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Posts Tagged ‘transformation’


 
When we met,
we had no idea
how we all, like
this land, carry 
inside us 
the memory 
of volcano
and glacier.
How easily we
can be fooled 
by the present
landscape, 
calm and serene.
Just because
there are spruce 
here now and 
gentle streams
doesn’t mean 
there wasn’t once
a violent explosion
of fire and ash, 
a long and cold 
scraping of ice. 
Here in the aftermath
of upheaval,
in this ongoing story
of transformation,
I see how our hearts 
have been carved wide 
as this high alpine 
basin, and even
in the places where 
nothing yet grows,
my god, it’s 
so beautiful.

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Just let the world amaze you. 
                  —Augusta Kantra
 
I want to know these brittling bones
and sleepless nights as transformation, 
my life an expression of the fundamental power 
that drives the universe to dramatically change—
as bud becomes bloom becomes fruit
becomes soil; as star dust becomes 
protoplanetary disks becomes asteroids 
become planets; as girl becomes woman becomes
slower till she’s silence. As dinosaurs become fossils
and dodos become story. All transforms. 
With no end, the universe remakes itself out of itself 
again and again and again. Looking in the mirror, 
I see in these wrinkles the chaos of early Earth 
barraged by space rocks, then a million years 
of rain, rain, rain, that somehow evolved 
into this world of earthworms, and aspen leaves, 
the spiraling song of canyon wren,
silk worms, pianos, cardamom tea, age spots,
night sweats, gray hair, cellular senescence,
and I entirely belong to this wild miasma 
that is ever becoming, each morning, 
each wrinkle a kind of transcendence, 
a path to a place I’ve never been. 

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As slowly as this aloe grows,
could I dare to flow that slowly
from this uncomfortable moment
into the moment that follows?
Not just slow, no, but deliberate—
willing to notice all that is here.
For so long I have trusted the part
of me who believes faster is better.
Now I’m exhausted, and of course,
I want to get over my exhaustion, fast.
Truth is, I love slow. I love the juiciness
of presence and quiet. Oh paradox.
Can’t I move fast and still feel spacious?
The aloe knows a single leaf a month
is leaf enough. I touch my palm to my belly
and whisper aloud what Augusta said.
Slow is enough. Slow is a blessing.
Slow is safe. The self who wants this ache
to go away fast and faster sits beside the aloe
and imagines it might open to aloe wisdom.
I imagine my blood thick as gel in the aloe leaves.
I imagine a single leaf of a thought at a time.
I notice the prickle of discomfort and
name it discomfort. Notice the impulse
to get up and run. Notice the part of me
that wants to feel better right now. Notice
how the more I notice, the more slow
feels like home.

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Ever Changing 


 
In my urgency to clutch it,
I made peace a thing
to be protected,
like a jewel, like a token,
instead of a force
that transforms.
What if I let peace sweep
through me as branches
are cleared by wind?
What if I let peace flood me,
scouring what I thought
I knew? What if, no matter
how hard I tried to
capture it, peace slipped
through my grasp like mist,
like rain, like time?
If I trusted an ever present
peace as much as I trust
ever present chaos,
who would I be then?

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Alteration


 
 
Though you’ve tried
to fit into
a thousand
small boxes,
perhaps comes
the day when
you’re opened
by grief or by
love, and your
thoughts unstitch
from what you knew,
and your mind
begins to rhyme
with sky, becomes
spacious enough
whole flocks
of bluebirds
can fly right
through, and
for a time you
stop trying
to make sense
of things, you
simply yield
to being
a home for
the ecstasy
of wings.

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The way beetles 
have carved their way
into the bark of the pine, 
that is the way you carved
your life into my life.
Beneath my skin
where no one can see,
there, every surface of me
is marked by your life,
the ways you burrowed
into everything I thought
I knew and rewrote
me into questions.
I admit I cannot read
the markings, though
I have tried.
Perhaps it is enough
to know this is true—
I’ve been forever changed
by the story of you.

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I know, music alone
will not save us. But tonight
when my daughter played
the song we both love,
we smiled at each other,
all giddy and warm,
and some shriveled
part of me revived.
It was like those seeds
in the desert that wait years
to germinate—all they need
is one good rain.
That’s what a song can do.
Remind us our hope
is merely dormant, not dead.
Who could blame me, then,
for wanting to bring a song
to the whole thirsty world,
a song that soaks into
our parched hearts,
stunning us with just how fast
even the harshest world
can transform.

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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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said the ice to the flame
teach me again
to be cloud

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By noon
the snow
that changed
 
the world
from brown
to white
 
in just
a day
seems gone—
 
the meadow
however, remembers
the gift.
 
Come spring,
there will
be green.

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tells me he used to be mean.
Tells me used to not like
who he was. Tells me he dreamed
of his mother after she died
and she told him that though
she was no longer with him,
she still could teach him
how to be alive, which,
in practical terms, meant
how to be kind.
In the time it takes for me to buy
lint rollers and lip balm,
I am so moved by this woman
I will only meet through
a dream and a checkout lane
conversation that I walk out
into the night with a smile
on my face. This is the way
we share hope with each other,
one thin strand at a time.
By the time I get to the car,
I’m still smiling, wholly tethered to life
by a gift that appeared so slight
at first I didn’t even know
it was there.
 
 

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just when I think
I’m made of sludge
you candle me

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consuming everything I touched.
Every surface. Every person.
Every minute, every thought.
Nothing went unlicked by flame.
Everything charred. Seared.
Scarred. Ash.
It scared and unmade me.
I’d never before
been so nothing.
Had never before lost
every wall, every line,
every idea, every mask.
Such a merciless,
astonishing teacher.
Tonight, grief is more a candle.
Sometimes, I feel the heat on my skin,
smell the acrid singe of my hair.
But for now, familiar with
its gentle light, I’m more attuned
to shadow, more at home in dark.
Now, this small flame of sorrow
reminds me who I am,
who I’ve loved, and
how I would not give up
a half Planck length of love.
Not that loss is easier, no,
but god help me, I’ve learned
it’s a gift to burn.

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these places
I once dreaded
now my playground

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Between when the hummingbirds come
and when too soon they leave,
we sit in the warm dusk and watch
as broadtails and black chins dart
and dive, defend and chase—
the feeder a loud, competitive zone
where small feathered bodies block
and jostle, crowd and race—
almost impossible to imagine
five months back when this deck
was a still, chilly silent place.
That’s how it is with transformation.
The first thing that must go is the self
who doesn’t believe it can happen.

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Red were the leaves
in that Illinois fall,
red was the blood
she did not bleed,
and brittle was the straw
in the hat she did not wear
as she did not walk
to the store. Instead
she sat on the small
metal chair in her room
and did not cry,
my grandmother all those
years ago, and she
thought of the baby
she would have
with the man who
she married but did
not love, and green
were her thoughts
as the child began to grow,
green as the garden
she did not sow.
She did not yet know
how he would learn
to spin all that
nothing she had
into gold.

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Chocolate, of course,
the cake we baked
to celebrate the birthday
of Timothée Chalamet,
not that he will ever
taste it to know
we added pure imagination
with the sugar, the butter,
the flour, the grated beets.
Still, such joy as we baked,
as we sang. Such joy
as we made the sweet batter,
as we buttered and floured
the pans, as we waited
for heat to do its good hot work
transforming sugar and flour
into cake. Every day
the heart breaks and today
there is also the chance to play,
to make joy where before
there was only an egg,
a pinch of salt, a bit of milk,
some flour, two empty pans.

*

yes, friends, you may recall this is our THIRD year baking cakes for Timothée Hal Chalomet. He’s basically one of the family now!

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How


 
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
            —Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Sonnets to Orpheus 2, 29,” trans. Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows
 
 
When so much is bitter,
it is hard to believe in patience,
hard to trust transformation,
the goodness of time.
How to turn the self
into something it’s not?
The ripest, sweetest grapes
make the strongest wine.
Whatever is sweetest in me
is not me—
is whatever shines through me.
That. I am learning to trust
the sweetness, the ripening
of that.
 

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            while looking at Klimt’s “Tree of Life,” I consider
 
 
After grief carved me, dismembered me,
scattered my parts, I couldn’t imagine
how I’d ever be put back together.
This is how it is life grew me again,
less like a woman, more like a tree
rooted in compassion and forget me nots,
nourished by all that had happened,
rising out of old stories, old wounds,
old parts, old love, new love.
The person I was is gone, yet here,
fueling the flourishing, the unfurling,
fashioning my limbs into a resting place
for dark wings, for golden light.

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I listen as she spins
gold out of words,
infusing the room
with grail and goddess,
with Celtic greens
and Grecian blues,
until the whole room
is glowing and golden, lit
by her love for the world.
Stories are, perhaps,
one of the simplest
proofs that miracles exist.
Look how before
there was only a room.
Now everything
and everyone in it
is shining, changed,
drenched in grace.

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