Lately it feels like
I am being
 
Agitated
 
By a
Giant
Cosmic
Washing machine.
 
Particles once settled deep
Within the fabric of my being
Shaken free,
Rinsed clean.
 
I only ask for a moment
To pause
In between cycles
So I can brace myself
For the final
Spin.

Sometimes it feels
like I pass my days
lost in my head
and a cup of tea.

But secretly,
quietly,
magnificently,

I am changing the world.

I’ve been trying all day
to find the perfect words to convey
the ending to this story,
the period at the end of the sentence,
the chime that signifies completion.

I turn to my usual tricks:
meditation, my journal, a walk in the sticks.
But my head’s not in it anymore.
I’ve already started moving on
to what the next moment will bring.

The deadline at the end of May,
the things I want to do today.
It’s hard to stop the flow of life,
the urge to move from one thing to the next
without taking time to rest.

So I will force myself to pause
if only for a moment, because
something inside of me knows
that it is in the space of silence
that new worlds are formed.

Do you ever wonder what would have happened
if you had done something else?

If you had opened your heart instead of playing cool,
or held back harsh words that still linger on morning dew?

If you had shifted your eyes to meet a gaze
instead of glancing away a moment too soon?

Or sat a little closer on a late winter’s night
instead of turning to face a distant moon?

Do you ever wonder where you would be
if circumstances hadn’t intervened
to land us in divergent streams,

floating across a dark and lonely landscape,
wondering if we will make it home again?

We are not so different, you and I.

Perhaps you’d like to see
a different version of me?

Maybe sweet and silly,
flirty and frilly,
strong and stable,
or adept and able?

Could I be fiercely faithful,
totally tasteful,
shockingly shrewd,
or lasciviously lewd?

Am I light as a butterfly
sarcastic and wry,
boisterous and bold,
or quiet and cold?

Which of these might serve me best
if I had to put them to the test?
But then again, who’s to say
that I can’t be all these things today?

Let’s be as children,
Eager to discover things
We already knew.

Don’t mistake my silence for indifference.
I need time to soak things in.

Did you notice the way
the gilded frame around the frosted mirror
behind the bar reflects more light than the mirror itself,
the way the bartender shakes the drinks
in time to the bluegrass playing on the old record player,
the way the waitress in the long, patterned dress
disappears and reemerges
through the half-draped curtain
that blocks the view of a hallway?
I wonder what else is down that hallway.

Don’t mistake my silence for indifference.
I’m not the type to wear my heart upon my sleeve.

Have you ever eaten an artichoke from the start,
taken the time to peel back the thick,
outer layers, one by one,
noticed the way each layer
is more tender, yielding, nourishing,
the reward at the center ever more gratifying,
because you took the time to savor the unfolding?

I’m doing the best I can
with each day that I’m living,
to try to embrace
the gifts I’ve been given.

Sometimes I soar.
Sometimes I squeak by.
Sometimes I just want to
lie down and cry.

Some days are light;
Others are packed.
I hope I won’t let things
slip through the cracks.

I aim to be kind
to the people I know,
and I’m sorry for any
of the hurt I may sow.

One thing I’ve found
I try not to forget:
The easier I am,
the easier life gets.

I keep an empty shelf
in the cupboard of my soul,
inviting divine secrets,
synchronistic moments,
and serendipitous encounters.

The empty shelf offers space
for the dream I can’t envision,
sparks of inspiration,
a gentle kind of wisdom.

And when that space is filled
I will clear another,
trusting that if I let go,
I will allow more treasures to flow
into the new space that I hold.

Studies show that most people,
when looking at a familiar word
that is missing a letter,
interpret that missing letter
and don’t notice that it’s not there.

Most of our universe is empty space
and yet I see and perceive things to be
solid,
liquid,
gas.
My mind fills in the blanks.

Is that how it is between you and me,
that we can share an experience
and then go on to tell
such different stories about it?
Are we filling in the blanks
with our biases and expectations,
letting our perceptions
color our interpretations,
without stepping back to recognize
the lens through which we are judging?

What will it take to notice the missing letters?

Someone is planting seeds all around me.

I lie down in the barren field
and close my eyes and count to ten.

Nothing.

I close my eyes again and listen.
The airplane flying overhead.
The gentle sway of distant tree limbs moved by the breeze.
The hiss of air as it streams into my nostrils.

My mind is impatient.
It wants to see the results.
It wants to see the first green sprouts emerge on the landscape,
the first physical evidence of the life that is buried within the soil.

I close my eyes and feel.
The warmth on my face.
The dampness of the Earth slowly seeping
through the clothes on my back.
A mosquito on my toe.
A deep peace coursing through my veins.

And through my closed eyes I finally see
That what is emerging will be magnificent.

(or doing something terrifying)
(or doing something exciting)
(or pretty much every day)

Life is a gift.
Anything is possible.
It’s happening.
Savor the unfolding.

This is what a broken heart feels like:

A pressure just behind my sternum
and suddenly I can’t breathe.

An ache radiating in all directions
slowly rendering me numb,
as though a steady drip of Lidocaine
was running through my veins.

I want to move.

I want to find something to hold on to,
to pull me back into this moment.

I want to shut down the feeling,
to pretend that it doesn’t exist.

But pushing against it only causes it to grow.

There will come a time
when we look back on this day
and remember it as
the spark that ignited the flame,
the catalyst that set the ball in motion.

There will come a time
when we will look back on a picture
and remember the smiles without the tears,
the outcome without the angst.

There will come a time
when the swirling storm of turmoil
will be edited out of the frame,
leaving only the rainbow that we formed
from fragments of light.

When there is no room left for love,
when you have stuffed your bags so full
that the zipper moans as you close it
and the seams threaten to burst;

when the weight of obligation presses against
your chest and the steady beat of
shoulds and have-tos pulses in your head;

drop all of those things you believe
to be essential and real.
let them all go and feel
the breath in your lungs,
the breeze on your face,
this gentle embrace.
 
When there is no room for love, imagine
that love can squeeze through the narrowest of cracks,
lay roots through a mountain of granite,
spread across a field of doubt and insecurity,
leaving a trail of shimmer-glazed popcorn
that will lead you back
to who you are.
 
When there is no room left for love, remember
that love occupies no space,
requires no time,
inhabits no place.

Love is.

Fearing how the story will end,
I am afraid to start.

Does that ever happen to you?

My mind spins a web of permutations,
frantic factorizations,
searching for the right combination,
a Choose Your Own Adventure
that I can’t put down
until I’ve found the right path,

only to find that what I was searching for
wasn’t the holy grail at the end of the journey,
but the courage to begin in the first place.

Thoughts become shackles,
Imprisoning me within
My own illusions.

If her heart were a flower,
it would never cease to bloom.

Nourished by love from an endless spring,
lilac and rose and aquamarine buds
would sprout each day
on branches that reach
ever skyward to dance
with clouds and rainbows.

“And I can’t stop smiling,”
she said, slightly under her breath,
though a stranger walking by
might have heard her.

What a gift that we can begin again.
Imagine the possibilities!

I sit on the deck
and listen to the birds
sing their morning song,
slightly different
from the day before.
The sun peeks its head
above the tops of trees
as the wind rattles their leaves.

And I wonder how many new cells
there are in my body today,
and how many have been shed.

Imagine the possibility
of a few hundred new days,
almost the same,
yet slightly different
than the one before.

When I was a little girl
and I got hurt, my mother
would try to comfort me.

Held in her embrace,
tears veiled my face as I cried,
“I want to go home.”

Over and over and over again:
“I want to go home.”

“You are home,” she would say.
“We are at home.”

Over and over and over again:
“I want to go home.”

Why is the best part,
The part I’d most like to write,
Indescribable?

She stopped,
crouched low,
and fixed her gaze.

Slowly she began to move
with singular intention,
slinking forward
with the stealth of a fox,
or that of a child who has crept
out of her room for a midnight treat.

He seemed to sense her,
though he kept nibbling on his lunch,
perhaps secretly taunting her
to come closer,
waiting until just the last minute
to fly up into the tree.

Still, she darted after him,
only to be halted
by an annoying tug at her chest.
The leash had run out of slack.
The leash always runs out of slack and yet,
she always goes after the squirrel.

She just can’t help herself.

I’ve come to the river to sit,
for this is where my soul can breathe,

amidst the grasses and the trees,
watching the clouds above
reflected in the water below,
a mirror of myself as I take in this moment.

I’ve come to the river to sit,
to pause.

And it feels right now
like I am the only thing that is still
in this wild world around me.

I’ve come to the river to sit.
This is where my soul can grieve.

The movement of the water soothes me,
reminds me that life keeps flowing,
just as the current never changes
its direction.

I wanted to tell you a story
as we sat under the tree,
to share a piece of my heart,
a glimpse inside of me.

I mustered up the courage,
dug deep inside my soul,
putting together pieces
to make the picture whole.

I wove humor and sadness,
some moments of madness,
and even a few of my demons to banish.

The highs and the lows,
the peaks and the woes,
until I was utterly stripped to the bone.

You turned and you asked,
“Is that the last
of this tale that you’ve been spinning?”

I said, “My friend,
there is no end.
We are always just beginning.”

The landscape is always changing.
This year the sage along the highway seems bigger,
the snow on the mountains dwindles,
and smoke is thick as clouds.
We are afraid of the fire.
 
The landscape is always changing.
Extraordinary structures of concrete and glass,
once so jarring,
become part of the mundane
as my eyes adjust to the changing scene.
Though they long for green.
 
This year passes with the landmarks of time, 
bringing glimpses of fading emotions
as I let go of the story
of a distant memory.
 
The landscape is always changing.
I see it in the charred remains of the forest,
the heat it takes to melt steel,
the burning rage of dissidence.
And still we are afraid of the fire.
 
But the lodgepole pines of Yellowstone
will only release their seeds in 150 degree heat
and ash that falls like snowflakes
nourishes the soil,
readying it for new life.

life can be funny this way:
the way the best and the worst are synchronized
so that the euphoric memory of new life
can rouse a surge of tears
as it is so intertwined with a moment
when the rug was pulled out
from underneath the façade.

life can be funny this way:
the way a person can arrive
during a time of deep despair
and bring in a joy so unexpected
that the wound suddenly doesn’t sting
with such intensity and the unknown
doesn’t feel so frightening.

life can be funny this way:
the way love and rage and fear
and gratitude can circulate through me
as I laugh and cry at the same time.

and the way that comfort comes
not only in the warm embrace of an other
but in the still, cold silence of my self.

life can be funny.

Clouds closed in.
Fog so thick it seemed easier
to let myself become engulfed
rather than try to climb
to higher ground.

The peaks seemed farther away
each day I followed the path
that led down instead of up.

Did I have a choice?

Lost.
Lost myself.
I lost myself.

How does that even happen?

To stand on my own
two feet
and
let
my
self
slip
away.

Her nametag said “Miracle,”
which seemed something lyrical.
 
I asked how she got her name,
though I could imagine the story
even before she told it.
 
I just wanted to see the way her face lit up
as she remembered
who she was.

Do you fill your cup with coffee
or fill it up with tea,
with all your mental anguish,
or possibility?

Do you pour it out for others
leaving nothing left for you?
Steeped in good intentions,
the result a bitter brew.

Me, I fill my cup in nature,
with laughter and good friends,
by making time for myself
and a present, mindful lens.

If my cup is filled to brimming
and teeters on the brink,
there’s so much more I have to share
as I offer you a drink.

She
always
chooses the
mystery-flavored
lollipop, even when
her favorite, blue
raspberry, is
sitting
right
n
e
x
t
t
o
i
t.

Take this offering from my heart.
No need to pay me back.
The gift is yours to receive
without strings attached.

Love is what I have to give.
This much I know is true.
And if my fear should stifle me,
‘twould only punish you.

We all wear masks to shield ourselves
from being broken down.
But when we open up our hearts,
connection can be found.

So come, my friend,
and take my hand.
There’s no need for confusion.
I’ll be me and you’ll be you.
The rest is just illusion.

Possibility came to visit me
In an early morning dream.
She was cloaked in all potential
And veiled in mystery.
 
I almost didn’t answer
When she roused me from the deep,
Urged me to pick up the pen
‘Stead of going back to sleep.
 
Her message was quite simple,
And I know it to be true.
So I quickly jotted down these words
To share them here with you.
 
While “anything is possible”
Is said time and time again,
The trick to finding rainbows is
Remembering to look for them.

The geese are preparing for their migration,
teaching the young ones how to fly in formation.
Soon it will be time for them to move on from this place.

But today they will stay.
Today they will give their children
one more tool
to help them survive.

Even for my flock
today is a day for standing still,
for appreciating the moment,
for teaching and for learning.

I close my eyes to listen to the geese
and think about the things I will give to my young
to prepare them for their migration,

so the road bumps and hurdles of life
will not hinder their flight,

so they will know when to follow
and when to take the lead,

and so the love that surrounds them
will buoy them on their journey.

Pull up a chair
and tell me your story,
a friendship we will christen.

For your tale and mine
are intertwined,
if we take the time to listen.

There’s a voice inside my head
That says I’m wasting time,
That I’m supposed to follow a straight line
And not spread myself out all over the place.
 
That I stretch too far beyond my territory,
That I’m not behaving the right way,
That I could use more discipline.
 
The voice was loud this morning,
But I was louder as it scolded me
About all the things I had yet to complete.
“Just stop!” I proclaimed,
“I’m taking a walk.”
 
About a mile away from home,
I was thinking about a poem
When I was distracted
By my neighbor’s yard.
 
Don’t those flowers know
That they’re supposed to grow
Straight up from the ground
And not sideways through cracks in stone walls?
Perhaps someone ought to tame them back

Before beauty becomes unruly.

We are all reaching toward higher space.
Watch me as I rise in an ever-expanding spiral
like the butterfly that crossed my path
at the bottom of the hill.

She emerged from the tall grass to my left.
I stopped in my tracks and watched
as she passed at the level of my gaze.

She was as high as the treetops
by the time she reached
the other side of the street
and she continued her journey until
I could see her only as a dark flutter
against a bright blue sky.

Have you ever seen a butterfly hesitate
in its upward movement?

Neither have I.

With a smile and a wink,
you touched my heart.
And though our tales
seem worlds apart,

when we let our guards down,
we find common ground.
For beyond the outer frame
what makes us human is the same:

our heart,
our divine spark,
the still part
that knows

what we all really want.

Sometimes I dance in the moonlight,
soft in my skin, fluid on my feet.
Limbs brush through the cool night air,
painting new maps in this territory
between earth and sky.
 
Sometimes I linger in the rain,
as though its liquid would seep
into my pores to replenish me.
Languid.
The weight of the water pulls me down,
holding me in a space
where I can’t help but remember.
 
Sometimes I bask in the sun,
dressed in black and too warmly for the weather,
absorbing as much heat as I can stand
as my left arm stretches up
and over the back of the chair.
Face tilts up.
Eyes close.
I lift my feet off the ground, extend my right leg,
and that movement sets me gently rocking.
 
Cradled in the perfect balance
of motion and stillness,
a thought arises:
I only wanted to stop my soul from dying;
I never imagined what it would feel like
to live.

In the space between
you & me
two circles intersect,
and what meets in the middle
is the essence
of our connection.

The space between
you & me
is a playground for our souls,
filled with words
wanting to express
what doesn’t need to be said.

In the space between,
we dance together
to an unheard melody
and sing in harmonies
which can be felt
in our hearts.

The space between
you & me
is energy revealing itself,
where my truth
and yours are one
if only for this moment.

I sit down on the green metal bench.
There must be someplace else
I need to be right now,
but I feel like a pause,
and I know I will catch up
with the day eventually.

It’s quiet,
except for the hum of energy
from the buildings that surround the courtyard,
the crescendo of cars driving by on the road
like swells of ocean waves.

There are birds somewhere.
I can’t see them,
but every so often one calls out to its friend
and a conversation is started.
Then, silence again.

I’m glad I brought my lunch with me.
Somehow the food tastes better,
the lettuce more crisp,
the blueberries more luscious,
the avocado more sultry,
in this space of an easy mind.

Underneath the heavy weight of fear,
The shoulds, the coulds,
A path that seems unclear,
 
Beneath the snow-white
Winter of my mind,
Where flowers droop and
Petals wilt in space confined,
 
A steady chant has quietly begun:
Feed me.
Water me.
Point me toward the sun.

A steady chant has quietly begun:
Feed me.
Water me.
Point me toward the sun.

The tale began long before I was born,
Winding in strands as time spirals the story in all directions.
Each moment is but one twist in the narrative,
One glimpse which does not make a whole,
Imagining who I was in yesterday
Based on a self I see today
As I am rippling out into tomorrow.

I don’t remember signing up for this class
or even seeing the syllabus.

If I had looked at the lesson plan,
the list of assignments,
the sequence of tests and quizzes,
I’m sure I would have passed it up
in favor of something more like
Compartmentalization 101 or
Skimming in Oblivion.

I am a master procrastinator,
and as I stare in the face of pop quiz #48,
I can find fifteen different ways to avoid,
distract, or otherwise evade this task.

But it keeps circling back in one form or another.

I can wish for blinders, tunnel vision,
or anything else that would limit my perception.

But when I look up and see
that grand old tree blowing in the breeze,
the exquisite movement of its leaves,
the owl gazing down upon me,

I think how glad I am to know it through these eyes.

Our lives are woven together in moments
of chance encounters,
smiles and laughter,
gestures and touches.

Moments so brief,
they seemed like nothing.

But moments add up,
and moments have meaning,
just as each stitch
is an integral part
of the whole.

For even if two threads
never cross again,
they will forever be a part
of the same tapestry.

with concrete walls
and massive boulders,
sandbags piled high along the shore.
They compelled her to stay
within her bounds.
 
But I stood on the edge of the cliff
and watched her seep through cracks,
wash around edges,
sometimes with thunderous force,
more often with the graceful undulations
of the snakes that guard the temple in Bali,
the one that can be reached only when the tide is low.
 
I went there once when I was younger
and more fearful, anxious to leave
before she came back, lest I become hostage
to the rising tide and the hazards
I could not see below its surface.
 
Now I am not so afraid.
Now I would stay in that holy place,
enraptured by her fluid embrace,
knowing that she would show me
the path to my own liberation,
 
just as she would never let herself be contained.

My dad held onto the back of the seat
the first time I rode my bike
without training wheels.
 
“Don’t let go,” I pleaded.
 
I wasn’t aware of when the bike
slipped out of his grip,
but I can still feel the moment
of bringing myself into balance,
of releasing my breath,
and finding the freedom to fly.

I don’t belong here.

I’m trespassing in someone else’s neighborhood
as I turn off the main road and onto the quiet,
tree-lined streets where people live.
This is where I’ll take my walk today
and no one will know the difference.

The woman working in her garden,
the man with the four dogs
(two large and two small)
the couple on their power walk,
all smile and wave a friendly good morning

as though I am a part of the fabric of their world,
as though it would be perfectly natural
if I turned up the next driveway, walked up
to the pale blue house with the red door,
put my key in the lock and stepped inside.

But this is not my home.
I’ve never walked this path before.

“Do you trust in the flow of life?”
was the question on the table,
as if I would be able to provide
a straightforward answer,

as if a simple
Yes or No
would suffice,

as if it was easy
to shed years of conditioning
insisting I had to be the one
to make things happen

to go out and grab the bull by the head,
instead of letting life lead the dance,
delegating to the universe and taking a chance.

There are possibilities that I can’t dream of,
the way the earth brings more shades of green
than any human mind could conceive of,

the way a pansy peaks out
from the shadow of winter,
the cardinal returns,
the canyon teems with life again,

and I didn’t have to do a thing.

I always cry a little
when I touch
what is
real.

What would it take
to give myself a break
from the not good-enoughs,
the voice inside that scoffs?

What would you need
to feel fully freed
from the judgments you make
on the actions you take?

What would it feel like
to love our Selves
unconditionally?

What if
the only thing
that mattered right now
was being here
together?

The wildflowers are starting to sprout
on the shoulders of highways,
the hills along the side of the road,
my neighbors’ yards.

Their seeds will be blown and scattered,
each one holding the potential
of all creation.

Does the flower worry about
which seeds will take root and which
will wash away with the next rain?

Does she hold them close,
not wanting to squander
the precious gifts she holds within her heart?

Or does she release,
with joyful abandon,
surrendering to the mystery
of the unknowing?

More and more I remember
that the seed that is blown
from where I stand,
never to be seen again,
may very well land
and grow in someone else’s garden.

Lately it feels like
I am being
 
Agitated
 
By a
Giant
Cosmic
Washing machine.
 
Particles once settled deep
Within the fabric of my being
Shaken free,
Rinsed clean.
 
I only ask for a moment
To pause
In between cycles
So I can brace myself
For the final
Spin.

Sometimes it feels
like I pass my days
lost in my head
and a cup of tea.

But secretly,
quietly,
magnificently,

I am changing the world.

I’ve been trying all day
to find the perfect words to convey
the ending to this story,
the period at the end of the sentence,
the chime that signifies completion.

I turn to my usual tricks:
meditation, my journal, a walk in the sticks.
But my head’s not in it anymore.
I’ve already started moving on
to what the next moment will bring.

The deadline at the end of May,
the things I want to do today.
It’s hard to stop the flow of life,
the urge to move from one thing to the next
without taking time to rest.

So I will force myself to pause
if only for a moment, because
something inside of me knows
that it is in the space of silence
that new worlds are formed.

Do you ever wonder what would have happened
if you had done something else?

If you had opened your heart instead of playing cool,
or held back harsh words that still linger on morning dew?

If you had shifted your eyes to meet a gaze
instead of glancing away a moment too soon?

Or sat a little closer on a late winter’s night
instead of turning to face a distant moon?

Do you ever wonder where you would be
if circumstances hadn’t intervened
to land us in divergent streams,

floating across a dark and lonely landscape,
wondering if we will make it home again?

We are not so different, you and I.

Perhaps you’d like to see
a different version of me?

Maybe sweet and silly,
flirty and frilly,
strong and stable,
or adept and able?

Could I be fiercely faithful,
totally tasteful,
shockingly shrewd,
or lasciviously lewd?

Am I light as a butterfly
sarcastic and wry,
boisterous and bold,
or quiet and cold?

Which of these might serve me best
if I had to put them to the test?
But then again, who’s to say
that I can’t be all these things today?

Let’s be as children,
Eager to discover things
We already knew.

Don’t mistake my silence for indifference.
I need time to soak things in.

Did you notice the way
the gilded frame around the frosted mirror
behind the bar reflects more light than the mirror itself,
the way the bartender shakes the drinks
in time to the bluegrass playing on the old record player,
the way the waitress in the long, patterned dress
disappears and reemerges
through the half-draped curtain
that blocks the view of a hallway?
I wonder what else is down that hallway.

Don’t mistake my silence for indifference.
I’m not the type to wear my heart upon my sleeve.

Have you ever eaten an artichoke from the start,
taken the time to peel back the thick,
outer layers, one by one,
noticed the way each layer
is more tender, yielding, nourishing,
the reward at the center ever more gratifying,
because you took the time to savor the unfolding?

I’m doing the best I can
with each day that I’m living,
to try to embrace
the gifts I’ve been given.

Sometimes I soar.
Sometimes I squeak by.
Sometimes I just want to
lie down and cry.

Some days are light;
Others are packed.
I hope I won’t let things
slip through the cracks.

I aim to be kind
to the people I know,
and I’m sorry for any
of the hurt I may sow.

One thing I’ve found
I try not to forget:
The easier I am,
the easier life gets.

I keep an empty shelf
in the cupboard of my soul,
inviting divine secrets,
synchronistic moments,
and serendipitous encounters.

The empty shelf offers space
for the dream I can’t envision,
sparks of inspiration,
a gentle kind of wisdom.

And when that space is filled
I will clear another,
trusting that if I let go,
I will allow more treasures to flow
into the new space that I hold.

Studies show that most people,
when looking at a familiar word
that is missing a letter,
interpret that missing letter
and don’t notice that it’s not there.

Most of our universe is empty space
and yet I see and perceive things to be
solid,
liquid,
gas.
My mind fills in the blanks.

Is that how it is between you and me,
that we can share an experience
and then go on to tell
such different stories about it?
Are we filling in the blanks
with our biases and expectations,
letting our perceptions
color our interpretations,
without stepping back to recognize
the lens through which we are judging?

What will it take to notice the missing letters?

Someone is planting seeds all around me.

I lie down in the barren field
and close my eyes and count to ten.

Nothing.

I close my eyes again and listen.
The airplane flying overhead.
The gentle sway of distant tree limbs moved by the breeze.
The hiss of air as it streams into my nostrils.

My mind is impatient.
It wants to see the results.
It wants to see the first green sprouts emerge on the landscape,
the first physical evidence of the life that is buried within the soil.

I close my eyes and feel.
The warmth on my face.
The dampness of the Earth slowly seeping
through the clothes on my back.
A mosquito on my toe.
A deep peace coursing through my veins.

And through my closed eyes I finally see
That what is emerging will be magnificent.

(or doing something terrifying)
(or doing something exciting)
(or pretty much every day)

Life is a gift.
Anything is possible.
It’s happening.
Savor the unfolding.

This is what a broken heart feels like:

A pressure just behind my sternum
and suddenly I can’t breathe.

An ache radiating in all directions
slowly rendering me numb,
as though a steady drip of Lidocaine
was running through my veins.

I want to move.

I want to find something to hold on to,
to pull me back into this moment.

I want to shut down the feeling,
to pretend that it doesn’t exist.

But pushing against it only causes it to grow.

There will come a time
when we look back on this day
and remember it as
the spark that ignited the flame,
the catalyst that set the ball in motion.

There will come a time
when we will look back on a picture
and remember the smiles without the tears,
the outcome without the angst.

There will come a time
when the swirling storm of turmoil
will be edited out of the frame,
leaving only the rainbow that we formed
from fragments of light.

When there is no room left for love,
when you have stuffed your bags so full
that the zipper moans as you close it
and the seams threaten to burst;

when the weight of obligation presses against
your chest and the steady beat of
shoulds and have-tos pulses in your head;

drop all of those things you believe
to be essential and real.
let them all go and feel
the breath in your lungs,
the breeze on your face,
this gentle embrace.
 
When there is no room for love, imagine
that love can squeeze through the narrowest of cracks,
lay roots through a mountain of granite,
spread across a field of doubt and insecurity,
leaving a trail of shimmer-glazed popcorn
that will lead you back
to who you are.
 
When there is no room left for love, remember
that love occupies no space,
requires no time,
inhabits no place.

Love is.

Fearing how the story will end,
I am afraid to start.

Does that ever happen to you?

My mind spins a web of permutations,
frantic factorizations,
searching for the right combination,
a Choose Your Own Adventure
that I can’t put down
until I’ve found the right path,

only to find that what I was searching for
wasn’t the holy grail at the end of the journey,
but the courage to begin in the first place.

Thoughts become shackles,
Imprisoning me within
My own illusions.

If her heart were a flower,
it would never cease to bloom.

Nourished by love from an endless spring,
lilac and rose and aquamarine buds
would sprout each day
on branches that reach
ever skyward to dance
with clouds and rainbows.

“And I can’t stop smiling,”
she said, slightly under her breath,
though a stranger walking by
might have heard her.

What a gift that we can begin again.
Imagine the possibilities!

I sit on the deck
and listen to the birds
sing their morning song,
slightly different
from the day before.
The sun peeks its head
above the tops of trees
as the wind rattles their leaves.

And I wonder how many new cells
there are in my body today,
and how many have been shed.

Imagine the possibility
of a few hundred new days,
almost the same,
yet slightly different
than the one before.

When I was a little girl
and I got hurt, my mother
would try to comfort me.

Held in her embrace,
tears veiled my face as I cried,
“I want to go home.”

Over and over and over again:
“I want to go home.”

“You are home,” she would say.
“We are at home.”

Over and over and over again:
“I want to go home.”

Why is the best part,
The part I’d most like to write,
Indescribable?

She stopped,
crouched low,
and fixed her gaze.

Slowly she began to move
with singular intention,
slinking forward
with the stealth of a fox,
or that of a child who has crept
out of her room for a midnight treat.

He seemed to sense her,
though he kept nibbling on his lunch,
perhaps secretly taunting her
to come closer,
waiting until just the last minute
to fly up into the tree.

Still, she darted after him,
only to be halted
by an annoying tug at her chest.
The leash had run out of slack.
The leash always runs out of slack and yet,
she always goes after the squirrel.

She just can’t help herself.

I’ve come to the river to sit,
for this is where my soul can breathe,

amidst the grasses and the trees,
watching the clouds above
reflected in the water below,
a mirror of myself as I take in this moment.

I’ve come to the river to sit,
to pause.

And it feels right now
like I am the only thing that is still
in this wild world around me.

I’ve come to the river to sit.
This is where my soul can grieve.

The movement of the water soothes me,
reminds me that life keeps flowing,
just as the current never changes
its direction.

I wanted to tell you a story
as we sat under the tree,
to share a piece of my heart,
a glimpse inside of me.

I mustered up the courage,
dug deep inside my soul,
putting together pieces
to make the picture whole.

I wove humor and sadness,
some moments of madness,
and even a few of my demons to banish.

The highs and the lows,
the peaks and the woes,
until I was utterly stripped to the bone.

You turned and you asked,
“Is that the last
of this tale that you’ve been spinning?”

I said, “My friend,
there is no end.
We are always just beginning.”

The landscape is always changing.
This year the sage along the highway seems bigger,
the snow on the mountains dwindles,
and smoke is thick as clouds.
We are afraid of the fire.
 
The landscape is always changing.
Extraordinary structures of concrete and glass,
once so jarring,
become part of the mundane
as my eyes adjust to the changing scene.
Though they long for green.
 
This year passes with the landmarks of time, 
bringing glimpses of fading emotions
as I let go of the story
of a distant memory.
 
The landscape is always changing.
I see it in the charred remains of the forest,
the heat it takes to melt steel,
the burning rage of dissidence.
And still we are afraid of the fire.
 
But the lodgepole pines of Yellowstone
will only release their seeds in 150 degree heat
and ash that falls like snowflakes
nourishes the soil,
readying it for new life.

life can be funny this way:
the way the best and the worst are synchronized
so that the euphoric memory of new life
can rouse a surge of tears
as it is so intertwined with a moment
when the rug was pulled out
from underneath the façade.

life can be funny this way:
the way a person can arrive
during a time of deep despair
and bring in a joy so unexpected
that the wound suddenly doesn’t sting
with such intensity and the unknown
doesn’t feel so frightening.

life can be funny this way:
the way love and rage and fear
and gratitude can circulate through me
as I laugh and cry at the same time.

and the way that comfort comes
not only in the warm embrace of an other
but in the still, cold silence of my self.

life can be funny.

Clouds closed in.
Fog so thick it seemed easier
to let myself become engulfed
rather than try to climb
to higher ground.

The peaks seemed farther away
each day I followed the path
that led down instead of up.

Did I have a choice?

Lost.
Lost myself.
I lost myself.

How does that even happen?

To stand on my own
two feet
and
let
my
self
slip
away.

Her nametag said “Miracle,”
which seemed something lyrical.
 
I asked how she got her name,
though I could imagine the story
even before she told it.
 
I just wanted to see the way her face lit up
as she remembered
who she was.

Do you fill your cup with coffee
or fill it up with tea,
with all your mental anguish,
or possibility?

Do you pour it out for others
leaving nothing left for you?
Steeped in good intentions,
the result a bitter brew.

Me, I fill my cup in nature,
with laughter and good friends,
by making time for myself
and a present, mindful lens.

If my cup is filled to brimming
and teeters on the brink,
there’s so much more I have to share
as I offer you a drink.

She
always
chooses the
mystery-flavored
lollipop, even when
her favorite, blue
raspberry, is
sitting
right
n
e
x
t
t
o
i
t.

Take this offering from my heart.
No need to pay me back.
The gift is yours to receive
without strings attached.

Love is what I have to give.
This much I know is true.
And if my fear should stifle me,
‘twould only punish you.

We all wear masks to shield ourselves
from being broken down.
But when we open up our hearts,
connection can be found.

So come, my friend,
and take my hand.
There’s no need for confusion.
I’ll be me and you’ll be you.
The rest is just illusion.

Possibility came to visit me
In an early morning dream.
She was cloaked in all potential
And veiled in mystery.
 
I almost didn’t answer
When she roused me from the deep,
Urged me to pick up the pen
‘Stead of going back to sleep.
 
Her message was quite simple,
And I know it to be true.
So I quickly jotted down these words
To share them here with you.
 
While “anything is possible”
Is said time and time again,
The trick to finding rainbows is
Remembering to look for them.

The geese are preparing for their migration,
teaching the young ones how to fly in formation.
Soon it will be time for them to move on from this place.

But today they will stay.
Today they will give their children
one more tool
to help them survive.

Even for my flock
today is a day for standing still,
for appreciating the moment,
for teaching and for learning.

I close my eyes to listen to the geese
and think about the things I will give to my young
to prepare them for their migration,

so the road bumps and hurdles of life
will not hinder their flight,

so they will know when to follow
and when to take the lead,

and so the love that surrounds them
will buoy them on their journey.

Pull up a chair
and tell me your story,
a friendship we will christen.

For your tale and mine
are intertwined,
if we take the time to listen.

There’s a voice inside my head
That says I’m wasting time,
That I’m supposed to follow a straight line
And not spread myself out all over the place.
 
That I stretch too far beyond my territory,
That I’m not behaving the right way,
That I could use more discipline.
 
The voice was loud this morning,
But I was louder as it scolded me
About all the things I had yet to complete.
“Just stop!” I proclaimed,
“I’m taking a walk.”
 
About a mile away from home,
I was thinking about a poem
When I was distracted
By my neighbor’s yard.
 
Don’t those flowers know
That they’re supposed to grow
Straight up from the ground
And not sideways through cracks in stone walls?
Perhaps someone ought to tame them back

Before beauty becomes unruly.

We are all reaching toward higher space.
Watch me as I rise in an ever-expanding spiral
like the butterfly that crossed my path
at the bottom of the hill.

She emerged from the tall grass to my left.
I stopped in my tracks and watched
as she passed at the level of my gaze.

She was as high as the treetops
by the time she reached
the other side of the street
and she continued her journey until
I could see her only as a dark flutter
against a bright blue sky.

Have you ever seen a butterfly hesitate
in its upward movement?

Neither have I.

With a smile and a wink,
you touched my heart.
And though our tales
seem worlds apart,

when we let our guards down,
we find common ground.
For beyond the outer frame
what makes us human is the same:

our heart,
our divine spark,
the still part
that knows

what we all really want.

Sometimes I dance in the moonlight,
soft in my skin, fluid on my feet.
Limbs brush through the cool night air,
painting new maps in this territory
between earth and sky.
 
Sometimes I linger in the rain,
as though its liquid would seep
into my pores to replenish me.
Languid.
The weight of the water pulls me down,
holding me in a space
where I can’t help but remember.
 
Sometimes I bask in the sun,
dressed in black and too warmly for the weather,
absorbing as much heat as I can stand
as my left arm stretches up
and over the back of the chair.
Face tilts up.
Eyes close.
I lift my feet off the ground, extend my right leg,
and that movement sets me gently rocking.
 
Cradled in the perfect balance
of motion and stillness,
a thought arises:
I only wanted to stop my soul from dying;
I never imagined what it would feel like
to live.

In the space between
you & me
two circles intersect,
and what meets in the middle
is the essence
of our connection.

The space between
you & me
is a playground for our souls,
filled with words
wanting to express
what doesn’t need to be said.

In the space between,
we dance together
to an unheard melody
and sing in harmonies
which can be felt
in our hearts.

The space between
you & me
is energy revealing itself,
where my truth
and yours are one
if only for this moment.

I sit down on the green metal bench.
There must be someplace else
I need to be right now,
but I feel like a pause,
and I know I will catch up
with the day eventually.

It’s quiet,
except for the hum of energy
from the buildings that surround the courtyard,
the crescendo of cars driving by on the road
like swells of ocean waves.

There are birds somewhere.
I can’t see them,
but every so often one calls out to its friend
and a conversation is started.
Then, silence again.

I’m glad I brought my lunch with me.
Somehow the food tastes better,
the lettuce more crisp,
the blueberries more luscious,
the avocado more sultry,
in this space of an easy mind.

Underneath the heavy weight of fear,
The shoulds, the coulds,
A path that seems unclear,
 
Beneath the snow-white
Winter of my mind,
Where flowers droop and
Petals wilt in space confined,
 
A steady chant has quietly begun:
Feed me.
Water me.
Point me toward the sun.

A steady chant has quietly begun:
Feed me.
Water me.
Point me toward the sun.

The tale began long before I was born,
Winding in strands as time spirals the story in all directions.
Each moment is but one twist in the narrative,
One glimpse which does not make a whole,
Imagining who I was in yesterday
Based on a self I see today
As I am rippling out into tomorrow.

I don’t remember signing up for this class
or even seeing the syllabus.

If I had looked at the lesson plan,
the list of assignments,
the sequence of tests and quizzes,
I’m sure I would have passed it up
in favor of something more like
Compartmentalization 101 or
Skimming in Oblivion.

I am a master procrastinator,
and as I stare in the face of pop quiz #48,
I can find fifteen different ways to avoid,
distract, or otherwise evade this task.

But it keeps circling back in one form or another.

I can wish for blinders, tunnel vision,
or anything else that would limit my perception.

But when I look up and see
that grand old tree blowing in the breeze,
the exquisite movement of its leaves,
the owl gazing down upon me,

I think how glad I am to know it through these eyes.

Our lives are woven together in moments
of chance encounters,
smiles and laughter,
gestures and touches.

Moments so brief,
they seemed like nothing.

But moments add up,
and moments have meaning,
just as each stitch
is an integral part
of the whole.

For even if two threads
never cross again,
they will forever be a part
of the same tapestry.

with concrete walls
and massive boulders,
sandbags piled high along the shore.
They compelled her to stay
within her bounds.
 
But I stood on the edge of the cliff
and watched her seep through cracks,
wash around edges,
sometimes with thunderous force,
more often with the graceful undulations
of the snakes that guard the temple in Bali,
the one that can be reached only when the tide is low.
 
I went there once when I was younger
and more fearful, anxious to leave
before she came back, lest I become hostage
to the rising tide and the hazards
I could not see below its surface.
 
Now I am not so afraid.
Now I would stay in that holy place,
enraptured by her fluid embrace,
knowing that she would show me
the path to my own liberation,
 
just as she would never let herself be contained.

My dad held onto the back of the seat
the first time I rode my bike
without training wheels.
 
“Don’t let go,” I pleaded.
 
I wasn’t aware of when the bike
slipped out of his grip,
but I can still feel the moment
of bringing myself into balance,
of releasing my breath,
and finding the freedom to fly.

I don’t belong here.

I’m trespassing in someone else’s neighborhood
as I turn off the main road and onto the quiet,
tree-lined streets where people live.
This is where I’ll take my walk today
and no one will know the difference.

The woman working in her garden,
the man with the four dogs
(two large and two small)
the couple on their power walk,
all smile and wave a friendly good morning

as though I am a part of the fabric of their world,
as though it would be perfectly natural
if I turned up the next driveway, walked up
to the pale blue house with the red door,
put my key in the lock and stepped inside.

But this is not my home.
I’ve never walked this path before.

“Do you trust in the flow of life?”
was the question on the table,
as if I would be able to provide
a straightforward answer,

as if a simple
Yes or No
would suffice,

as if it was easy
to shed years of conditioning
insisting I had to be the one
to make things happen

to go out and grab the bull by the head,
instead of letting life lead the dance,
delegating to the universe and taking a chance.

There are possibilities that I can’t dream of,
the way the earth brings more shades of green
than any human mind could conceive of,

the way a pansy peaks out
from the shadow of winter,
the cardinal returns,
the canyon teems with life again,

and I didn’t have to do a thing.

I always cry a little
when I touch
what is
real.

What would it take
to give myself a break
from the not good-enoughs,
the voice inside that scoffs?

What would you need
to feel fully freed
from the judgments you make
on the actions you take?

What would it feel like
to love our Selves
unconditionally?

What if
the only thing
that mattered right now
was being here
together?

The wildflowers are starting to sprout
on the shoulders of highways,
the hills along the side of the road,
my neighbors’ yards.

Their seeds will be blown and scattered,
each one holding the potential
of all creation.

Does the flower worry about
which seeds will take root and which
will wash away with the next rain?

Does she hold them close,
not wanting to squander
the precious gifts she holds within her heart?

Or does she release,
with joyful abandon,
surrendering to the mystery
of the unknowing?

More and more I remember
that the seed that is blown
from where I stand,
never to be seen again,
may very well land
and grow in someone else’s garden.