Discord happens

while we just get through the days.

A chorus of I-love-yous maybe can’t make up

for the times I focused on the ways you don’t, 

the days you soloed through my loneliness. 

So, I am grateful for moments of attunement,

where we take the time to listen, 

mimic, 

call and response, 

until we’re one instrument for a while. 

Sometimes I go to the bookstore and only

look at the staff picks, 

read the little cards of each.

I love best when they are handwritten, signed. 

Words: 

hope

devastating

lyric

illuminating

It will change you. 

What a peace I feel to be

in a world or people longing

to be changed by books. 

Sometime around the time

masks started coming off,

I resolved to reframe you. 

To be going back to work and still

beating out the old refrain–”Well, it’s Monday”–

As if Mondays aren’t perfect days

for laughing, falling in love,

breaking the rules. 

So, we’ve arrived, another season of sun–

the ch-ch-ch of sprinklers, time

to play, open the door, 

walk out in wonder,

flow like a river, blue-green.

It’s okay to spin your wheels.

I spent entire summers on wheels

riding the entiere stay of each day’s sun.

I remember you, eyes blue-green, 

the way you mocked time.

Did you ever wonder–

as I did–what was behind that door? 

One summer can be a door.

Fires within fires; wheels within wheels. 

Every day, chasing wonder–

fever-pitch with each returning sun–

believing there will be time. 

Whole day spent listening to one CD, feeling blue-green. 

I had this sun dress, blue-green

that I wore when I walked out the door

knowing, even then, I would not be home on time.

We had wheels!

And even after dark, the sun

glowed with our insistent wonder. 

We made sandwiches out of Wonder–

hah! Took them to the lake, blue-green, 

lounged on towels in the sun,

our hearts–wide open doors.

We would locate a feeling, spin it like a wheel, 

round and round again, frozen in time. 

Summer has its own rules regarding time. 

Hopping from wonder to wonder,

letting loose the wheels.

Heart–aimed at blue-green.

Flinging wide the doors. 

Long days spent half-naked in the sun. 

A blown dandelion

Tulip that lost it’s petals

One day–a big gorgeous poppy–

the next day gone.

There are many ways I could respond

to the fact of a lifespan.

I choose kisses,

cartwheels, 

favorite songs. 

I’ve hit the phase of motherhood

where unless disaster is for certain

all I am called to do is 

cheer

from the sidelines

offer humble guidance

and pray.

Day 28

Lilacs brag, fragrant.

Dliecate. Plentiful. Boom! 

Bloom babies, Oh-bloom! 

Day 29

Sweat behind knees, 

no matter how much coffee drank–

on the verge of nap. 

Day 30

Standardize this, man!

Who even still thinks this is

not oppressive AF?! 

I invited the entire staff

FREE yoga, I cried!

Once my student, now my peer,

you arrived ready to teach.

Though it was time,

no one arrived,

so we sat on our mats

face to face, chatting. We were both

nervous–me, because as my idea

I’d imagined it grand and well-attended.

We would both teach–you one class,

me another. Teachers would set down their ungraded papers,

flock to staff yoga. We were both nervous–

You, because this was your day to teach,

and teaching is still new to you.

There was a moment before someone finally arrived

when I saw our selves like mirrors, each reflecting back to the other.

I saw your earnest smile, the joy behind your eyes.

In that moment, nervousness fled, and I felt

quite suddenly so happy to be so vulnerable and there.

About suffering they were never wrong, he wrote.

The human condition.

And yet–no mud, no lotus–

it is true.

When I consider the spectrum of suffering,

I feel deeply grateful that I’ve

endured just enough to have deep roots in the soil,

a tough outer bark,

adornments (leaves) that thrive

and shimmer in the breeze.

Day 17

Raindrops collect

on the cups of leaves–reserve.

Intelligent nature.

Day 18

It’s easy to lie,

say you’ve entered a new phase–

a more settled, mature phase

no longer achingly desperate,

no longer prioritizing desire over

risk of exposure or embarassment.

It’s easy to lie here,

reading our books in silence,

say this is all I need,

this isn’t boredom

or a failure of communication–

it’s just this age, this phase–

which is sometimes true,

but not always

and it isn’t always easy

to find the language at those times–I need

a codeword. Fire!, perhaps. Or–

hand.

A bit of an acquired taste, I suppose.

Small children tend to hate it.

Perhaps the tongue gets bored,

begins to want something shocking,

pucker-worthy.

Fierce and bright.

Something with equal parts

danger and delight.

We call you bullet.

Fast like a bullet,

but with bounce and grace.

You’re slower these days,

not so bad for an old lady though. Old lady,

who loves

napping in sunbeams

hiding under blankets

walks that happen on time

not stepping out into the rain

silence, kisses, and carpets.

Sometimes for a long time, I forget,

and then I’ll freeze at the sight of her standing there,

just outside the door,

her hands tucked inside long sleeves, downcast eyes,

the me before me.

But, lately, I’ve been inviting her

to meditate with me at my imagined place

on the grass watching the still pond,

wondering at how the wind ripples the surface.

She just showed up one day,

sat down beside me, leaned in.

I put my arm around her shoulders,

whispered so glad you’re here.

Then the light broke through the clouds,

sent a shimmer across the surface.

Be grateful, she said,

as she coaxed us out of savasana

at the end of a practice

that brought me to the edge of possible.

Be grateful, for everything

that has brought you to this moment.

And I thought of how I’d gone to the emergency room,

my roadrunner heart in midair

not just one time, and doesn’t count

the times I decided to die alone.

I thought of how desperation brought me

to the yoga mat, where I began to heal.

Day 10.

A person inside

a person

inside a person—

Russian dolls—

faces to meet the faces.

Inside, a gem

that’s polished up,

ready to shine.

Day 11.

It’s difficult to unlearn

when you’ve elbow-greased it

for epochs, and entire relationships

rest on the foundation of our doing,

and it is the stuff you’ve made you’ve made

your potluck offerings of since you learned to make rice.

There is so much patterning to unwind

and so many reasons

to recline in this hammock

counting stars to fall asleep.

I’d like to apologize

to ever Monday I ever shunned,

every day I clock watched my way through

every cloudy sky I didn’t admire.

Hello, sweet sadness.

Let’s sit a while, see if

we can understand each other.

I want to be so angry

the dishes in the cupboard clatter.

I want to let my grief stay long enough

to say all she needs to say,

stay a while in silence.

I’ve wasted too much time

already waiting for the wanderer, happiness.

Day 13.

Come hither, love.

Let me place my hands

where you are holding on

to fear or doubt or hurt or anger.

Give me all the weight.

Let it go.

Yes, even the weight of

my words

my action

my inaction

my misjudgment

misidentification

my limited human imagination.

Forgive me,

I can be so small and unkind.

Bee-watching.

Olives on fingers!

Rock-skipping.

Echo making.

Dahlia viewing.

Ocean breathing.

Mmmmmmmm.

Woke vulnerable,

reliant on someone else’s schedule,

the fact that someone else

would pour hot water through coffee grounds

so that I could hold that assurance

between two quivering palms.

A plant on the path—

a circle of fronds

in the center a pool of water collected,

a pond where tiny lavender flowers

dared to bloom.

The clock that is a year ticks toward fifty,

and I release the intense level of care around time

we cultivate when still trying to earn worth

in the adult world.

How many years was I a mother before I felt like one?

How many years a teacher before I believed I had anything in me worth learning?

How many years before I felt like a person worthy of grace in the world?

I see now that belonging is a given

but not a guarantee.

May I keep my hands in dirt,

keep my hands on the keyboard,

keep my hands around our children who are now

trying to earn their worth in the so-called adult world.

May I cultivate grace.

May I cultivate beauty.

May I cultivate a warrior spirit–theirs and mine.

Letting the foundation be there,

in the confident stance,

the resilience and flexibility of breath.

May I be bold enough to love,

in spite of the tendency to see the blemish before the bloom.

Similar to scars,

only temporary.

Like this cold sore

acquired from an early boyfriend,

that sometimes comes out,

never at a convenient time.

A sign of contagion,

our eyes see,

then turn away.

I went to the kitchen

with a mission from God

as I understand them,

reflected in a wildflower,

a Whitman poem.

I ate and ate,

never felt full.

I walked one thousand miles

to a pool of enchanted water

I’m still swimming in.

Day 5

“The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.” –Pablo Picasso

Making sense

Woke up to write again

after a pause

and it felt a bit like spring cleaning:

Slowly, carefully washing the windows,

shaking out the carpets,

chasing dust bunnies from corners,

from under the couches and chairs.

I wrote two pages

on the verge of tears

and for the rest of the day

the world made more sense.

Okay, I get it. We all do.

Live like you could die tomorrow,

because,

of course,

you could.

Or today!

And still. That’s not a call to recklessness,

but an invitation to go slow, pay attention,

move with care and intention.

There is so much life

in a still pond,

a slow drive,

a full breath.

I walked out in a rage

at you, but also at me,

because I keep finding myself

in this same place so it must mean that some fundamental mechanism

is not attached in me,

in me, in me.

Each foot hits the ground in a rhythm

the breath begins to match,

and though it is raining,

there is a full moon and

the cool water on my face–

earth’s baptism!

I remember then how just yesterday

we slowly ate a pomegranate and agreed

that life is a series of love letters,

including the one I’ll write to you with words in air

when I return to apologize and demand.