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Posts Tagged ‘role model’


      written in response to the Imagine Retreat, inspired by Boris Worm, Cynthia Bourgeault,
 
I want to remember how this morning
a man stopped us on the road to tell us 
of the yellow mushroom ahead, 
how his hands trembled like startled wings
in his thrill to share the strange polka-dotted beauty.
Want to remember the woman who companioned 
a sphinx caterpillar across the road. 
And the man who stands in the ocean every day, 
teaches hope through data, and knows himself 
not as the ocean’s custodian but as the ocean’s lover. 
Something in the daily way they live their love 
ignites brighter love in me, a primal love that splashes
in puddles and weeps salty tears at the side of the sea,
a love that refuses to be restrained 
even as we grieve the harm we commit
against this fragile, resilient, changing planet. 
Bless those who offer their hearts to the world
even in a state of alarm and despair. 
We think hope can’t survive, but it does.
Bless these humans and their contagious, rebel love, 
their mycelial love, their wild-flowering love, 
may it spread in us, too, growing faster than kelp, 
reproducing like rabbits, adapting like mangroves,
a love that bids us to live toward the mutual flourishing of all, 
not out of fear for ourselves and our world, 
but for love, because love, because love, because love. 

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for Erin
 
 
Anyone can see she’s a beautiful woman, but god,
she has never been more beautiful to me than when
I brought my great nephews to the loft of her barn
and she picked up a red ping pong paddle and let
the small, fretful boy across the old green table make up
the rules for the game. And every time he’d change the rules—
assigning points for hitting the ball over the exposed beams
of the barn or points for hitting the ball into narrow window frames—
no matter the rules he contrived, she would shrug and say yes
and laugh and let the ball be forever in play. There was sunshine
in her voice when she praised him, pure radiance
in the way she squealed as the ball ricocheted
in the rafters, honest incandescence in her smile.
This is how generosity and goodness survive—
they’re passed on one brief interaction at a time.
When the boys and I left that dusty, sacred space,
fully covered in dust and hay, I swear we, too, were luminous.

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Dear Ludwig,




Before I knew of you,
I knew your music.
When I turned the flat metal handle
of my pale pink jewelry box,
Für Elise would play as a ballerina
in a white tutu would spin and spin
and I would hum along
until the music slowed
into garish metallic plinks.
Part of me envied Elise—
that someone would write her
such a beautiful song.
Now I know you wrote it for Therese,
a woman you wanted to marry,
but in transcription
your handwriting was misspelt,
and the error lasts to this day.
And Therese, she had no interest
in marrying you.
Oh, Ludwig, I, too, know
how the heart sometimes longs
for what it will never have.
I know how our words are twisted
till they plink, till they plunk.
I know how mistakes
sometimes stay with us forever.
What I meant to say is Happy Birthday,
Thank you for daring to love
even when it hurt.
Thank you for transforming your pain
and rejection into music so relevant
that 250 years later its played
as cell phone ring tones.
Thank you for teaching me
as a girl how to hum along—
for giving me the reason
to turn that flat metal handle
again and again and again.

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