws all in and holds it for a moment Just long enough to settle in our souls Only the heart of a six-year-old could be large enough to create space for gratitude this evening that includes everything and everyone And for that, I am grateful.
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You do not wait
When you are ready there is no stalling No holding you back from becoming perfect Your magenta, sweet berries bursting on the bush You cannot wait dozens of gems hidden under drooping canes Like hopes buried deep in the pores of my heart When you arrive you are bold and colorful a balance of firmness and savory juice Only hours later it will be too late If I do not take time to venture to the garden I will miss my opportunity for you to sweeten my taste buds and dance in my tummy You will not wait The bees have done their job, buzzing and pollenating Your strong branches have played their part and brought you nourishment and a home The sun completed her role of sustenance and warmth Now I need to stand vigil and wait while you surge into completeness I will spend all night if I have to searching for every last drupelet hidden under leaves and tucked in corners of bliss The snip of time when you come into being is a sacred flash of beauty to behold pure gift to taste I will wait This time I will be ready I stand eager to greet and welcome you the moment you arrive into fullness At a quarter past midnight you look up and ask, "Why aren't they all like the sun?"
Your curious, youthful mind begs an answer These stars that show their faces only after little ones have settled in for the night how come they aren't as bold and bright and massive as the sun? The brilliance and brightness of the nightly stars do not compare Morning star waking all eternity at each rising beating down warmth and potentiality to every living space on this earth touching every crevice with sustenance I sit on shores of Sacandaga ripples of waves tickling my ears flutters of white birch leaves singing to me fragrance of balsam standing bolder than my grandmother's perfume I sit and you rise, shining on me warming my knees and forearms and the tippy top of my head all of me soaking in your radiance It is as if it was only me on this entire earth you settle down to be with me chosen especially from all the grasses and plains and desserts and mountains and creatures this day you give your undivided attention to me rejuvenating my tired soul and replenishing my aching body What would be of us if all the stars were like you? If all had to shine so brightly and boldly as to fade out every last other central to all positioned in a way that tugs all in close and swirls them around as if a feisty seven year old held in the pocket of the armpits and spun around and around until dizzy with delight You keep us all spinning arms reach away as not to scorch or burn us opening us with your power and grandness Every nourishment that feeds our body and soul was born of you giving us grain to eat and breath of life Every poem that was ever uttered Every motion ever set into play was born of you Why aren't they all like you? Your strength, commitment, generosity, playfulness, hopefulness, gratitude, forgiveness unconditionally offering all of this Why can't we all be so? Perhaps some stars need to only shine in the darkest of moments perhaps some need only be seen by few Some need only be known by that which is larger than themselves You embody all but fractions of the entire mass of this swirling system and with it responsibility above all others Set up as an example to each of us committed to the single blade of grass between my toes to the highest peak reaching into the skies to my child that I love and long to know completely to the mother born in a cave in a different time with speech unknown to my ears each of us, all of everything you are mothering, nurturing, caring for all our lives are in your hands entire existence dependent on your continuous generous outpouring of self So they aren't all like you and we can't all be you but nothing is stopping us from soaking you into our bones, stretching in gratitude for you working tirelessly every day to emulate your grand beauty and selfless being Today as every day we will dance around your rays circling in endless love and will miss you at dusk but always reminded of your pervasive presence as we gaze at your sister stars against the dark backdrop of questions sent out to the universe I’ve been to the beach nearly a thousand times
But never with you This is the first time I see it through your eyes The first time I feel the grains of sand tickle my toes The first time I experience the waves splash my face washing joyful invigoration into my bones Yes, I have visited the beach nearly a thousand times But never with you An extension of me – allowing me to see and feel the sun on my shoulders and back warmer and more comforting than ever Through your ears I hear the rapping of the waves The giggles of children and the rustle of leaves As if for the first time All my senses are on fire I am filled to capacity about to burst You cling your little hands around me and point out to the waves Longing for more of this intoxicating beauty For all the thousand times I’ve been to the beach This seems like the first time I’ve truly been here awakened To all it has to offer Breathing in Trusting magic Feeling cool and warmth Hearing comfort Seeing through your fresh eyes All that there is the sacred beauty That was here all along My thousandth and first time to the beach was with you The endless pursuit of more
Reaching to new heights Producing quicker with fervor The daily demands are insatiable Incessantly longing for every ounce available Huffing I gasp for relief Moving to the sidelines bent over in exhaustion Panting in hope for some reprieve Still echoes of chaos reverberate in my ears and seem louder than midnight screams My face burns red and tingles from hot heartbeats that rush urgency to my cheeks I cling to hopes that it will ease soon Illusions of someone swooping down and calming the pace Someone whispering in my ear, “enough” You have produced enough You have overextended enough You have inquired enough You have done enough You are enough Enough. And if I won’t listen In my face you will stare Nose to nose you will demand my attention Enough! End this twisted cyclone of petty happenings Let go of trifle moments lurching to find significance Detach from meaning only through fabricating Someone pleads with my spirit, “enough” You have created enough You have struggled enough You have planned enough You have delivered enough You are enough Enough. Nothing more is needed All is well and still Silence blankets the moment Soothing caresses flow over in waves The words embrace my being You are enough Enough. Some dream of hot beaches, miles of sand and ocean breezes
I am more of a Lake Lady One of the “Great” lakes birthed that in me The rocks were uneven, slippery with seaweed and at times treacherous But The Lake offered lessons in community, transformation and genuineness that branded my soul The waves, rough stones, driftwood, sunsets, frigid waters, rancid mooneyes and vastness all played their part in shaping me All encounters at the lake, every childhood dream that unfolded there still calls to my soul and echoes in my bones All this, keeps me longing for my next sacred visit to The Lake We would sift for hours in the small pebbles, our closest version to sand On search for treasure Broken glass turned to precious nuggets of beauty Consequence of perpetual pounding, years of tumbling against denseness Endless days we spent hunting for glass stones, twinkles of white, green, tan and sky blue Then there was the prized lapis, a blue so royal and deep that our heart skipped a beat when sighted More valuable than diamonds or gold These glass stones at the lake’s edge led us to a deep understanding Time would smooth out our jagged, precarious edges as well We felt secure in knowing that beauty and joy could emerge from sharpness and brokenness Not all the stones were made of glass Not all were tiny and held in gentle hands There was also the legendary “Big Rock” You could find it down the right-away, our shared gateway to this marvelous realm Once you maneuvered down the steep bank you could sight it protruding from the ominous waters It called out to you and beckoned your company The walk out to The Big Rock was made challenging by the slippery path crowned with seaweed Exacerbated by strong waves that could knock over the strongest of ten-year-old legs Intensified by chilling 55 degree water Not even this could stop the lure of The Big Rock Arriving we stood atop a kingdom that belonged to only us, the children We ruled this space that suspended us above water Once upon this massive manifestation we were sturdy, bold and grounded When ready we would lunge from the big rock into the water beyond Taking care that we did not land on sharp bulges, knowing danger lurked We jumped at our own risk into the brisk waters With the assurance that The Big Rock would stand steady to greet us when we needed harbor or respite We didn’t notice it at the time but The Big Rock’s spirit sept into our bones It grounded and steadied us for trials and storms ahead When storms came through, The Lake could be unforgiving It is said that the tumbles of waves have seen heights up to 25 feet These squalls bring brown rollers thickened with muck It left us with ammunition for war Gobs of seaweed washed upon shore We collected the free offerings and pulled fresh handfuls of the green, silk that still clung on Piling high our stashes, getting ready to launch them Our wars had rules and we picked teams for the fight Most of the confrontation was manifest in the preparation and gathering The actual battle was short-lived and silly Splatting green bombs of goo at one another Hitting backs, legs, arms Occasionally, surprising the opposition with a pile upon their head Our seaweed battles taught us to compete with playfulness We used earth’s resources to build narratives that we acted out on the stage of life There was the Yin to this the Yang of The Lake Days when the stillness demanded that we hold our breathe Not disrupt the silence of this grand essence Perfect moments for skipping stones The model skipping stone, worth as much as blue glass Not too large, our small hands couldn’t manage But not too small that they couldn’t withstand the flight across the water Two skips upon the lining of lake was a sign of a beginner Some recall the hot, humid summer day in August when a neighborhood boy championed over 77 skips with a single stone Gliding upon the sacred surface for what seemed to be an eternity Too many for counting Skipping stones proved to us that miracles happen The solid weight of a rock can be held up and suspended in time and space by a fluid masterpiece We moved forward into our lives knowing that with exceptional substance and adroit action extraordinariness emerges The Lake was cold, always Even on the days it felt warm it was only in relation to the days of unbearable frigidness We had no patience to wait until it warmed The first robins poking around in the yard in March reminded us to venture back to The Lake The icepacks might still be solid and swimming unheard of but our spirits couldn’t wait another minute Wintery, dark months of frozenness were long and exaggerated and we needed to be awakened We didn’t have a minute to spare and couldn’t tolerate the thought of missing out on a single moment with The Lake So there we were inching our way into the all-but-frozen space Toe, foot, shin, thigh Stalling long enough to get numb and then inching a bit further Hands hovering over the water, resisting putting them in until necessary Blue and convulsing our bodies screamed for retreat We treaded on; numb, valiant, unrelenting Resolute to carry that blue glass stone out to the Big Rock to sit and watch the graceful seaweed pass back and forth over our crossed legs in the rhythm of unfolding waves Back and forth, entranced by the inhale and exhale The rise and fall of her breathe that translated to ripples of embrace over our bodies We sat upon The Big Rock as noble empresses ruling the world of childhood fantasy and vision The Lake called us in, each of us She imagined a world for us that would be full and bold and meaningful She held us for a while in truth of stillness at sunrise and harshness of storms at twilight She had the capacity; being large enough deep enough bold enough to hold these two truths together at once I am humbled and honored to be a Lady of the Lake, branded by lake moments that emboldened the child’s spirit and strengthened the lady’s soul You still swirl in me and garner hope, Provide beauty Encourage creativity Prioritize community and Provide assurance that all will be well I am a doer
Perhaps you can relate I find joy in checking off tasks from endless lists Triumph is felt when projects conclude Both the meaningful and mundane I show no discretion There is purpose to be found in finished feats that add to the greater good But there is also splendor in the mundane triumphs Such as finishing the last drops of shampoo from the bottle Seriously, why does that bring such pleasure? The absurdity of a doer The very act of doing is invigorating The drug of choice to fill voids and stay numb and taste bliss And doing serves me well most of the time Pleasing bosses and satisfying deadlines Conceding to the grinding culture that values what we produce more than who we are But for once, today – I do not “do” This day I sit Watching bluebirds and swallows perched Feeling the warmth of the lost sun on thighs and forearms and cheeks Smelling the newness awaken and open every crevice and potentiality Tasting the freedom of being, a hiatus from doing Gratitude seems to seep in Bees buzz a hum that zips the air with honesty Breezes shake through the leaves and dance past ears as reminders to breathe deeper Momma bluebird carries grubs to the house Adjusting each one in her beak just right before poking it through the hole Progenies chirp of gratitude as each twisting meal is delivered Have you ever watched a bluebird’s day? Perched high one moment, swooping down the next to gather sustenance Carrying it to nestled darlings Huddled deep awaiting nourishment Perhaps gazing out to glimpses of blue and green and twitters of light A vast world they have yet to encounter Still held tight by space and time Bright flashes of vibrant blue and tangs of burnt orange underneath flutter back out again in search of more The sacred dance of flight and song Departure and returning Have you ever stopped doing long enough to let the breeze shift your awareness, to dwell in life’s present moment Have you ever stopped long enough to forget the destructive dead-end patterns, Creating space for an alternative route to emerge? Have you ever paused deep enough to soak the moment’s depth and breadth into your soul? To develop snapshots of being Have you ever paused deep enough To build break walls to protect from the floods of doing Creating space for an alternate way of being to emerge? Today I think I may have On the wings of bluebirds Sacred pause Perched high in the Tamarack Space for being An invitation today from the bluebirds Perhaps tomorrow another invite in the form of whisper or howls, or specks or mountains Perhaps another invitation, possibly always an invite I hope again soon to RSVP “yes” As a career coach I witness many people grapple with the prospect of disappointment. The struggle to decide which path to step on to. The sacred grappling of life's decisions. Here is a story of one of those brave souls on the journey, Zinnia. “I’m going to disappoint you. But you knew that already,” I state firmly.
I recall the last time Zinnia sat before me begging for a clear, practical, and definitive answer. I finally had to be blunt with her, “We don’t sell that here. You have come to the wrong place.” Zinnia left despondent but the good news is that she is back. Her eyes long for some compassion, “Please just tell me what to do.” Zinnia is brilliant and excels in all she does. Without effort she masterfully turns out research papers, computes calculus problems and tackles chemistry labs. We rerun the script again. “Tell me about the classes you are in right now,” I say routinely. “Well, I have a costume design class – and I LOVE it!” She says as she tugs on her custom made skirt with bold colors and patters so mesmerizing that they demand the world to pay attention. “I am also in computer science,” Zinnia’s voice seems to disappear as she speaks these words. As if her actual soul is being squeezed out of her at the acknowledgement that she is actually taking this course. “And English,” she finds her voice again, although she still appears distant from the words that escape her lips. She has to think hard to remember the other classes she is in. Just moments ago, before she plopped down in my office she was sitting in one of those nameless classes. “Oh, I remember, Economics and History,” Zinnia’s shoulders drop and relax as she exhales a sigh of relief. It is as if she has just run a marathon trying to come up with that list. Zinnia is not the only nineteen-year-old floating around looking for meaning, direction and purpose. In fact, each year there are hundreds who sit in that very chair. Some days I even sit there. It is clear what makes her heart sing and brings her joy but my training keeps me from shoving it down her throat. I am supposed to shut up, get out of her way and let her come to it on her own. “Tell me about what keeps you from majoring in Theatre?” I ask slowly trying not to let on to my fatigue. She is silent. Then she breathes out the honest, uninspired answer, “I am afraid I can’t find a job when I graduate and my dad really wants me to go into Finance like him.” There she said it. “Give me the best reasons for why you should major in Theatre,” I dare her. Her eyes light up, she wiggles her body upright as if she was just given a boost of helium under her chair, “Well…,” She can’t decide if she wants to take the leap or not. For some reason it is easier for her to be more honest about the reasons she hates Finance than why she loves Theatre. It is almost as if she would betray her own flesh and blood by simply admitting to what she really feels. “What would your life be like if you decided on Theatre?” I try re-framing the question to give her another opportunity, another view. I can see in her eyes that she is saying the same words I said to her just minutes before. “I’m going to disappoint you. But you knew that already." The only thing is I can’t tell who she is saying these words to. It isn’t clear. Is she whispering them to me? Is she choking them down as she says them to herself? Is she saying them to her father? Is she screaming them to everyone who has EVER told her to be something she was not? I wait. I wait to see who she will say these words to. It is inevitable - she must ultimately say them to someone. With each breath and every ounce of my being I beg and plead. Say it to anyone, disappoint whoever you need to, but please just don’t say those words to the beautiful flower before me. Please don’t say them to Zinnia, she is on the verge of blooming and this flower promises to be bold, aromatic and inspirational. Last year at this time my partner and I were in New Orleans. It was my first time there – well sort of. My parents will tell you that my essence was actually created there – I was a “honeymoon baby” and New Orleans happened to be one of the stops on their journey cross-county. So, I guess it was my second time there.
I was there to recruit a new employee and attend a national conference. My partner was there to eat, visit friends, listen to music, eat some more and catch fish. I had moments in between interviews and conference sessions to walk the streets of New Orleans and hear the sounds, smell the aromas, taste the sweetness and be nourished by the creative expressions of humanity that permeated every space. There was something soothing and reassuring about this place. Maybe it was the music, maybe the art, maybe the food, maybe the spirit of determination. Perhaps it was all the colors on the doorways that screamed out boldly. They seemed to say, "You can try and tear us down, you can try to drown this place but we will rise and find the crevices in the concrete and we will break through and blossom, and create beauty.” Yes, I think that is what I heard them saying. It was so easy to feel fully alive in this place. All my senses were on fire, searching for meaning in every color, taste and sound. Meaning so rich and full that it had to be sung on the streets. Meaning so essential it has to be howled through open-doored taverns. Meaning so beautiful it had to be splashed on canvases that were carried to the curb for all to see. The city was generous to share all this with us, outsiders. The truth that New Orleans was longing to share became more alive every time the sounds touched our ears or the vivid colors whispered to our eyes or the poignant flavors seeped into the taste buds of our soul. This is what I found on your streets. The words you sang through the string of your guitar and violin. They still haunt me. The rainbow expression on the entrances of your dwellings stood as painted doors to your soul. I could not walk past a single one without listening to its story. My partner traversed blocks ahead weary of my halting every time a doorway called my name. But I couldn’t resist. You were beckoning for me to listen. You had so much to say. It still rings in my ears. My heart is wider and my soul beats stronger whenever I recall your voice. Thank you. Oh, and yes, by the way we did find someone there to join our team – and she is as wonderfully amazing as the doors of New Orleans! Rich, dark, cool
I dig deep to loosen Crisp scent fills my voids Reaching down Pulling up a clod Creating space and warmth Beginning to clear and open to what will be Inviting newness Begging life to attempt Setting seed in a new dwelling space Exactly where each is meant to be To become, To blossom. With each tug and nudge in the soil I feel a tender pull and invitation from within Deep in the dark corners of my being the movement stirs and light soaks up the shadows Leaving swells of openness and potentiality Inviting newness Begging life to attempt I am the seed Placed exactly where I am meant to be Becoming, Blossoming. In my garden I dig deep to loosen the soil In my garden I dig deep to loosen my soul |
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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