5.29.23 Stained Glass

I believe in light

in the relentless pursuit of it

knowing that I can’t get too lost

if I continue to follow the trail of gilded hope

even when it fades

But sometimes …

sometimes the fog rolls in,

a hazy day monotony of “Where am I now?” grays

They sweep in, nonchalantly dusting my glinted path in a “Nothing personal” muted power play

And suddenly,

all the wishing on second stars

on eyelashes and dandelion breezes

don’t feel strong enough, when they always were before

I don’t understand

sometimes

why the things that matter most

the ethereal whims

and wishes

and prayers

aren’t more immediately powerful

when they are what I believe in most

when they are what I feel

I don’t want to be practical

or realistic

I don’t want to belong to

just

one

cause

or become a cliche who takes care of herself first–

because I’m the only one I can depend on

Whether it is true or not

I don’t want to live the way that particular truth would demand

so instead,

I might stay a bit lost for a while

spinning like a brass compass needle uncertainly finding her way

north

even if the wind keeps me in a temporary state of rearranging

maybe my pieces will come back together

brighter

maybe I’m a stained glass window

bits of fragile colored pieces

just waiting to catch the light

just waiting to illuminate the bigger picture

5.22.23 It Just Was

I am tired of being tired

of rushing from one must do

to another

thereby ignoring the majestic before me

the magnetic within me

and the magical behind me

memories that are already dwindling

fading like a falling firework

glistening and glittering

a silent echo of the bright place

it

just

was

only a moment before

If I had watched harder, could I have made it stay?

If I held on tighter?

Could my intention have made a difference?

I am tired of being tired

and though undoing cannot always be done

maybe being

maybe staying

maybe trying to do less

will coax Father Time to sit with me awhile

for a gentle moment I allow to linger

one I don’t try to get through

but dwell in

instead

5.7.23 Purposefully Awaiting

“To wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect” 
― Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

I hear it again and again

don’t expect too much

don’t hope too high

you’ll only be disappointed.

Then what?

What is the alternative?

Don’t believe in possibility?

Don’t imagine things can change?

I can’t do that.

I won’t do that.

I don’t want to.

Naive as it seems, I am not naive.

I choose.

I choose to believe that things might get better.

I choose to trust that people may surprise me.

I choose maybe,

and might be,

again and again and again.

I will not apologize for my hope.

I will continue to expect good things …

better than good,

and I will work for them

because that is the world I wish for–

and so that is the world I await.

4.18.23 Hear My Prayer

Sometimes, I forget how to pray.

Or rather,

in the depth of the moment …

when I realize I need to the most,

I find that I don’t know how.

Though I’ve been taught,

though I thought I knew–

at one point,

the point suddenly seems lost.

And I?

I am lost in it.

Then, I wonder … are feelings enough?

Can a heart,

or a look,

or a trembling hand be translated?

I hope so–because sometimes, I have no words.

Sometimes, my thoughts don’t even make sense to me.

Sometimes, my shattered heart,

and my fractured tears,

and my shaking hands are all I have to offer.

Will you receive them anyway?

Will you hear my prayer?

3.29.23 Hers Is

Hers is a heart that is read slowly

written in calligraphy

by hand

in curated curls 

in stretched out thoughts

in letters chosen with particular intention

Hers is a mind that is beautiful 

laced with a lattice of memories

layered with wishes and whims

it is busy

and brilliant

and brave

Hers is a spirit that is golden

drenched in hope and embroidered with elements of the divine

prayers echoed

petitioned

whispered

and sealed 

Hers is a life that is lovely

parceled and planned 

detailed and deliberated over

and yet

there … 

in the innermost corner

lies a spark of adventure

a dream that is barely an inkling

but present

persistent as a firefly

bright and promising more 

than even she

had planned for herself 

3.18.23 7 Letters I Can’t Send: Dear Serendipity

“Do you think the universe fights for souls to be together? 
Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences.” 
― Emery Allen

Dear Serendipity,

I asked my daughter who I should write to today, and without a moment’s hesitation, she said it should be you. You, the curious combination of meant-to-be mistakes and fortunate accidents. I have to admit that I have been an absolute enthusiast of your work for as long as I can recall believing in wishes. You are the personification of Fate dancing with Chance, only to be tapped on the shoulder so that Destiny could cut in. It is remarkably romantic to imagine this waltz of circumstances twirling in and between whim and what-if.

I wish I could ask you how much you get to decide. I wish you’d highlight the reels of relationships that have been affected by your charms. But then, I suppose that would spoil a bit of the subtle clandestinity of it all. As such, I guess you will have to keep your dream-come-true-drenched secrets. I imagine they are written in calligraphic scripts, dated with invisible ink and locked in a weighty silver box with tiny claw feet. Of course there is a key–but it will have been lost to Father Time for safe-keeping.

Regardless, I have a few things to thank you for … a few twinklings I know to be your handiwork:

• The one and only time I saw the northern lights
• The night I decided to go out and met the love of my life, even if I couldn’t know it at the time
• The mistakes that gave me the courage to get stronger
• The friendships I decided to pursue, even when life was pulling us apart
• The moments I happen to see a tangerine harvest moon, a blue-tailed shooting star, or a dancing parade of pink clouds

You, Serendipity, are the fairy dust of life, and oh, how I enjoy your sparkle.

3.15.23 7 Letters I Can’t Send: Dear Poetry

“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.” – Carl Sandburg

Dear Poetry,

To put it quite simply. Thank you. Thank you for always giving me a place to sit with my thoughts. You never rush me, or force me to explain myself. You let me invite only the words I want to entertain, and give me just enough space to get cozy with them. You allow me reflection and pause. You not only inspire me … you give my voice a platform.

Somehow, you always find a way to turn my chaos and confusion into stanzas that make sense. You block and build, settle and swell. And even though sometimes you take the long route to take shape–you are always lovely and dressed just exactly right for whatever mental occasion I’ve invented.

With or without the accessory of punctuation, the confines and constructs of labels and rules, even there you are the elegant expression of every emotion a story would be too watered-down with words to tell. Thank you for your gravity … for grounding wild hearts and wandering minds. Thank you for giving my fleeting thoughts a place to land and my imagination the space to expand.

You are the last ringing note of the song of my spirit, and for that, I love you.

2.12.23 A Special Request

This past week I got the sweetest request! My best friend called and said that her son, my godson, was chosen to read a poem in class. She said that he would really like to read one of his auntie’s poems, and could I please send her one. I decided to write one instead. This one is for you sweet boy! I hope you read it with confidence, knowing YOU inspired every word.

If you know anyone as bright as this perfect combination of curiosity and wonder … well … I happen to know he has the most generous heart and would be most willing for you to share it.

His is a smile full of mischief and eyes that twinkle
just so … bright blue and curious

He is wonder-filled
in love with each surrounding he surrounds himself with–daring to daydream
wanting to wish on every star

His joy is the kind that’s contagious
the sort that inspires others to be as happy as he is, like a little beam of sun
he lights every conversation with bright words
that come fast and free–
firefly words that make magic when they’re spoken aloud

He is a difference-maker (and a risk-taker)
equally sensitive and strong

What a perfect world we must live in, if for no other reason
than that he
is in it

1.22.23 2:00 am Friend

“… and she embraced the chaos as it painted her life with purpose.” – J.H. Hard

It was 2:13 am

and we’d talked for four hours

(four hours and nine minutes)

and the funny thing is …

it wasn’t enough

We could have kept on talking

until the moon and the sun switched places

again

Everything and nothing at all

tears

and tantrums

confessions

and conundrums

secrets

and surreptitious truths

Each of them weighted equally

as the minutes ticked

as the clock struck

done

All I could think, was how grateful I am

to have this gift in my life

a kindred

who knows both what is possible

and unlikely

but trades dreams … and wishes … and prayers with me anyway

Therein lies the true magic

the believing that four hours of life shared in conversation

changes things

because it does

It allows us to carry on

to keep moving forward in both the mundane and miraculous

May each one of us be so lucky

as to have a four-hour-conversation

and a 2:00 am friend

11.26.22 Gratitude

“As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.” – John F. Kennedy

To be grateful

honestly grateful

is not as familiar a posture as I wish it were

I say the right words

“I am thankful for …”

but do I live it?

Do I truly dwell in not just satisfaction

in temperance and tolerance

but actual gratitude?

Mind over matter – yes.

Logic wins. I am healthy. I am happy. I love.

But if I’m being completely honest

(as is rare for me to even be with myself)

I could work on my attitude of gratitude

Sometimes my prayers become a disjointed list

instead of an intentional offering

Sometimes my “thanks” are bottled and boxed …

saying sweet tidings

without animation

without spirit, or life

And I’m sorry.

Because this gift I’ve been given,

this life and these people

these days and relationships and serendipitous encounters

they deserve more

I’m ashamed to admit it might take me some time

this rearranging my posture –

I believe there might not be anything more important

than to saturate myself in appreciation

ordinary and otherwise

The brilliance of a sunrise and the miracle of one more breath

should be regraded with equal measures of requited adoration

I don’t want to say,

“I’m grateful,”

I want to remain in a state of being so

regardless