Posts Tagged ‘self love’

Necessary Respite




Just today I did not fall in love with the long hallway,

or the faithful radiator or the steadfast brick.

I did not fall in love with a calculator or


with lavender soap. I certainly

did not fall for a loyal wooden ladder,

not for a mirror, not for the underappreciated spider,


not for a door, no matter how open it was.

So many chances, lost. So many invitations unanswered.

There are days when the heart forgets its work—


not out of maliciousness, more perhaps, because

it is tired. These are the days when I hope

that I will remember to sit quietly until


once again the heart finds the energy to love itself.

Then it is only a matter of time before it loves again

the red thread, the socks, the chipped blue cup.

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At midday, I dug beneath damp straw

and gently ran my fingers through dirt,

and, there, in the kingdom of earth worms,

found dozens of beautiful ruby-skinned potatoes,

each one of them precious in my hands.


God knows I have longed to be found this way—

pulled out from my darkness and cradled,

held up to the light with an oooh and an ahh

and a laugh of joy, though I’m slightly misshapen,

though I’m bumpy and imperfect.


There are days when I see through it so easily,

the longing to be loved, and I simply feel the love

that always exists, the love that grows in darkness,

that is utterly unconcerned with worthiness,

that feels no need for discovery.


There are moments when I can’t imagine

I ever thought I was lost, like today,

kneeling in the dirt, marveling at the beauty

of potatoes, mud-smudged and lumpy,

knowing myself as another who belongs to the earth.

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To the Death




And so it is that Love

threw at my feet her glove,

a long white one, perhaps,

but nonetheless a glove.

I took it up because

I knew the rules, and Love

looked me right in the eyes

and speared me with her words:

“It’s easy to fall in love

with spring, but can you care

for everything—the dross,

the dreck, the scum, the muck,

the loss, the wreck, the grime,

the dust? And can you find them

in you, too? And can

you fall in love with you?

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One Eventually




arriving in the dark

at my own doorstep

learning at last

to leave the light on

for myself

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with thanks to Rebecca Mullen



Here, she said, her pockets

stuffed with forgiveness,

borrow some of mine.

I take it between my fingers

like a coin and hold it up

to see how it shines,

but I hide it quick,

almost embarrassed

to be seen with it.

All day, I touch my pocket

to be sure it’s still there.

All day, I dream of ways

to spend it.


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after knocking on so many doors,
beggar’s bowl in hand, I put down
the empty bowl, and my hands
lost their desire to knock
and began to plant a garden instead

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Again the invitation
to love the body
this very moment.

Not the way it was once,
all limber and lean,
all smooth and able.

Not the way it might
be someday in the future
if only, if only. The invitation

to love it now. No
exceptions. No rain date.
No directions how to get there.

No box for maybe.
The invitation arrives
as it always does,

without an envelope.
Without a return address.
No RSVP. No name on it

but your own. No trumpets.
No angels singing about
how all flesh is holy. No

clowns telling jokes.
No balloons.
It arrives so quiet,

but so sincere, right beside
the impulse to crumple
it up. Now what to do.

The rising urge to run.
The rising urge to bow.

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