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Posts Tagged ‘allowing’

One Staff

 

 

 

all those beautiful notes—

letting them fall from the score

and not rushing

to arrange them again,

listening as new songs arise

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I thought I could fix it.

Not with a hammer and glue,

but with listening. With loving.

With holding the wounded

in my arms.

 

I thought I could make

it all better, I mean all of it,

you know, the way a mother

kneels before her child

and kisses his thumb

and miraculously the hurt is gone.

 

I thought I could make myself

bigger than the world’s problems,

as if with devotion and will

and practice, I could touch

infinity, embody enormity,

step over the inconvenience

of pain.

 

But came muck. Came tears.

Came anger and shrill and short.

Came small and weak

and tired. Came shame.

Came embarrassment I ever thought

I could be big. Came the surprising

 

pleasure of muck, the way

I can paint it on my face in wide stripes.

Came the gift of exhaustion.

Only then when I stopped

trying to carry the world, only then

did I notice how generously,

all along, the world

has been holding me,

has been holding us all.

 

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Reverie

 

 

In the pond, it is easy to let go of the paddle,

to let the wind move my little boat

wherever it will. I feel no need to change direction,

no sense that one way is better than another,

no attachment to arriving on any shore.

 

All around me, dragonflies skim bluely above the water.

Cotton drifts through the air like midsummer snow.

Robins sing their simple song. In this moment,

somehow unstitched from the calendar,

everything seems possible—like a woman

 

who feared she could not love could do so.

And a day could open in surprising ways,

new worlds spilling into this familiar world.

And a chapter could be written inside another

so that we would never, ever get to the end.

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playing referee

between the sun and clouds,

eventually I take off my stripes

to be a spectator instead—

how pleasant

without all that whistling

 

 

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Two Marvelings

 

 

 

just another full moon rise—

is it any wonder

I can’t stop bowing?

 

*

 

how, I said,

to the river bed

do you make

of yourself a home?

I let the flow shape me,

the river bed said—

flood, current,

shimmer, stone

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and exhausted from pushing and not getting anywhere?

Today, a fabulous poetry site, “A Year of Being Here,” published a poem of mine about just this experience.

I love this site, love reading the poems daily and going back through the archives. You can find it here: A Year of Being Here: Trommer

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tall and clear

wholly illumined by sun

slowly I learn to see

the vase as lovely

even without the sunflowers

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“Come on,” I say, “come on,

this is your only chance.”

Every day for a month

I have walked into the garden

to speak to the sunflowers.

I try not to sound too urgent.

I don’t want to scare them,

but it is September and they

are still tall green stalks

with small tight buds.

“Come on,” I say. “There is still

warmth enough for you to bloom.

It’s what you are here to do.”

Just yesterday there was an inch

of hail on the divide. Every day,

it seems less likely that there will

be sunflowers this year. I notice

how much I want them to bloom,

how they have become more to me

than sunflowers in the garden.

What is it in us that wants

to see things flourish, especially

seeds sown by our own hands?

The sunflowers will bloom or they

will not. The moment I relax into this—

saying yes to the world just as it is—

inside me, I feel acres and acres

of golden heads all nodding.

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Perhaps when we finally see
there is no point to making things
look any better than they are,

then whatever friction
we’ve found in the world
is met with rose oil

and the great heavy gears
cease to grind
and spin with silent ease.

The only sustainable plots
are the ones no one has planted—
ones in which flowers, grasses and trees

rise up on their own.
They know when to sprout,
when to bloom, when to seed.

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This blank page of a day.
Last night, I had already crumpled
up the paper and thrown it in the trash.
With twin fists, I made it so small,
told myself there were no stories
I was interested in knowing.
This morning, picking it up again,
I watched the paper unrumple itself,
and unfold and unfold until
it was a million million times larger
than any page I could imagine,
big enough to have any story
fit on it, any story at all, even
happily ever after.

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