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Posts Tagged ‘letting go’

Without A Map

 

 

Silly me, I thought the boat was empty.

Thought there was no one else here to paddle

or steer. Thought I was alone and too small

to reach the rudder, too weak to lift

the great oars, somehow not seeing

the sea itself as captain, the sea itself as crew,

its waves carrying me places I never knew I needed

to go until, on that strange new shore, I found

myself exactly where I needed to be,

shipwrecked and wildly alive.

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Today it slipped into my daughter,

the seed that all is not right in the world.

 

In a matter of hours, already

the tap roots had grown beyond

 

my ability to pull them out.

I wonder if I have been wrong

 

to keep her garden so tidy.

I wonder how to best teach her

 

to tend her own rows.

It will be endless now,

 

the onslaught, as every gardener knows.

And there is some pleasure in tending.

 

I think of how I would rather

be aware of all that grows.

 

I think of how sometimes

we change our minds

 

about what is wanted

and what is a weed.

 

Some part of me longs

to swing the sun back to yesterday.

 

Some part of me rejoices

that now all the world

 

is her garden.

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after the curtain call

the mind still rehearsing

how to shine

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One More Layer

 

 

 

after shedding all these skins

still saying to the cherry blossom

teach me how to let go

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Praise the tree as we throw

its branches into the fire,

the needles once green

now brilliant, now ash,

and praise the flames

that consume. Praise

the small hands that

toss the old boughs

and the squeals as the blaze

blazes higher. Praise

the empty space

in the room where all

we see is absence

of tree. Praise the darkness—

that canvas for light

that invites us

to find in ourselves

something to burn.

It’s a cold world.

What are we willing

to offer?

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One Lament

 

 

 

In the ragged purr of the cat

in my lap I hear all the sun

she has yet to curl into,

all the mice she has yet

to chase, all the days

we don’t have left.

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In Knots

 

 

I’ve spent years learning to tie the monkey’s fist,

wrapping the long working end of the rope

around the fingers of my hand. While rocking

and nursing and feeding and soothing, I’ve held

the first set of turns in place, then made three more turns

with the rope. While reading and chasing and

swinging and catching, I’ve learned to pass the end

through the inside of the knot, to make turns inside

other turns. And pull it all tight, just so.

 

I have wanted to perfect this heaving line knot,

something I might use to throw to my son

to save him when he drifts away.

I have practiced the art of the throw, but it seems

I have tied my own hands by accident.

And now that it’s time to untether the line,

my hands want only to practice what they know,

holding on, holding on, holding on,

how clumsy this new art, letting go.

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unable to hold things together

I open my hands, let everything drop

and feel how the world holds me

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Sole

 

 

 

Like a boot takes the shape

of the foot that wears it, I imagine

my hand might come to take the shape

of yours, your hand—something

I was made to hold, made to move with,

made to let go.

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Three Transpositions

 

 

 

 

is it one small child

or the whole world

I cradle

 

*

 

this longing

to bring you a small bouquet

of possibilities

 

*

 

my limbs a clef,

I circle the changing

song of you

 

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