Posts Tagged ‘meeting the moment’

New Mantra

To this day with its deepening whirlpools of grief,
I say okay. Okay to the way I am swirled
and pulled down. Okay to the thick muscled sorrow.
Okay to the throat with its clenching, its tightness.
Okay to the ambush of tears.
On this day when saying yes to the world
is too shiny, too perky, too yes, too bright,
on this day with its churning currents of pain,
on this day when there is no clear path forward
at least I do not say no.
Okay, I say, as I pull on my clothes. Okay,
I say, as I don’t make the call. Okay
is my life vest, my life raft, my passage.
I’m grateful it isn’t a verb. Okay.
Okay. Okay, I say, blessed by its unstriving truth.
Okay, I say as the whirlpool spits me out.
Okay as another pulls me down again.

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On the hill,

the lilacs bloom each spring,

a fleeting purple offering.


Why do I walk to them

with a question

about anger?


Their perfume pulls me closer,

bids me step in, bids me

breathe more deeply,


and I do. For a while,

I forget my seething, forget everything

except the many flowered blooms.


For a while, all that matters

is that I am one who stands beside lilacs,

steeped in the lilac world.


It becomes who I am,

though I know it won’t last.

There, says the lilac.


There is your answer.








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Again the urge

to bring gauze

to the broken world—

and medicine

and a plaster cast.

Again the urge

to fix things,

to heal them,

to make them right.

Again the chance

to do the work,

which is to look in,

to touch the pain

but not become it,

to see the world

exactly as it is

and still write it

a love letter,

to meet what is cracked

with clarity,

to mirror and grow

whatever beauty

we find.




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in every moment

a doorway, but sometimes

the door so small

not even my toe

will fit through

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written after The Harvesters by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1565

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.

–Ecclesiastes 3, 1-2


Bless those who attune to ripening,

those who hoist baskets, who wield


hoes, pitchforks. Bless those who

cut and stack and carry. Bless those


who pick and gather and sort. Meanwhile,

all around them, others play and lounge,


engage in callous sport. But bless those

who notice the work to be done


and do it. Bless those who feel

the sweet press of days and allow


the hours to avail them. Bless those

who sense the fullness of time,


who say yes to the moment

and rise to meet it.


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She sits in my lap, facing me,
then arches back,
dangling her arms, extending
her neck, laughing and laughing.
She knows I will not let her fall.
Mama hold me, she says.
I will hold you, I say,
and thrill that for this moment
it is true, I can hold her,
can protect her head,
can support her limbs, her smile.
We don’t get to hold each other.
Not for long. Not in the ways
that matter.


What matters?
There is snow falling
and the sky is blue.
In this moment,
everything is possible.


Prickle and petal,
muck and bright flame,
Come to me
just as you are.


Mache dich auf und werde licht


My friend tells me
meet each moment
just as it comes
and not a moment before.


All day I practice leaning back,
just a tiny bit farther, a tiny bit farther,
my neck arched back, my hair hanging down,
no one to catch me
and I keep on bending.


When I cry,
I cry.
When I laugh,
I laugh.
When I cry and laugh
I gurgle and then
it’s awfully hard
to hold on
to anything.

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