Posted in Uncategorized, tagged loss, prayer, spring on March 22, 2021| 3 Comments »
Today the prayer is words
I can’t yet find,
words that flit away
like spring juncos, like chickadees.
Today the prayer I wish for
is not the prayer that finds me—
less like the perfume of a fully bloomed flower
more like the dank and fusty scent of spring.
Some days when I forget how to pray,
if I listen with my whole body,
the world reminds me how what is used up, spent
is also a vessel for the holy,
as dry leaves become a nest
as bare branches hold the sunrise.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged drought, green, patience, prayer, rain, reslilience on July 21, 2020| 4 Comments »
Oh green, I miss you,
miss how you used
to flourish in me,
no matter how brittle,
how brown I’d become.
I didn’t know then
I took you for granted.
I miss your softness,
your tenderness,
all the promise inside you,
the sunlight you carry
in your veins.
Some days I remember
what it is to be green.
Some days, when it’s gray,
I tell myself green is possible again.
Some days, when the rain
still doesn’t fall,
I practice how to break.
Some days, I swear I’ll find a way
to become green again,
no matter how unlikely,
how parched this field.
Somedays, though I long since
forgot how to pray,
the prayers find me anyway
and my empty hands
will not come down.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, prayer, rain, storm, transformation on July 17, 2020| 9 Comments »
You need a rainstorm.
—Paula Lepp
I need a rainstorm
on the inside, the kind
that relentlessly pours,
the kind that rearranges
everything, leaves nothing
untouched. I need a deluge
that drowns out any voices
that would offer easy answers.
I need a cloudburst to flood
everything I think I know,
that carries me until I, too, am current.
Have I gotten so dry inside,
so brittle and sure?
Give me a gulley washer,
the kind that scours
and remakes its path as it flows.
I want it, and yet
when I feel the first drops
I scramble for the umbrella,
as if it would do any good.
There it is, petrichor—
earthy fragrance of change.
The big rain will come when it comes.
There will be no stopping it then.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing things to be, prayer, surrender on May 20, 2020| 4 Comments »
inspired by a conversation with Craig Childs
Let it come, says the voice,
a voice not quite mine,
and somehow more my voice
than any other.
Let it come.
And by let, it means,
Open your hands,
And by it, it means
Anything.
And by come, it means,
You be still. Enough running,
enough fighting, enough
pushing away.
Meet the world that’s here.
I close my eyes,
and an invisible cage lifts.
Let it come, says the voice,
and I move my lips with it
until the prayer
is my own.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged laughter, prayer, science, sun on April 20, 2020| Leave a Comment »
In five billion years, the hydrogen fuel
at the core of the sun will be spent.
Forces of gravity will take over,
compressing the core. The rest of the sun
will expand, vaporizing the earth.
I’ve studied the science, read the texts.
In the meantime, I live in a canyon
with rock walls one-hundred-fifty million years old—
and sometimes, like this morning,
despite rumors of doom,
the forces of gravity take over
and I fall on the floor laughing—
a riotous squealing and braying,
tears leaking, chest heaving,
grateful to big time for this very moment
when I am almost seamlessly joined with my shadow.
It rolls with me on the floor as I hoot and giggle,
praying in the language I know best.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged avocado, food, Kyra Kopestonksky, new, prayer on January 18, 2020| 4 Comments »
After cutting open hundreds, thousands
of avocados, I marvel as my friend Kyra
cuts off the top. Slices it right off.
And I stare at her, at the knife, at the tip
of the avocado listing on the cutting board.
How easily she scoops out the creamy green flesh.
How simply she cuts more rounds around the pit.
All these years, I’ve sliced avocados lengthwise.
It’s as if I’ve just learned a new word for yes.
As if the sun itself just rose right here in the kitchen.
It takes so little to open us, to help us
see everything new. Even that prayer I pray
the same way. These hands. This common fruit.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cooking, dinner, food, mac and cheese, poem, poetry, prayer on March 27, 2019| 5 Comments »
The white sauce whisked to smoothness
before the cheese is added,
and the elbow noodles boiled till they’re al dente,
the Pyrex buttered with long looping swirls of the fingers,
the cheddar spread evenly on top.
It is not easy for most people to see
devotion in the mac and cheese.
It doesn’t look like prayer.
But it’s there.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged light, poem, poetry, prayer on January 7, 2019| Leave a Comment »
The more light you allow within you, the brighter the world you live in will be.
—Shakti Gawain
So I invite lanterns,
candles, torches, tapers,
street lights, spotlights,
glow worms, lasers,
wood matches, lighters
and one small prayer,
and at last I notice
it’s brighter around here.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged breaking open, Joanna Macy, poem, poetry, prayer, star on December 4, 2018| 7 Comments »
The heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe.
—Joanna Macy
Give me a heart that breaks—
ears willing to hear the difficult news
and legs that do not choose to run from it.
Yes, give me a heart big enough
to accommodate a wrestling match inside,
a mind that knows no one wins a war,
hands that move to help no matter
what the mind might say.
Give me a heart that opens
long after it thinks it’s already open,
and lips that know when to listen.
Give me a heart that knows itself
as other hearts. Give me feet
that will stand when someone must stand
for justice. And a spine flexible enough
to turn and see all sides. Snow falls
on all my thoughts. It sometimes
takes a long time to melt, a long time
before I remember again to pray
to be open, to pray for a heart that breaks,
to notice the stars shining from the inside.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged larkspur, poem, poetry, prayer on July 10, 2018| Leave a Comment »
just outside my window
larkspur erupts
into generous blue—
in me blossoms
an old prayer
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry, prayer, snow angels on February 15, 2018| 1 Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fear, hope, poem, poetry, prayer, support on January 17, 2018| 13 Comments »
Because I don’t know how to pray,
I do what I know to do,
which is to sit very quietly
and let myself feel. To hold you
without holding you.
To imagine your fear
and breathe into it.
To feel my own fear
and walk the edges of its cliffs.
To lean on hope with its flimsy
net and feel how little it takes
to catch us, to save us.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, prayer, walking on August 27, 2017| Leave a Comment »
Before you slog the next mile,
God sits beside you
and rubs your feet and ankles,
tells you jokes,
and spills his heart to you—
the next day,
still exhausted,
you find yourself laughing
grateful to have feet.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, prayer, silence on April 26, 2016| 1 Comment »
in the beginning
before the word
the silence
*
walking the other
direction it’s so obvious,
that waterfall we missed
*
in my pocket
this laughter—all day
I pat it to check if it’s still there
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, prayer, showing up on December 29, 2015| 1 Comment »
Before I pray
I do not wash
my hands—
not out of disrespect
but because
I do not
want to pretend
to be any cleaner
than I really am,
this filth,
this patina of depravity,
this is part
of why
I have come
to pray—
if I waited
to wash the stains
from my skin,
my lips, my sleeves,
I might
never pray
at all.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged lost, poem, prayer on December 20, 2015| 1 Comment »
When we know
we are lost
it seems
so obvious
to stop,
pay closer attention,
ask for help.
May we always
see
how
we
are
lost.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, poem, poetry, prayer on November 6, 2015| 2 Comments »
One by one,
I rip the roots
from dirt and shake
them clean.
Stalk by stalk,
I clear the garden
walk of all
the brittle stems.
And who might come
to pull from me
whatever’s brown
and dead?
My own hands
always find
another task
another garden.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged door, open, poem, poetry, prayer, surrender on October 1, 2014| 2 Comments »
If I prayed, which I don’t,
then we could say that I asked
god to open every door that I
had shut, every door I did not
know was there.
Why I asked this, well,
this will make sense to you
or it won’t, but every closed
door I was aware of
had became a point of suffering.
And with every open door,
I could feel congruence,
the world rushing in to create
more space in me.
And god said to me, though
we could not say that it was a voice,
god said, Open even the door with people jeering
on the other side, their faces twisted
in hate? Even the door to an entire
forest of sorrow? And because
this conversation was not really
happening, we could not say that
I said yes to the questions, but
we could say, perhaps, that
the yes began to root in me
and it was not so much a matter
of someone opening the doors
but that the doors more or less
dissolved. And what I had thought
could separate me from anything else
was shown to be nothing at all.
I would like to tell you that I felt grace
in the opening, but the truth
is I felt such terrible ache.
And god did not come put a hand
on my cheek and tell me
everything would be okay.
In fact, if anything, the voice
I did not hear told me
there are no promises.
But I felt it, the invitation
to keep opening doors,
to not close my eyes,
to not turn away.
And though I do not pray,
I said thank you, thank you.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fear, poem, poetry, prayer on June 19, 2014| 1 Comment »
Let us not pray to be sheltered from dangers but to be fearless when facing them.
—Rabindranath Tagore
If I pray, which I seldom do,
but if I do, let me not pray
to be sheltered from dangers,
nor let me pray to be fearless
when facing them. Fear is part
of this human bouquet, as fragrant
a bloom as gratitude.
And it seldom seems to work,
anyway, this premeditation of prayer.
Prayers seem to rise on their own,
like smoke from a volcano no longer latent or
like steam from a cup of mango Ceylon.
But if I might suggest to myself a prayer,
let it be this, though I do not know
who I say it to: Thy will be done.