Monthly Archives: December 2015

more ~

29 Tuesday Dec 2015

Posted by in a time for telling, Poetry, Uncategorized

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findme1

“As life becomes more fragile, it also becomes more beautiful………..”

Just yesterday, those words were typed in response to a note from a dear friend. In some ways, perhaps they were an ‘off the cuff’ reaction to a kindness offered, a blessing still.

But I thought on them last night and realized (even as the night wore on) just how much truth can be held in such a few words.

Life is surely fragile. It has been from the start. And maybe (just maybe) when we were babies, our parents realized how precious and nimble our life was. Maybe they even felt that way themselves, as they held us near wondering just how far they had come from the day they wished for such joy.

But in the living, we can lose sight of how easily it could all come unhinged. We spread our wings, dropping our defenses along the way. And before we have time to reconsider, we’ve become invincible.

And then we get older, and those we love get older. Somehow, this simple fact causes us to slow (to strain against the momentum of dying), so that once again, we realize the delicate wonder that comes with living.

And when we do, we see things new – we see things as beautiful.

We see them as they are, as they’ve always been.

I thought a bit more, and realized that life hadn’t changed at all through this process. What changed was our perception, our awareness both of life and in the things which make it worth living.

beautiful
fragile
fleeting
 all

. . .

‘little boy’ skin ~

28 Monday Dec 2015

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We chat about redbuds and the best kind of molasses. Lessons are made of wings to the feeder, rainbows fleeting just beyond the window sill. Stories are retold time and again.

He’s reminisced more than once about his grandmother (Darthula) and of his favorite time of year – the anticipated weeks just before her arrival, before her visit (she traveled by foot o’er many miles, unless someone with a wagon was coming their way).

She held him closer than most, breathed in his ‘little boy’ skin, whispered kisses, baked like a mad woman, and brought with her a treat they otherwise couldn’t well afford – corn flakes.

Prior to his birth, there was no real baby, as the youngest of the children had passed. He was both unexpected and treasured. His sisters spoiled, as his brothers watched over him.

He didn’t care much for eggs, but loved sausage (still loves sausage). Grandpa would sometimes rise at two just to fry him up a skillet full.

There is no leaving…no pulling back.

I speak with others and quite often, the conversation is the same, ‘I know it kills you to see him this way.’

I suppose that’s true – in a way. I wouldn’t wish this current circumstance on him, but on the other hand, I certainly wouldn’t let it keep me away. If the only options are to see him ‘this way’ or not to see him, well, there’s hardly any room for indecision.

If age and disease persist in taking bits of him, then surely, they must love him as I do.

To be truly blessed in the loving, we must find the blessing in every part of letting go, for it is in that place (of grace) that we build what will be left for clinging to later on. Sorrow is a divine inheritance – the same as joys we could not bear part from.

The wrens clamor for the darkest of the seeds, while songbirds wait patiently their favorites. Redbud boughs bend as hymns waft through nearly silent halls – where blessings are whispered without regard for the taking.

of ways
I still remember
how it was
to hold you near
though time has passed
and left no scar
at all
winds are blowing
how I love
the song they hesitate
names I spoke aloud
I speak again
leave to me
the everything –
of all I’ve known to love
let the years
forget not long –
the path
we came
for getting on

. . .

dreams we’ve forgotten ~

27 Sunday Dec 2015

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bellbuckle2012

winter was ne’er
for the fragile of heart
and yet I remember
so clearly the day
clouds were laid over
a hole in the sky
blackbirds were telling
of lovers by name
a destiny curs’ed
and frayed
unknown to believers
weaved into faith
when last I was here
– as time
without place
as touch unrepented
warmed by the still –
a blossom untested
til now
november
was never the story untold
repeated in
chorus ten thousand
tongues old
played for the one
without memory of less
truth held in check
by the coming back
round
to dreams we’ve
forgotten
somehow

. . .

extraordinary ~

22 Tuesday Dec 2015

Posted by in a time for telling, home, Poetry, Storytelling

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savingme

Last night, just before I kicked the covers off, I lay in the still and reflected on an extraordinary day.

Perhaps not extraordinary by most standards, but I received Christmas cookies from a friend, held hands with a few others, giving grace over a sandwich. I traded calls and messages with my brother, sisters, and mother.

I got my hair cut, allowing me time with a dear old friend. We laughed, fretted aloud, and eventually came back around to the acceptance of just how blessed we are – separately, but even more so, together.

I left from my hair appointment in the rain, and though it was past visiting hours, I phoned the center where my dad resides these days and found he was still awake, so I dropped in. Not only was he still awake, he was still eating – savoring bits of a hamburger and fries, sitting in bed in a camouflage beanie and his red and black checked flannels.

He smiled when I entered, causing me to beam!

‘Hey, good looking.’

I told him about my day, and helped him manage the last of his iced tea. I commented on the growing stack of cards, the dwindling supply of bird feed, and the presence of two new baskets of Christmas goodies.

Time slowed. (this is surely heaven)

Not long ago, I asked if he would like a recliner so that he was afforded more options – more than just the bed and a wheelchair. I raised the subject again, and he smiled, ‘I’m fine’.

‘Then what would you like for Christmas, daddy?’ His little boy eyes sparkled as his brows raised. I chuckled, ‘O, not sure I can do much about that, daddy’, figuring he was contemplating either a ride home or a stay-over with mama.

He beamed. ‘Just your smile. Lots of your smiles.’

And that I gave him, even as he told me how I was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

I’m quite sure there have been better (other times and other smiles), but for a late night at a nursing facility, there’s not much sweeter than a hamburger, flannel pajamas, and a smile that leaves no room for worry……..

God is good! O yeah!

save me
your side
near the end of the way
and miles
we would walk
hand in hand
through the still
imperfection
of where we began
even now –
for this
all I wish
is to love

. . .

yesterday rings upon the table ~

17 Thursday Dec 2015

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at times
I cling to nothing
but the scent
of ancient fir –
a willingness
of dawn to bear the day
I linger in the
afternoon of lives
I dreamed before
a sip or two
of something else
when all I wanted so
was yesterday
rings upon the table
proof of joy –
wonder ne’er denied
roads returning rivers
crossways through
my heart
where stars are come
to sleep beneath
the pines

. . .

held in place ~

13 Sunday Dec 2015

Posted by in Poetry

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justasIknew

in the cool dense
where sunlight spreads
across my winter bed
words are left
to whispers on the night
memories
and all that was
before the same again
names so rarely spoken
– now a sigh

of once upon a spring
bouquet
we knew before we knew
as shadows cast
by honeysuckle vine
hands to fit
where heros lay –
promise feels the same
as one to love
held in place
divine

. . .