Posts Tagged ‘humanness’

Blessings, Blessings

Believing it matters,
today I bless all that seems unable to grow.
I bless the stems of larkspur
broken in yesterday’s storm.
I bless the broken. Bless those in pain.
Bless all who feel as if they are drowning
in the ache of aloneness and betrayal.
I have felt the wide blessing of sky,
cold blessing of rain, green blessing of field,
I have felt the dark, sharp blessing of loss.
How it’s changed me.  
For all I cannot fix, I bless it.
For all I cannot hold, cannot heal, cannot mend,
blessings, blessings, impossible blessings,
tender blessings, blessings
mighty as wildfire,
blessings as gentle
as tears.

Read Full Post »



It surprises me she is fragile,

this woman who labored for eighteen hours


to birth me, this woman who cared for me

every time I was sick, who coached


my soccer team, who led my Girl Scout troupe.

This woman who went hunting and fishing


and still often comes home with the biggest

catch. This woman who walked ten miles


to raise money for hunger. This woman

who prays for everyone, everyone.


And so tonight when I walk her

to her room and she needs to stop


a moment to catch her breath,

I marvel at how human she is,


this woman who has been more

than human to me my whole life—


a super hero, a champion, a star.

And somehow, knowing this, and


understanding that it’s been true all along,

I fall even more deeply in love with her


as she leans back on the bed, lets out

a long sigh, closes her eyes, and smiles.

Read Full Post »

and saying yes to the world as it is,
my body craves what it craves.
Oh this terrible, beautiful bright stitch of longing
sewn into my breath
with red, red thread,
it pulls, tighter and tighter,
then catches on something
deep in my core,
and some voice,
is it mine? insists,
more, more, I want more.

Read Full Post »

It always seems as if it should add up,
except it doesn’t. Not like the story problems
did in school. No. In this equation, x
represents the rate at which sweet peas
climb an orchard’s wire fence, and y
is the speed that snowflakes fall without
accounting for wind. And z is the reason
that all those snowflakes never seem to find
your waiting tongue. Don’t take it personally. It’s statistics.
Then s is the way that the low light at sunrise
makes every other variable shine. Which changes
everything. Until f is the sloth-like velocity
of a deeply held sorrow just starting to mend. And g
is the relative effect of one extended open hand.
And h is a pair of seahorses with their tails
intertwined. Or maybe it’s a flock of seagulls
returning to the land. Or maybe it’s crazy
to try to assign meaning to any of this.
It seems obvious. The heart just wants to love.
But then y is the hole the size of Saturn that
you sometimes feel ringing inside your gut.
And g is the swan-like gracefulness
you thought you’d have once you grew up.
But d is the way you are more like a squirrel.
And j is the value of a sand dollar saved
for twenty years. And p is the sweet scent
of strawberries, ripe. And k is the surfboard
you never bought. And o is the way you often feel
like a sidewinder—edging slyly, slantly along.
You dream of straight lines, of answers that work out
neatly, efficiently, sure of themselves. But already,
x is a starfish, and y is just a homophone, and t is
the way you see yourself sometimes, scribbling away
as if it’s all some kind of test. And s is the sweet compassion
you offer yourself, even now as you watch yourself draw up
a new proof, determined to solve it right this time.

Read Full Post »

the fine print

No, it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair and most promises are broken. Everyone and everything that you love can and will eventually be taken from you. You are ultimately alone. Just because you do everything right does not mean that anything good will come of it. Right is more malleable than you think. Good is subjective. There are mind blowing miracles, and they are happening right now all around and inside of you. Peace happens within the greatest upheaval. It’s an inside job. Results may vary. If it could happen any other way, it would. No refunds. No guarantees. Expiration date subject to change. Must be present to win.

Read Full Post »

Five Humannesses

holding three flowers
thinking only of the fourth
that lost its petals


in August, a heart-shaped
hole in the night


unfolding memories
trying to read through
the creases, the tears


staring at the aspen
all those living scars
so beautiful


another hole, another
hole, my wounds make it lovelier
this music

Read Full Post »

I bow to the ache of it,
the deep inner eating
away at itself, I bow
to the shivers, the gooseflesh,
the waves of nausea and pain.
I bow to the unnamed,
to question, to dark.
And I bow to the fear
that swells in small spaces
and the vast quiet
that dissipates the fear.
I bow to every other human
who hurts and I bow
to the yellow flowers tonight
blooming in the muck
where the river used to be.
I bow to the ache, goddammit,
I bow to it and I bow
to the reluctance to bow to it,
bow to the longing to shove
it all away, and I bow,
hush now, just bow.

Read Full Post »

this heavy shell
I sometimes forget it, too
is holy


your eyes
everywhere I look
your eyes


god needed a flute
tried blowing into me—no note
still too much of me here


it sure does make
a lousy guard dog


every pore, every
bone, every hair, every cell
an altar

Read Full Post »

This Being Human

A gift for you my heart would bring—the sweet release of everything, the breath I take before I sing…
—Jan Garret, JD Martin and Lisa Aschmann

This is what
we were born for—
the almost unbearable
softness of grass,
the sweet perfume
of blue weeds in spring,
listening to voices
that cannot be heard,
and reaching for that
which can never be held.
The popping sound
of the daffodil bloom,
Having our hearts
ripped open, and again
ripped open, ripped open,
still beating,
the weeping, the salt,
the communion of blood,
the awkwardness of it all—
and the grace.
The wanting and
the wanting to not want,
the roar of the river’s brown shush,
wings we don’t have,
the new leafing out
of the old, old cottonwood tree
and the long walk
to the cemetery
not long enough.
Oh this beautiful ache.
Ashes, we are not ashes

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: