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Posts Tagged ‘connection’


 
 
Here is a stack of dictionaries
thick with words I never will know.
Here is the pen filled with the ink
of stories unwritten. Here is
the sky filled with stars I can’t name
and clouds that will not last.
And here, unseen, is the bridge
of the moment that links me
to all that was and all that is,
all that is real and all that is dream.
The bridge, as long as forever.
The bridge as solid as rain.
The long, beautiful bridge
vast enough to hold every word,
every story, every version
of what might be. It is the bridge
toward understanding. And here
is you. And here is me.

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Before I Read the News


 
How courageous can I be to let all of life in?
                  —Leslie Odom, Jr.  on The Hamilcast with Gillian Pensavalle
 
 
I press both hands
to my chest, then
look at the trees
and the road outside.
I imagine the world
beyond what I see,
cities, continents, space,
then close my eyes
to open.
I listen to what is here,
attune to the silence
that holds up all sound.
Feel my heart beat
against my palm.
Hello heart, I say.
Hello heart.
If I am to read the news,
I want to invite not only
my head but my body.
Want to receive it as if
I am river and sky
as much as I am human.
The ache of the news
is no less great,
perhaps greater, but
I know I am not alone.
In the barren branches
of my fear, the chickadees
come to sing.

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In the dark house
we watch the moon
rise through the window,
watch as its fullness
climbs into the sky.
For everything we see,
so much we miss.
But in this moment,
your hand in mine,
we give the moon
all our attention until
every part of us,
even our wounds, are
shining.

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A humble contentment.
Because blue green spruce
by the creek bed.
Because ancient red
of sandstone cliffs.
This almost forgettable moment
not forgotten.
This small seeing.
This ease in being, unearned.
Because the tips of the spruce
are more silver, softer.
Because afternoon mist
somehow mingles it all.
Because sometimes when I try,
I cannot feel the connection.
This moment when trust is.
This sinking of my foot
into slick, wet earth.
This small thing.
This everything.

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The Outing


 
Because once I was an ocean
and now I am a mother,
because every single moment
is integral to ever after,
I give myself to this snowy hour
skiing into the woods with my daughter
and know that no matter how brief a day,
an hour lasts forever.

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while kneeling in the chapel of despair
finding beside me
a friend

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Together we weave
an invisible cocoon
fashioned from trust
and listening,
its fibers strong enough
to support a miracle,
soft enough to hold
even the tenderest
of wounds. In just days
a whole galaxy
emerges. See
how we spiral
together.

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At every opportunity
the man from Pakistan
brakes his own car and
waves his hand
to let the other drivers in.
One driver waves back.
Another offers an okay sign.
Another smiles and nods.
In this way, we go on.
His car is scented of oud,
sandalwood, musk and rose
as he carries humans
from one place to another.
He stops to let in the Jeep
on the right. The driver
joins us to move for a time
in the same direction.
In this way, we go on.

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Sound Bath


 
 
Even now, imagine, we could step through
one of the infinite doors of the moment
and find ourselves in another life—
repairing a net on the banks of a vast river
or herding cattle down a two-lane highway.
Standing in line a block from a soup kitchen
or guarding the entrance to the Forbidden City.
Instead, we are here in the lives we inhabit
But press your ear to the other doors. Hear
the traffic. The sobbing. A swelling of symphony.
Gunshot. Thunder of feet. The whimper of an infant.
The world enters us in waves, waves that seep
through the doors and we wade in them.
Wading, we come to know there is no way
to not be touched by every other life,
no matter how distant. If you put your ear
to the moment, sometimes you can hear
every other ear listening for what you will do next.

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teaching our voices
to kneel to each other—
such a genuine way to listen

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