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Posts Tagged ‘love’

 

 

 

Out the window the world is reassembling itself. The shades of green begin to emerge in the field—so many greens. Some part of me wants to name them all—emerald, sage, Kelly, lime, avocado, moss, spring. I want to name them not to organize them, but to celebrate each one.

 

Last week I did a training on how to assess parental affection. It’s a funny idea, the quantification of affection. It reminds me of the way children will sometimes fling their arms back behind their shoulders in an awkward joy and say, “I love you thiiiiiiiis much.”

 

One of the markers for affection is parental use of endearments—honey, sweetie, pumpkin, darling. As the evaluator, I am asked to mark if this is absent, present or emerging.

 

I don’t think you ever called me honey or sweetie, Dad, in fact, no generic terms of endearment. You always had your own special names for me that emerged out of play—Penelope, Reesmorie, Rosamarinipuscavazini, Roxanne the Foxanne, Rox. I always knew I was special to you, branded by your love of silliness, your love of me. And sometimes, when I was down, I would call you, and just hearing you say your special name for me made life seem just a little bit better.

 

The greens outside the window are brighter now. They seem to suggest an infinite potential inside a finite range. I know it is just the bending of light, but it thrills me.

 

This morning, I would like to give you this sense of infinite possibility, offer it to you while you are far away in a hospital bed and it feels as if the options are closing. Inside that finite window of options, there is an infinite potential for healing. We couldn’t possibly name all the available outcomes, though I suppose we could rate them as absent, emerging and present.

 

What is present is the enormous love I have for you. I’m not interested in measuring it, really, just in giving it to you, letting you know how I celebrate you. As if with love alone I could take away the pain you are in.

 

Who am I kidding? I guess I do wish I could express the extent of love so that you could feel the infinite ways it unfolds in the finite space of my heart. And though the only name I have for you, Dad, is generic, I wish that by saying your name on the other end of the phone, things might feel just a little bit better.

 

Dad, I love you, thiiiiiiiis much,

Roxanne

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with thanks to Artful for the fabulous starts

 

 

Last year’s potatoes—

small red fists

with stubby white shoots—

they have something

to teach the heart about

unclenching,

about how to find something of value

in their own darkness

something that knows how to reach

toward the light,

something that when faced

with darkness again

will reach even farther

until they become

astonishingly prolific, alive.

 

 

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Gift

 

 

 

My daughter and I go down to the river

in search of smooth, flat rocks for the garden,

 

and though we have many times

walked to the river in search of smooth, flat rocks,

 

I feel some odd joy today, as if the familiar path

is leading us somewhere we’ve never been,

 

as if anything could happen this afternoon—

and the heart, which likes to think

 

it knows something about loving,

forgets that we are doing chores

 

and finds it can love even more.

Even my hands feel new,

 

seem to revel in lifting

just because they can.

 

 

 

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One Togetherness

you and I

two banks

of the same river

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Holding Patterns

 

 

 

It’s not patience

that makes the cup

hold the tea, it’s

simple practicality.

Not love that makes

bowl hold ripened fruit.

But it is patience

that holds the phone

and says I miss you.

It’s love that doesn’t

hold at all.

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Imagine that your hands are an extension of your heart. Because they are.

—Clea Willow, yoga instructor

 

 

While slipping coins into the meter

I remind my hands they are doing

the work of the heart. They fumble

to find another quarter in my coin purse,

then drop it on the sidewalk

where it shines against the gray.

Isn’t that just like the heart, I think,

to bumble even the simplest of routines.

It could be so easy to search for, hold closely,

and let go at just the right time.

Come on hands, I tell them, do what

what the heart must do. Reach.

Recover. Try again.

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Perspective

 

 

I’ve got a wide, a wide river to cross.

            —“Wide River to Cross” by Julie Miller, Steven P. Miller

 

 

Perhaps when the river

we must cross is so wide

and the journey

to just to get to the river is so long

that our legs and arms are weary

before we even reach the shore,

perhaps that is when

it helps to remember

that the heart is infinite

in how much it can love,

and dang if that journey

across the river

doesn’t seem all that far

after all and the body

shudders and trembles

finds a way to take

one more step, and

one more step.

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