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Posts Tagged ‘tears’


 
 
If I were like Suzanne Valadon,
fearlessly painting self-portraits as I age,
I would paint this moment
when I wander the high school halls
between teacher conferences, this moment
when I’m so full of love for the girl
who will graduate this spring
that I’m weeping and laughing
beside yellow lockers and posters
for basketball games. Gratefulness
can break a heart open as easily as sorrow.
In fact, the tear as it reaches the curve
of my lips, I think it would fill the whole frame.

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All the Tears

 
 
As I cry chopping onions,
I imagine the onions
cry for me, too, and
with each slice, they
wonder when I will ever
peel off all these layers I’ve
been adding in the name
of growth. When I add
the onions to the pan,
they become more clear.
You can do it, too,
they seem to say.  
Let the world open you
and weep with the gift
of giving yourself away.
 

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There is a joy that chases sadness
and sometimes overtakes it, as if
the two are racing down a hill,
their shadows sometimes merging—
and this is how a woman looking at a photo
of her son when he was still alive,
his face radiant with elation,
might find herself not knowing
if her tears are made of gratefulness
or sorrow, two parallel emotions
that sometimes twine inside us.
Nor does it matter to her.
Gratefulness. Sorrow. It seems right
she should weep either way.
Both feelings are fashioned from love.
She is here for all of it.
The salt tastes just the same.

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One Day Later

after drying the tears
her fear
still wet

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my daughter’s tears
find their way
into my eyes

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Short poem, big invite

One Life
 
your tear
my tear
one water


*

Love Letters to Vincent
Monday, July 29, 6 p.m. mountain time
zoom


Dear Friends, 

Tonight was the most incredible, terrifying, heart-re-wounding, heart-re-saving, transformative night. Kayleen Asbo and I performed a tribute to Vincent van Gogh live in Telluride in The Palm theater (the stage where my son used to dance and where my daughter still dances), hosted by The Palm and Telluride Chamber Music. If you were not able to join us (and even if you were), please join Kayleen & me online on Monday night, 6 p.m. mountain, for a recording of the evening. One person said it was “extraordinary, healing, alchemical.” and another said “Transcendent! What a triumph. Haunting in the best of ways.”  We will, in time, have a fully edited video to share with you–with multiple camera views and the images of van Gogh. For Monday, we will be able to share the wide-lens view with really good sound. 

All donations will fund the completion of our recording project, and a tree will be planted for each registration through One Tree Planted. Come with a candle and a journa. As we connect, we wrap our arms around what it means to be human and in a communal ritual of love, loss, gratitude, wonder and a celebration of how beauty and devotion can reach out to transform the world. Sliding scale donations, Zero-$40.00. There will be a recording for anyone who can’t make it life. 

To register, click here

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Reasons to Weep

 
 
Because I’m flooded
with feelings, I weep.
Because feelings
are not enough, I weep.
Because your actions
have moved, me, I weep.
Because there is so much more
that wishes to be moved, I weep. I weep.
I weep because someone must weep.
Is it true, someone must weep?
Once they hired women to weep
because they knew the expression
of grief was essential—
they paid them to wail
and scratch at their faces and mourn.
But what does the blue sky care if I weep?
Or the gray sky? Or sunset? Or dawn?
What do tears mean to the dead?
What do they mean to the living?
I weep because I can’t stop the tears.
I weep because tears can’t stop me.
I weep because tears invite me
into the flow of all water,
the flow which goes the way all things go,
away from the self to shores of the all,
and from the shores of the all
back into the core of the self.
 

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with enormous thanks to Kristen
 
 
In this story, the grave keeper
is a woman named Kristen.
She plants grass seed
where soils have been disturbed.
She pulls weeds by the roots
instead of poisoning them.
She learns the birthdays of the dead.
When a mother comes to sit
by her child’s tombstone,
the grave keeper gives her space,
but as the mother leaves,
she offers her a quiet smile, a hug.
Kristen knows the name of the child.
In this story, when the mother
leaves the graveyard,
dead flowers in her hands,
she is filled with no less grief,
but there is something generous
alive in her now, too,
soft as the new grass that thrives
around her son’s headstone,
loving as the grave keeper’s voice
when she whispered, Happy Birthday.
When the mother tells this story,
she weeps every time.
It’s not for sorrow
tears slip from her eyes.

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Once Upon a Song

While dancing barefoot in wet grass
with the dark all around us and
the star-bright sky above
and a song in the air and joy
and sorrow crashing through me
in equal force, it is only now
with tears running down my face
I realize the tears themselves
are the river where I can lay down
my burdens, these tears are the stream
that will never run dry, these tears
are the river where I will again
and again and again return to pray,
Oh sister, let’s go down, come on down,
and Hallelujah, at last I know the river
is nowhere if not in my heart,
and if there’s a river here,
then every moment is a baptism,
every moment a chance to be lifted,
to be healed.

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Contentment



What were you doing when you last felt content?
            —Ada Limón


And there, beneath the white tent,
beneath the blue sky, beneath the stars
I could not see, while spinning somewhere
inside a spiral galaxy, I closed my eyes
and let the sound of flute and piano find me,
an Irish song meant to be played with a wee lilt,
though the tune itself knew something of loss,
and I felt my lungs swell and my heart expand
felt my spine straighten and my soles ground,
and I floated inside the music, stunned and surprised
by the vibrant inheritance of being alive. I hummed
with full cellular resonance and then, I was crying—
a warm spilling of tears—for what?
for beauty? for loss? for living with both in one breath?
What was it the tears meant? Oh friends,
as I felt it all with no attempt to push it away,
I was wildly, alively content.

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Ode to the Saltine Cracker




Oh, salty square,
oh, bite that turns
to savory paste,
oh, flaky wafers
stacked in long
white plastic sleeves,
you fed the boy
who could never
eat enough,
attended him
through online school,
travelled with him
in his book-laden backpack,
fueled him as he
researched twin-
turbocharged V-8 engines
and fawned over
Italian luxury cars.
Finding you today
out of place
on the shelf beside
my thesaurus,
an unopened box,
I crumpled,
longing for the boy
who would have opened you.
I’d love to clean
your stupid crumbs
from the couch.
All afternoon, I taste it,
this daily salt
that falls to my lips.

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months after the storm
still,
the rain

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Ode to Syn-propanethial-S-oxide

You hide in the flesh of onions

the way hope hides in certain Superbowl commercials.

It’s not that I don’t expect you,

so why does it feel like an ambush when you,

chemical irritant released into air,

bring tears to my eyes and I stand there

at the kitchen counter weeping

over the cutting board,

weeping as if a lover died,

as if listening to cello,

as if I realize again there is so much suffering

in the world I cannot change.

You remind me it’s natural to cry—

that waterworks are hardwired into the eyes.

You teach me sometimes what nourishes us

also burns.

There are times when I’ve wondered

why we aren’t all weeping—

weeping for the lack of connection,

weeping for children who hunger,

weeping for love between friends

and the red of maple leaves—

it’s as if you give us permission,

prepare the pathways,

so that when at last we succumb

to our glorious humanity

we don’t try to hide it,

we don’t act as if it’s a problem,

we just stand in the center of the room

and let those hot tears

fall down our cheeks,

the salt sharp and hot on our tongues.

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Perhaps we stumbled

on the words, perhaps

we forgot a note,

forgot a bridge,

bumbled our entrances,

fumbled our parts,

but we sang, oh yes,

we sang into the low golden light

of summer, sang

because joy, because

harmony, sang because

lonely, because fear,

sang because, tears

spilling down our cheeks,

we could sing, oh friends,

before we said goodbye,

we could sing.

 

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Please pretty darlin’, do not cry.

            —Paul McCartney, “Golden Slumbers” adapted from Thomas Dekkers’ “Cradle Song”

 

 

And if the candle noticed

that I played the song six times,

it didn’t say anything.

 

And if the pan were aware

that I struggled to find a harmony,

it kept the failure to itself.

 

And if the kitchen noticed

that I continued to sing the song

long after the recording was done, well—

 

The onion did its best

to mask any tears

that no one was there to see.

 

And if once there was a way

to get back homeward, well,

perhaps, perhaps it will appear again.

 

 

 

*To listen, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbcvf8a5BwM

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It wasn’t until I had passed through security

and found my way into Concourse B

that I found myself sinking into a chair

across from a giant Vienna Beef poster

and began to weep. And once they began,

the tears wouldn’t stop. Nor did I try

to stop them. I had wondered in the ICU

where they were. Had wondered

again at my parents’ home. It was strange

to be so level—not cold, really, and not numb,

but oddly steeled. It was a relief, really,

to sob into my hands. To let grief take over.

To be a maidservant to fragility.

What a gift to be sideswiped with the truth

of our vulnerability. What a blessing

to be baptized in my own helplessness.

Over the loudspeaker, they announced

that a plane was delayed. As if any of us

really know when we’ll depart, when we’ll arrive.

When the tears dried, I stood. Walked

to my gate recalibrated. Called my parents

again because I could. Because I could.

In the window, I smiled at my watery reflection,

how it almost wasn’t there at all.

 

 

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Ode to Tears

 

 

The way day doesn’t fight

the dim before night. The way

shore does not resist the river’s rise.

The way air does not refuse

the beat of wing—that’s the way

I want to let tears come.

Why do I try to force

them from falling?

Not that it works anyway.

Still, this defiance, this struggle

to appear unmoved. And why?

When there are children who laugh

and a sky that blues and stories

that break us and laughter that

seizes us? Why try to pretend

we are not changed by the way

a child loves her mother or

a friend perseveres through cancer

or the way a math teacher reminds us we have

86,400 seconds a day to spend

and if we don’t spend them,

they are gone. It is logical to weep

when met with beauty, it is practical

to let the tears release instead

of all this stupid pretending that

we are too cool or too smart or too

sophisticated to be stirred.

No, better to notice when our toes

are dipped in the grand stream

that unites us all and let that water

move right through our eyes—

better not to try to explain it.

Better to wade in the course of tears

and refuse any boat that would keep us

from touching the water. After all,

we know how to swim. After all,

there are so many reasons

to give in to who we are.

 

 

 

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Longing is the hardest thing to give up.

            —Jim Tipton, “What is This Place I Have Come To?”

 

 

Some days can’t end soon enough,

when the heart, so full of love,

breaks and breaks again—

for beauty, for loss.

And the eyes can’t cry

another damn tear

but they do anyway,

I would rather not

cry anymore, but God,

thank you for letting me

be one of the ones

who can’t help but weep,

whose house is built

too close to the water.

What a gift to feel this horrible ache

like a lantern, golden

and soft, guiding us

deeper and deeper

into our humanness,

leading us closer

to each other, even

though we have never felt

farther away,

and though the stars

are out and at last,

thank god, it is night,

we have never

been more awake.

 

 

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One Story

here, I’m thirsty
said my cheek
to your tear

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I Do Tanka

I wonder
if you remember which wound
you poured it in,
the salt
in these tears

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