It felt so good to walk in the rain,
to walk in the rain and not put
on the raincoat I’d carried for
over ten miles, to not put on
the raincoat and let the rain
soak into my sleeves, my
shoes, my thoughts, my
words, let rain soak in
and realize with each
squishy step each
soggy word what
a gift it is to not
always protect
myself from
the world.
Posts Tagged ‘vulnerability’
Because Today Vulnerable Feels Alive
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, hiking, rain, vulnerability on August 15, 2026| 4 Comments »
On the Fourth Day of the Retreat at Omega when Noah Hoffeld Played Cello and We Wrote and Spoke Poems for Three Hours
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cello, Noah Hoffeld, Omega, opening, retreat, sharing, vulnerability on June 18, 2026| 6 Comments »
You may not believe me, but
the building was floating.
Well above its foundation.
Right there in the middle
of the Hudson Valley woods,
surrounded by oak and locust,
squirrels leaping from tree to tree.
You may not believe me, but that building
not only lifted from the ground
and hovered in the air like a hummingbird
might hover above a Hosta or honeysuckle,
it glowed. The building glowed. A soft, golden
hue that radiated through the gray
cocoon of the day, as a lighthouse beacons
through fog.
And if you had been there in the building,
you might have felt it, too, the fluttering truth
of what happens to a body when,
layer by layer it opens and opens,
resists and opens, meets shame and opens,
meets fear and opens, meets ache and disgust
and exhaustion and opens and opens until
all that is left of a person is the opening itself.
You may not believe that we,
who were in that floating building
became the glow, but I know.
In my cells, still glowing hours later,
I know. I know.
Blessing for Those Who Are Willing to Be Vulnerable
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bees, flower, gratefulness, heckling, honoring, performance, safety, vulnerability on June 8, 2026| 6 Comments »
with gratefulness for all the bees
When you are soft, when you lay bare
your innerness and unfold your layers
for the world like a voluptuous, purpling
O’Keefe iris, it is true, there will be some
so threatened by your opening they will attack,
will sow fear and hatred into the warm field
of the gentle night. When it happens, may you
be surprised by how others rise to protect you
like a humming, swarming swirl of bees
that baptize the air with a wild and fierce
aliveness, a rousing acrobatic vocalizing
that shields you from that which would trample
you or cut you down. May you be astonished
by the power of the hive as they surround you.
Even as fear ripples through you, may you
be so enthralled by the buzz of their joy
that you don’t snap shut like a fist, like a trap.
And in honor of the gift you’ve received,
the gift of belonging, may you stay open.
May you be so stunned with gratefulness
that every word that falls from your mouth
tastes of truth, raw praise and dark, secret honey.
Every fortress I have ever built
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fear, fortress, self-protection, vulnerability on February 12, 2026| 4 Comments »
around my heart has come down.
Oh sure, I’ve rebuilt them with stones
of indifference. Stones of distraction.
Stones of unwillingness to see and be seen.
I’ve rebuilt the fortresses again. Again.
But then come flames of heartbreak.
Cannons of loss. The triple promises
of entropy, gravity and time. And at last,
too exhausted to lift the stones again,
I shiver with the cold wind of fear.
Sting from the sharp blades of betrayal.
But I feel, too, the gentle hand of another
as it holds my trembling hand.
Feel the body soften as I listen
to the music I could never make alone.
How present I can be when I no longer try
to rebuild the fortress. Present
enough to listen for the goodness
in the hearts of others. Present enough
to listen for the goodness in mine.
The Layers
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged compassion, cottonwood, layers, self-protection, tree, vulnerability on December 6, 2025| 6 Comments »
Furrowed and runnelled and rough,
the gnarled bark of this old cottonwood.
The dead thickness protects living tissue
from cold, from wind, from flames.
I, too, am older, but somehow survival
shows up for me the opposite.
Any shields I would build up as barriers—
life keeps peeling them away.
What thickens around me now are layers
of dynamic compassion—vital, vulnerable,
ever-growing. They do not protect
against wounds. Instead, they seem to say,
Be with what aches, my dear. Trusting
discomfort is the only way.
This moment I want to remember,
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bathing, friendship, joy, seeing, vulnerability on April 29, 2025| 4 Comments »
when my friend filled the giant
white stone resin tub with great mounds
of frothy eucalyptus lemon
scented bubbles and water as hot
as she could stand and I walked in
to find her laughing, laughing!
head thrown back and eyes alive
with her great luck to find herself
here “in a millionaire’s bathtub,”
her giddy giggles ricocheting
around the tiled room, radiating
gladness and naked joy, and though
only her head was visible above the bubbles,
I saw her, really saw her as herself,
the uncurated version—that glorious
creature we so seldom chance to glimpse
in each other. As I walked away, her voice
followed me up the stairs, full-throated
and citrus bright as she sang out
her bliss, the words indecipherable,
the tune a tune I’d never heard before
but somehow knew by heart.
To the Bunny Who Lives Under the Porch
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bunny, elegy, fear, spring, vulnerability on March 9, 2025| 8 Comments »
Snug little lump of timid flesh
whose fur matches the brown
grass of late winter, silent
little being with your long
pointy ears twisted back,
oh, soft little wide-eyed prey,
thank you for returning
to the yard this morning.
After two weeks of not seeing
your fidgety-whiskered nose,
I met your apparent loss like an elegy
I didn’t want to write. I am tired
of writing elegies, though this
is what life asks us to do—
to meet the world of loss
and learn the beauty
that grows from it.
So imagine my joy today when
I was driving in a faraway town
and my husband sent me a photo
of your mild, quiet bunny-ness
nibbling grass beside the porch,
one shiny brown eye open
to the camera. A wild gratefulness
for life flooded me then, keen
as a pasqueflower, bright
as a globe willow greening
on the winter side of spring;
and my heart leapt out
from beneath its shelf of fear,
vulnerable as you, little bunny.
Thank You Letter to My Heart
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gratefulness, heart, open, vulnerability on January 5, 2025| 4 Comments »
Thank you, heart for breaking open
every time you hear of the throbbing
ache of war. The devastation of hunger.
The agony of humans choosing
to hurt each other. May you always break.
May you never grow callous enough
that you listen to news of bombs
and betrayals as if you are listening
to the weather report. Thank you,
heart, for letting yourself be stunned
by joy at the slightest of beauties—
by the stilting gray hop of the bunny,
the pink pucker of grapefruit,
the crimson blush of amaryllis
as the tepals burgeon against the green bud.
Though the mind longs to organize,
you thrive on surprising me. Like the way
you rise up for the same rain I once reviled.
Like the way you crave the silence
that once I feared. Like the ways
you have taught me to love the parts of me
I once thought were unloveable.
For all the times I have forgotten
to say thank you, forgive me.
I am still learning. I will forget how to love,
will forget to thank you again.
But here, on the edge of who I will be,
here I am, open as I know how,
gratefulness growing, pushing
against my own green.
The Unsheathed
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged connection, peach, peaches, tenderness, vulnerability on August 29, 2024| 5 Comments »
Like skinning a peach,
I sometimes want to peel back
the masks of the world and myself
to uncover in each other what is
naked and glistening—
an essential sweetness
that can no longer be contained.
If it is wrong to wish this, I wish
it anyway, wish to meet each other
defenseless, with softness,
so moved by proof of how easily
our flesh is bruised, reminded
how tender with each other we must be.
The Choosing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged authenticity, connection, daughter, grief, happiness, intimacy, love, mother, vulnerability on May 25, 2024| 10 Comments »
Perhaps I no longer believe in happiness
as the goal. Not that I am against happiness,
but being in this very uncomfortable moment
with little light and a vicious chill, my arms wrapped
around my growing girl, both our hearts breaking
from sorrow and fear, both of us too well aware
of what can be lost, well, I would not trade this moment
for any wide-grinned hour of beach and sun,
wouldn’t rather be anywhere else with anyone—
I would choose again and again to be here
on the dark sidewalk with my girl in my arms,
our hearts so raw, the space between us so warm.
Like the Peony
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged blossom, peony, resilience, vulnerability on February 27, 2024| 12 Comments »
Like the peony that opens
and opens and opens,
this is how I want to meet life—
surviving the cold
then returning to bloom
again. Again.
That vibrant. That many-petaled.
Embarrassingly fulsome,
as if life just can’t
get enough of itself.
Truth is, life cuts you to the ground
and you lose all but the roots.
Sometime you lose those, too.
How is it, then, comes
the chance to bloom again,
to be less master of life,
and more servant to the life
that pushes through.
I want to be fluent in blooming.
I want to trust the possibility
of sweet spring perfume
as much as I trust
the inevitability of frost.
I am so grateful for beauty,
albeit brief,
for the chance to be naked,
tender, soft.
After Talking About Vulnerability
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged certainty, hats, loss, vulnerability on February 25, 2024| 6 Comments »
I just want something
I can hang my hat on, she said.
But the mortarboard didn’t hang on education.
The government’s white wig fell off.
The tiara slipped from beauty.
The skullcap blew off the church.
No hat she hung could stay.
The ball cap fell off the firm body.
Art couldn’t keep the beret.
Even the mesh net
of the beekeeper’s wide brim
fell away, fell away, it all falls away.
Which is to say nothing stays.
Not the dodo. Not the dino.
Not the houses we live in.
Not our firm young skin.
Not a father, not a son.
Not sunshine. Not rain.
Not empires. Not cats.
Not the first crushing fist of heartbreak.
Not nightmares. Not bruises.
Not hats.
She let herself drift
in what was left, her head bare,
hands empty, heart open,
eyes wide. The sun stroked
her shoulder. She breathed in
the musky scent that arrives
on the wind just before spring.
Nothing was certain. She stood alone
at the edge of every possible thing
no hat in hand, and listened
to the chickadee sing.
Perhaps Inevitable
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ekphrasis, hiding, klimt, mask, revelation, vulnerability on November 5, 2023| 4 Comments »
after Gustav Klimt’s “Tragedie”
even now beneath
the stony gray mask of control
I feel it growing
a shimmering flower of purest gold
the naked truth
*
To sign up for the class that inspired this poem (and yesterday’s, too)–it’s not too late!–see below. Though the three-week class began last Friday, you could watch the recording of the first class and join us for the next two sessions.
Love, Sex, Death and Everything: A Creativity Playshop with Gustav Klimt
Nov. 3, 10, 17, 11a.m. -1 p.m. MST
Three weeks of exploring what lurks in the depths of humanity. Each class consists of a deep Jungian-oriented dive into music and myths behind Klimt’s images led by Kayleen Asbo, interwoven with Rosemerry leading an exploration of mortality, passion, terror and beauty in your own creative writing practice. For more information and to register, visit here.
The Words I Want to Embroider into Her Hospital Gown
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged compassion, geese, hospital, illness, mom, nurse, vulnerability on October 20, 2023| 15 Comments »
Thank you for helping her meet
this day, this night.
Though she needs you now
just to take a sip of water,
she was once a volunteer firefighter.
If you were grieving, she would
bake you sweet bread.
If you were struggling,
she would leave a gift at your door
with a kind letter but no name.
Thank you for being the one
who arrives to help this woman
who always rises to help another.
This is the way we guide each other,
like the geese who change leaders
at the apex of the V when one gets tired
or sick. Thank you for flying ahead today.
The distance we must go is long.
Before the Wings Appear
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, dreams, mother, sleep, touch, vulnerability on June 3, 2023| 5 Comments »
for my daughter
“Snuggle,” she said,
a two-syllable passport
to another world—
the world in which
she is more dream
than mask, more breath
than task, her softness
inviting my softness,
and I slipped beside
her dream-scented body
and curled myself
into her shape,
one arm draped
across her weight,
and matched my inhale
to her inhale, matched
my every exhale to hers
and listened as once again
sleep took her,
and she was not curious,
not smart, not funny,
not brave, but so deeply
herself, and how could I not
fall deeper in love,
a pilgrim in this realm
of sweet defenselessness,
the silken luff of our breaths
weaving around us
like a cocoon.
All of It
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged blossom, paradox, scent, spring, vulnerability on May 15, 2023| 5 Comments »
Broken,
bare-hearted
naked in the catastrophe,
I smell it,
the sweet perfume
of apricot blossoms
wafting across
the leafless world.
La Berceuse
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ekphrasis, inner child, Kayleen Asbo, lullaby, sleep, Van Gogh, vulnerability on May 12, 2022| 10 Comments »
inspired by “La Berceuse” by Vincent van Gogh and a song by the same name by Kayleen Asbo, with a line from Paul Gaugin
There is, inside all of us,
all of us, all of us,
a child who longs
to be rocked, and rocked,
a soul child who longs
for the old sense of cradling,
a soul infant, fragile,
so green, so new,
who knows only to trust
that someone, someone,
peaceful and still,
someone with patience
and infinite calm,
with a quiet face
and sober eyes
will sit beside us
in heavy-lidded moments
when we glide defenseless
on dim shores of dreams,
yes, someone, someone,
will watch us, will watch,
will keep watch and will usher us
slowly to sleep,
to sleep, though we fight it,
oh shhhh, shhhhh.
Can you feel it, the rocking,
the rocking, the rocking,
can you feel it, the rocking,
that never stops?
Oh bless the hand,
the patient hand,
oh bless the hand
that rocks.
Growing Trust
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged armor, in love with life, trust, vulnerability on December 8, 2021| 10 Comments »
Now since I’ve tasted trust in life
why would I ever
slip again into armor?
The armor of an insincere smile
sometimes as dangerous
as the armor of a sword.
Why would I ever try to know
what to say, how to act,
how to plan, when,
with zero effort of my own,
life itself will move through me,
will rise up in me to meet itself?
Of course, like the child I am,
I forget this trust.
I slip back into habit,
believe I need protection,
fear I am isolated.
But I have fallen in love with life
at a time when that might seem impossible,
and this strange fact alone
seems enough to remind me
to ditch the armor,
to cast wide my arms,
to unsheath my heart
and say yes, life,
I trust you, I serve you.
Why would I not trust life?
It would be like a seed
evading the rain,
like a sunflower
just unfurling
trying to avoid the sun.
Sign of Inner Spring
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged hope, pussy willow, softness, vulnerability, willingness on April 3, 2020| 9 Comments »
Sign of Inner Spring
Every year the pussy willows
astonish me with their willingness
to be soft in a time when the rest
of the world is stick-ish and harsh and bare.
Sometimes softness is the key to survival.
I search for it in myself—the courage
to shed the hard shell I thought would protect me,
to shuck the hard shell that no longer fits,
and I marvel as something new emerges,
soft as pussy willows, something essential
I can bring to the world,
this vulnerable, practical hope.
Though It’s Rusty from Lack of Use
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged kitchen, love, partnership, tenderness, vulnerability on February 20, 2020| Leave a Comment »
Today I wish I were a potato peeler,
able to remove the outer layers of myself,
able to shave off any toughness I’ve developed
to protect, to safeguard, to shield. I want to give
myself to you, the inner sweetness,
the tenderest parts. I want to unpeel
any husk, any rind, any barrier
that would keep you from the heart
of me. I want to meet you vulnerably.
Today I want to take the long thin blade
and make ribbons of my resistance,
make strips of my defenses and watch
them fall like burlap veils. And if I cannot
find the courage to be the one who peels,
let me put the tool in your hand. I’m afraid,
but I am ready. Be sure, love. Be quick.