Posts Tagged ‘waking up’

The pineal gland walks down the street.
No one notices it, of course—
so few have any idea what it is.
Not to mention it’s the size of a pea.
Though a mouth sees it
and whispers to an ear,  
“I heard she secretes melatonin.”
The ear titters, as if it’s a joke.
It’s no joke. The pineal gland  
ignores their chatter. Because it’s true.
And it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
“Hey, PG, don’t worry about them,”
says the open yawn walking by.
“You’re amazing. I should know.”
The pineal gland nods and sighs.
“I feel so misunderstood,”
The yawn grows wider.
“It’s no small thing what you do—
to let in light and darkness.”
The pineal gland gives a shrug.
“In fact,” says the yawn,
“thank you for letting it all in.
That’s the only way
this world will wake up.”


(um, yeah, I know i just totally geeked out, but hey …)

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The Waking

When we wake, all people are rivers—
though some are torrents and some
mere trickles, though some break down
obstacles and some slowly meander.  
We move from our beds through the banks
of the world, our lives following the course
of the day. Our streams merge with the streams
of others. We are, every day, more each other
and still somehow ourselves. If only we could trust
our uniting currents as unthinkingly as the rivers
follow gravity—always with the least amount
of resistance. How long will we pretend
we are separate? How long before we find ourselves
joined in the communion of the sea, all our waters
one water, every waking an invitation.

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So lucky sometimes,
like today, to wake
and say to the world
I love you.
On these mornings,
almost impossible
to remember it is ever
any other way—
impossible to believe
I could wake and say
anything besides
thank you, I am grateful,
good morning blue sky,
good morning old limbs.

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Daily First Step

Every morning before I rise,
I crawl into my body, as if,
inside this grown woman
lives an infant still learning
what it is to be in a body,
what it is to move forward,
certain there is a world
I want to wobble my way through,
run through, even dance,
if only I can first find a way
to stand in it.

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I didn’t really mean at 3 a.m.

with a the blood curdling scream

of a female mountain lion

caterwauling in the woods,

the violence of branches snapping and breaking

and giant beings crashing in the dark.

Why should I be surprised

that the sound of desire—

a powerful female shrieking for union—

should sound like the worst kind of pain?

The high pitch of yearning,

the strangled wail of want,

it haunts me all day, all day.

All day, primal need screeches in my blood.

I am wildly awake.

All day, no one else can hear.


To hear this amazing sound, visit: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pxo8X5uIWRE

(Note: If you have cats, put on your headphones or they will FREAK!!)


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The kingfisher wakes me

with its strident rattle,

thrilling me out of sleep.

It’s been months since

I’ve seen one, and now

on this snowy morning

one clatters and chatters

me into spring.


The heart leaps up,

surprised it doesn’t

have wings. I’m here,

it beats, its own tuneless call.

Like the kingfisher, it’s ready

to dive into the deep.

I’m here, it calls again

from inner branches.


It need not be beautiful,

the song that reminds us

who we are—it calls to us

in its own undecipherable way

until one day when we hear it,

we can’t help but hear

our own name.


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Over a month after

the nasturtium seeds were planted,

the last four seedlings begin to push

their pale green elbows above the soil,

as if stretching before they leap.

If they were children, I might chastise them

for taking so long. As it is,

I celebrate them, bend over

to whisper encouragement.

You can do it, I say to the valiant stems.


Some mornings, when the sun

has just begun to slip

into my room, I swear

the sun says the same thing to me

as I try to hide beneath the sheets.

You can do it, the light seems to say.

It does not mention, not even once,

all the darkness it has traveled through

just to arrive at this window, this morning,

so that it might warm my elbows,

suggest there is so much more light to be found.

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at first light

the sound of geese

enters my sleep

between heartbeats


perhaps it’s stubborn

to call it music, perhaps

we all long for the world

to sing us awake

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Step One

After dragging
those heavy things
on its back
for miles and miles
across the desert
at last the bird
looks up and says
something’s not
quite right about this

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