Friday, January 1, 2016

New Year

These years 
they always start gentle, meek, quiet...
But I've lived enough of them to know 
They are wolves in sheep's clothing 
It won't be long, before the white is gone 
And the green begins 
That what seemed tame, docile
Will turn 
teeth bared 
Gutteral rumbling 
And I will first step lightly
Not understanding where this  
Came from 
But then 
understanding comes
The fear runs cold 
survival runs hot
Legs run fast 
the heartbeat of survival 
Pounding ears 
And it will look like I might do it
Outrun the beast 
but then fatigue 
limbs to stone
I turn, hoping to see that sweet 
The snarling 
stands poised
But now more understanding 
And the fear melts 
Into a warmth that spreads 
And the fatigue burns away 
In the fires of power

I am not going to run anymore

I could, I feel the hot in my muscles
But I'm not
And in the light of that strength
I see fear in those amber eyes 
And I finally 
And my shoulders heave
And the world heaves
And the wolf 
He is tired of running too 
There is only the sound of breath now 
Two breathing heaving beings 
I turn my back 
knowing him for what he is 
No gentle lamb 
a wolf through and through 
But now
He's my wolf 
I begin, the sound of rhythmic steps moving to breath 
Steaming hot white in the ice 
And I hear it sweet and strong
The sound of his following 

Monday, December 14, 2015

A Mother's Promise

All these pictures, this is the image which holds them. 
The mother-woman, always seeking, always looking, 
always learning to See. 
The four walls of that frame, they take this big world with all its color and noise and movement, and they dim all 
but the pearlescent sphere of this moment, 
and all of me moves into that lit brilliance. 
The way a shadow plays, a wall arches ,sunlight filters,
a little hand touches...
the power crashes through this hole made in time,
washes over me and then it lights me too. 
And in that framed stillness, I Under-stand.

I stand under the raging love that is you and the spilling sun that freely gives 
and the Beauty that re-news itself over and over and over again, offering itself to me in the infinite folds of time, folds I wrap around a lukewarm heart until I feel the pulsing heat of that love gone wild again
What is this gift of the Observer? The Witness? The Parent? Is this what St Francis meant when he so fervently asked to want to love more than be loved, to understand more than be understood?  
The mother, she is the Witness. She Watches and Sees and Records. She is the keeper of your stories. The captive audience
because she never tires of watching you unfold.  
She will hold this sphere of light as you dance within it,
her will eye Be-Hold your beauty and when you forget it, 
when you are dirty and soot covered from the ashes and fires of your journey,

she will still Be-Holding these images for you.  
In her heart she holds strings of you
and when the ones you hold become tangled, 
she will hand hers back to you, 
and you will begin the Great Work 
of untangling you, 
Re-Deeming the threads of your story.  
She will weave for you the images of the little one in the trees and the flowers, 
of the sun dancing in your eyes, 
of you greeting this great big world with open arms
She will never let you believe you are anything less than sacred 
and she will never never stop learning to Be-hold you as the great Mystery your heart inhabits
and when you forget these things she will show you the images, the shining pearls of You,
and she will offer you the fragments of your innocence 
until you Re-member yourself 
and the sun dances in your eyes again.  
The word promise, it comes from the Latin to send forward.  
And so this is what a Mother's Promise is,
this is what she sends on dove's wings to the furthest reaches of this pearl-world moment, 
this is what her heart sings forth. 
This is what she sends forward for you to catch one day, 

this shining Moment of You.

Sunday, October 18, 2015


The light dances through the tops of the trees

the smell of pine and clean fill my lungs

I watch as Sterling leaps from rock to rock

I wonder as each foot finds its mark so sure and so certain. 

In the house he often seems awkward and unaware, a bit of the bull in the China shop.

But now I see he is none of those things, now he is within something big enough to hold him
and so now I can see the whole of his truth, the whole of his strength and ability.

I watch him push with all his strength against a stone, it doesn't move...
and then he finds a tool, a large stick and digs with hands gripping tight, face set in determination.

He has finally met his match here, 
in earth that can support the kind of freedom that flies in a thousand hoofbeats,

 in rocks that have seen the volcanic revolution of entire landscapes

 in rivers that have shifted and moved and flowed

and in trees that stand tall, unmoving, unafraid.

Here his body speaks the language of his earth mother, 
here is all he could need to Become.

Here there is only Yes. 
Here I open my heart fully to the wild beauty that is him.

And here, I breathe it in...

And I see now, see how the parts of us that seem clumsy and less-than whisper our strengths..
come this way, they say, 

out of the box you've built around yourself,
the box you thought was the only reality

see how it was the box that was awkward 
and how you shine in the light...