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Posts Tagged ‘home’

Today It Occurs to Me

Not all journeys require leaving the house.

  Just this morning, I followed the hummingbird

    as it circled the feeder, then flew to the flowerbed

      and slipped its long beak into red nasturtiums.

And last night I wandered the garden rows,

  pulling long carrots and thick round beets,

    attending to the slow journey of ripening.

And all summer I follow the thin trail of loss,

  how it leads me from one sorrow to another

    my heart breaking open and then more open

      then impossibly more open.

And all this sheltered summer, I navigate moments of beauty—

  when I laugh at dinner until I fall off my chair,

    mornings when the river runs startlingly clear,

      the blue of larkspur, double rainbow over the drive,

        the tender silence inside the shouting—

          follow these moments like cairns in the wilderness,

            that lead always to exactly where I am.

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Prophecy

 

 

One day you will forget to question your worthiness.

No matter what door you walk through, even your own,

you will feel no need to apologize,

concede no need to defend.

You’ll set down your big suitcase of hope

and never ever open it again.

It will not matter if you are greeted by others

with kisses or with snarls, no, you will know

your own value the way milkweeds do,

which is to say, not at all.

Common as dandelions.

Complex as supernova.

Your worth will be that natural, that assumed.

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Always Home

 

 

 

And on that Saturday morning

when you feel isolated, alone,

no matter the time, or even

if it’s a Tuesday, call me.

I won’t be able to fix anything,

but I will remind you that you

are home, right there in your body,

you are home. And I will listen

as you weep. I will listen.

And though I won’t sing

in a way you can hear,

I will sing for you. I will sing

a circle around you,

I will sing you home.

 

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Not the What but the How

 

 

 

Mostly, we forget.

Mostly, the singular moments

that felt so important—

remarkable, even—

slip like raindrops

into a pond.

 

Most of my life

is blur, is watercolor.

But let me clearly remember

tonight, dying my daughter’s

hair blue, singing along

to the radio, laughing

about nothing in particular.

 

What I want to remember

is how little it takes

to make a moment light up

from within, light up

like dew infused by the sun—

each moment a teacher,

our own home the temple.

 

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Please pretty darlin’, do not cry.

            —Paul McCartney, “Golden Slumbers” adapted from Thomas Dekkers’ “Cradle Song”

 

 

And if the candle noticed

that I played the song six times,

it didn’t say anything.

 

And if the pan were aware

that I struggled to find a harmony,

it kept the failure to itself.

 

And if the kitchen noticed

that I continued to sing the song

long after the recording was done, well—

 

The onion did its best

to mask any tears

that no one was there to see.

 

And if once there was a way

to get back homeward, well,

perhaps, perhaps it will appear again.

 

 

 

*To listen, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbcvf8a5BwM

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Expansion

 

 

 

When I started to fume,

God grabbed me in his arms

impossibly strong and tender

and said, dear one,

don’t build our house too small

and I dropped my hammer

and nails and noticed

how fine the breeze

without walls.

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Adrift

 

 

 

A tune with no words

weaves through the day.

All day I let it find me,

do not try to turn off

the imaginary dial

that would make things

quieter. It is a comfort,

this tune, knowing

there are still words

to be written, still harmonies

to be found. The song

baptizes me, brings

beauty to what I fear

is a dark time.

It is a home inside

I take with me

everywhere I go.

 

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When climbing the inner branches

of the largest spruce we can find,

 

and finding the prickly lattice

an easier ladder than we imagined,

 

we might climb high enough

that we forget if we are climbing

 

to get away from or to move toward,

might climb long enough

 

that at last it is neither tree

nor land nor sky that feels

 

like home, but our own

limbs as they find the next place

 

to step, to pull up, to rest.

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Scrounge and Comb

The heart is like

this small brown bird

who finds in the lawn

 

a bit of dead grass

and flies it away

to build her nest—

 

sometimes it takes

so little to build

something beautiful.

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I Pushed Him Away

I pushed him away
until the loneliness in me
recognized the loneliness

in him, two awkward birds
still afraid of sky

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