Summer rolls out her
red carpet of heat,
glamour abandoned.
Sweat shimmers on
beautiful foreheads,
makeup melting
like wax from a candle
warmed by the flame.
The masks of theatrics
peel off like wet band-aids,
exposing old wounds
to summer's hot rays...
rays of healing
releasing fountains of feeling.
Do not be afraid
to embrace the beauty
of summer's sheerness,
unadorned by red lipstick,
unchained to the camera,
unconcerned with numbers
on a scale.
The cover-up is
no longer required.
All are welcomed.
All are accepted.
We are incandescent.
Summer casts her smile
upon us and whispers
on the breeze,
"Perfect as is."
Morning shrouds herself
in a soft haze,
blurring the line between
earth and sky.
The sun hides behind
a gauzy veil,
silhouette visible
like a glow-ball
on the dimmest setting.
Mysteries hover
above the dewy fields...
could be fairy wings
or fallen stars
or the breath of angels
passing by.
My heart is lifted
by the morning mysteries,
reminding me that
each day is perfect
in itself.
It is hard to find
our place
in the world.
It is only through
the lens of time
that clarity
is honed.
But the years
take something
from us too.
So there is never
a place in time
where we live
in a perfect world.
And that is not
a bad thing.
Perfection
is over
rated.
I realize, after eating a breakfast of pancakes on the patio, then eating soup outside for lunch, and having done nothing, really, all day so far, I realized I don’t want to go shopping. Not for shoes for my outfit. Not for a curtain rod for my living room window. Not for groceries, even though Ricky needs a jar of jam for his peanut butter sandwiches. I don’t want to leave home.
The wind is fresh, the day is warm, the clouds are beautiful. I see birds gliding. I hear a lawn mower droning. The kids a couple of yards down are playing. It smells of earth and grass and flowers out here. The birds sing and rest, sing and rest. Brownie is sunbathing. I don’t want to leave this scene. I like feeling unrushed. A bee hovers over a white clover flower. The tree leaves rustle with each breath of the wind. I want to feel like I am on vacation. I want to sit and think and dream.
I want to feel whatever it is I need to feel on this Mother’s Day weekend. It’s been five years since my Mom died and I still can’t look at her picture without upsetting the balance of my inner world. It still hurts to post a Mother’s Day photo of me and my Mom on Facebook. Others miss her too. It’s a little easier to think of that now – at first it was too much. I couldn’t hold their pain in my thoughts on top of my own loss. This was asking too much of me. I’m better now.
The neighbor’s dog races across his yard, a red frisbee in his mouth. The little kids scream and squeal with delight. The lawn mower is quiet now; a job well done is left in its wake. Brownie moves to the shade, barks a little, then settles. I am in no hurry to leave this space. Nature’s soothing balm works its way into the soft places in my soul. In my mind, I pack my duties and responsibilities, by should-haves and would-haves, the pressures and demands of normal living. I pack them in a cardboard box, tape it shut, and mark it with a black Sharpie: DO NOT OPEN until Monday.
Thus, I permit myself to enjoy Mother’s Day weekend. I allow myself a guilt-free rest. I, too, am a mother, and this day gives honor to me as well, even though I don’t feel honorable. Which mother among us ever feels worthy? We never know if we are doing a good-enough job of raising our children. But it is nice to have someone else cook for us, or give us flowers, or say the words, “I love you, Mom.” Our kids may not know it, but we are only human, making mistakes, not knowing how to do this, and always needing to hear those words of affirmation. I love you, Mom. So here’s to another Mother’s Day weekend. May we all hear those words from someone we love, even though it may only come through a birdsong.
You suddenly blew in
with a thunderous wind
just as the blossoms
were starting to bloom,
just as the darkness
was giving me room
to breathe and to feel
the absence of gloom,
here you come again
with your icy wind
that closes me inside
and makes me want to hide
where no one can get in.
But look, I see the days
expand and lengthen long,
oh, yes, I hear the birds
they sing a springlike song.
Your blustery winds
are fading away,
the sun with its warmth
is coming to play,
one of these days
Spring is coming to say,
"Welcome! I am here."
I don't carry a totem
in my pocket
but I have a secret place
hidden in my heart
that grounds me
tethers me to reality
gives me strength for the journey
reminds me I am not alone in this
even though I am alone in my own skin.
Beneath the shadow of God's wing
there is a place of stillness
a place of Presence
a place of knowing
a place of being
a place where no enemy
can withstand
a place where I return
to come back to myself.
I saw a black bird
today, soaring
into the heavens
with not a single
flap of wing
heart wide
open, riding
the currents
the breath of God
blowing him
high
high
higher
black wingspan
stretched across deep
blue
oh, to ride the sky
effortless
weightless
free
how would that be?
Here is a photo of an everyday banal object, a wooden table.
This table, with all its scratches, discolorations, and flaws, is the table I use when I write everything…my journal entries, my thoughts and dreams and prayers, my poetry, the gift cards I make, the bills I pay, the hand lettering I practice. It’s where my son did his homework every night. It’s where he spilled paint while doing a school project.
This table is filled with marks and scratches, each telling a story. This table is embedded with history. If you cut into the wood, you would find memories so deep it would take your breath away.
This table has quietly served me without recognition for so long…but today I want you to know it has provided so much more than a place for eating meals.
This table holds and supports the essence of my life.
