Posts Tagged ‘brokenness’


Funny on a full moon night
I think about brokenness.
After fifty years of proving
entropy with my life, with
my thoughts, some part of me
still wants to believe in perfection.
I’ve never once thought the moon
any less perfect for being partial.
Tonight, I give myself permission
to be broken. As if I could help it.
But something in the permission
lets me relax, lets me soften
as if I’m covered with moon-drunk snow.
Lets me soften like Erik Satie played low.
Let me see you, the moon seems to say,
just as you are. And I step outside
and the moon slips in.

Read Full Post »


Wholeness does not mean perfection. It means embracing brokenness as an integral part of life.

—Parker Palmer, A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life

Brokenness, I am still learning

to embrace you. I would rather fix,

would rather mend, would rather solve.

Today, the hole in my security

is big enough to let fear blow in

like a strong winter wind.

I want a patch, want reinforcement,

want to stitch the seams closed.

And here I am, brokenness,

my needle and thread in hand.

Is it so wrong to want to repair?

My fingers are willing.

There is work to do. Here I am.

Read Full Post »



inside every broken thing

there are wholes—

all that unbreakable emptiness

held in the chipped bowl

Read Full Post »

One Storm




so quietly the snow

makes every broken thing


Read Full Post »


Though I am undeniably broken

I come to you with no need to be fixed.

I come to you the way one river

meets another river—not joining

out of thirst but because

there is so much power

and beauty in giving oneself

to another, in moving

through the world together.

I come to you the way the half moon

comes into the yard—I could be more

whole, but in the meantime,

I will bring you everything

I have.

Read Full Post »

Today there are dozens
of signposts leading me
toward you—the color
of the clouds at the top
of the divide, a song
on the radio, clean scent
of rain—but I do not follow
any of them, do not
make a bouquet of their beautiful
promises. Instead I stay
in this broken place,
crocodiles swim by
and carry on their backs
the countless scattered
shards of who I thought
I was and how I thought
it was supposed to be,
and I love you
from right here.

Read Full Post »

He cracks himself up. –Julie Cummings

Glue, of course.
Super and Elmer’s
and rubber cement.
Rubber bands.
Scotch tape.
Chicken wire.
A full body cast.
A balancing act.
and hypnotizing.
They told him stories
of how whole he was.
Then offered
St. John’s Wort.
Sublingual B-12.
Calcium citrate
with Vitamin D.
Weeks of physical
therapy. Until
in the end,
Humpty laughed
at them all
and said,
“What a gift
it is to fall.
I love being broken,
it lets in
the light.
See this gold?”
He said,
and then gave it

Read Full Post »

It is hard to not resent the ants
and grasshoppers, even though
they are doing the only thing
their bodies know how to do—
to eat what is green as they find it.
They do not know that these greens
are the first pea shoots, that if only
they waited another week or two
there would be thousands more leaves
for the eating and still enough left
for the peas to mature.
But no, they take the first green,
and now in the row against the fence
there are long stretches of nothing
but broken stems and empty earth.
Just today my son asked me
what a mosaic was, and I told him
it was the act of making art
out of broken bits of things.
Wouldn’t it be funny, he said,
if the whole world broke and
we made a mosaic from what was left.
My whole life I have clung
to some idea that the world
could be more whole than it is,
and then today, a twist.
I’m not saying I don’t resent
the ants, the grasshoppers
and their wake of fruitlessness.
I’m just seeing that everything’s broken.
And then there’s the art of the mess.

Read Full Post »

In the field
the ache of brokenness
is less.
Everything here
is broken.
Ground. Stems.
I could bear
almost anything
I think
if I sit here long enough
in tall dry grass
with the sun
slung low
and still warm
the wind
stirring the air
and carrying
my thoughts
some other where
till all that is left
is sky mind
and sky
a field
a winging shadow
passing through
my shadow.

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: