nmw ~

29 Thursday May 2014

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Poetry, Rambling

Tags

assurance, belonging, connection, faith, family, fearless, forgiveness, grace, home, knowledge, life, love, old maps, passion, reason, relationship, southern, spirit, spirituality, strength, truth, two the same, understanding, value, wisdom

Recently, a few friends and I were sharing concern for another – one who seems to struggle from time to time, and who, as a rule, is surrounded by drama. In developing a plan to help, we lamented over possible causes. For surely, any work on a fix without understanding seemed futile.

At one point, my sister brought to attention something we had not considered.

He has a great job, and a great wife. I’m sure he has many friends, but I wonder how strong the nets.

The result was a discussion about ‘no matter what’ relationships; those that endure regardless of time, circumstance, or the number of times someone says (or doesn’t say) “I love you”. I reflected that I have numerous friends, and we each depend on the assurance of our friendship – one that ‘you couldn’t mess up if you wanted to’. My sister calls those the ‘end of the day’ anchors – the knowledge that regardless of what the day brings, at the end of the day, we have each other. I’m one of her anchors, and she one of mine.

Later, when I thought about this, I realized the worth of that talk in helping our friend.

At the same time, I realized I’ve never been without such anchors; so that it is somewhat difficult for me to imagine an existence without them. And yet, my students struggle with something as simple as providing references, because they’ve burned all those bridges, and in some cases, severed the cords that tied them to love and a ‘no matter what’ place.

For those without such assurance, I can only imagine the feeling of loss. But then again, how do you miss something you never had?

I’ve long suspected drama as a means for pulling people to you (even if unintentional). Maybe, at our core, we do realize something is missing; we just don’t have a name for it.

I think I was like most kids growing up, in that I saw every family the same as mine. It was not until much later that I found that not to be the case. I recall a friend whose parents were divorced, and I envied her freedoms. Not until recently did I learn how she envied me for having parents who worried when I was late, someone whose permission I needed ask. My friend – she’s another ‘no matter what – end of day’ part of all I know of truth. Attachment? You bet. ❤

Even now, if leaving my parents for home, I call to report when I’ve arrived safely. The anchor they provided me is the same one I offer them now. Not a day starts for me without a text from my brother and my sisters….a reminder of what I know already – that I am loved – no matter what.

Take away my clothing, my earrings, my favorite homemade apple butter. Take it all, and still I am rich, for that which simply is, that which waits while I sleep.

Without these scarlet cords, what would I be? A ship in the darkness, a kite without a tender hand to guide.

whatever this
a stillness warmed
by all I know to be –
words are not yet formed
for love I feel
floats within
these precious seas
tis more to breath
than blood –
more to fate than scars
a lantern held aloft
beside the stars

. . .

we carry ~

05 Monday May 2014

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Storytelling

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

becoming, breath, connection, death, faith, family, fearless, grace, grief, knowledge, living, loss, love, memory, old maps, passion, reason, relationship, resurrection, seasons, spirit, truth, understanding, value

Our days are spotted by loss and grief……….and a world of well-meaning people who pat us on the back and tell us ‘everything will be okay’. And surely it will, but it will not be the same. I feel sad for the soul who doesn’t understand – that some hurts aren’t meant to scab over. I have lost many who I loved deeply, and I’ve yet to find any other person who could perfectly fit into the place left by another. It cannot be done, and it shouldn’t be. Our healing isn’t about getting us back to ‘normal’; it’s about learning how to live (to love) even when much of who we are seems to have been lost.

In times of great sorrow, my only joy seemed in the moments just after waking, a time when I could almost convince myself that it was all a dream. But over time, I found another joy – an almost secret knowledge – that I’ve not lost a one. I sit cross-legged on the floor with a cup of coffee by shear habit, a nature……..and yet, my grandmother is there. I laugh and beneath the squealing pitch of a little girl, the timber that is my grandpa’s voice. My granny lifts the cup to her lips, with pinkie extended just so……..and more than once, I’ve felt the calm reassurance of my uncle’s hand at the small of my back. Some store away treasure in cedar, but the real treasure is that which we carry – all who have loved us, in us, still.

If we know heartbreak, then we must also know love. If loss, then surely abundance. Joy sits many a night on the same bed as once we mourned. Our ability to hurt, to break, to fall……there are blessings unaware, reminders of the times we laughed, danced, and soared. Always, we are blessed. Let us not forget the letting in letting go.

❤

stay
that I might tell you
of times before the fall
for prehistoric winters
might I grieve

the leaving
for the welcome back
poetry you wrote
now again
a promise to believe

verses of surrender
confession
heard the same
as ancient constellations
to pretend

the path
was never easy
as getting back to one
a forest grew
to block the view
again

held me here
one faraway
decision to return
across a sky of blue
another day

slipped
into the ocean
embrace of waking arms
as breezes come
to carry me
away

❤

twisted ~

02 Friday May 2014

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

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

becoming, connection, death, destiny, direction, faith, family, grace, gravel roads, home, knowledge, life, living, loss, love, memory, old maps, poetry, postmark, reason, relationship, soul, spirit, spirituality, story, truth, understanding, value, wisdom, wonder

Yesterday was an eventful day. It was time for my regular trip to my hairdresser, who happens to also be one of my best friends, as dear to me as my next breath.

Almost always, there are others at the salon who I know, since their schedule appears to be closely knit with mine (every five weeks, or buy a hat). It is often a reunion of sorts, women connected by place and a pair of remarkable scissors.

When I arrived, others were in various stages of trimming, cutting and styling but no one I recognized. I sat down and joined in a conversation with my friend and two of her customers. After about ten minutes, one of the ladies finished up and moved to the front desk for payment and scheduling of her next appointment. This left me with the other, who was adorned with various pieces of tinfoil and clips. Only a moment passed before I spoke….

“I know this sounds odd, but I know you. I’m not sure how, but I do. Are you from the area?”

“Hillsboro.”

“All your life?”

“Yes, pretty much.”

“Okay, well, I hate to ask but how old are you?” (You need a really good excuse for asking such a thing, especially in the south – and especially in a salon.)

“I graduated high school in 1980.”

“O, well, you would have graduated between my brother and my baby sister.”

“Maybe I know them.”

“Maybe. My brother is Stephen George, and my baby sister is………”

“Renee………o my God……….that means you must be Bobbie.”

“Yes………”

“I’m Lynn……..was Lynn Barlow.”

And everything else fell together. My family and hers lived near to one another for most of my childhood. She has an older sister and an older brother, and we were stair-steps (the children of these two families)…….me, Mike, Janey, Debra, Stephen, Lynn, and Renee. While she and her brother had never moved away from the area, I had. Later, I recollected to my parents that I likely hadn’t seen Lynn in 40 years. And yet (and yet), I knew her.

Once I knew her name, I saw similarities to the girl I knew growing up. But before that, I suspect something deeper – a recognition of spirit, or perhaps a recognition of myself in history we share.

I recently commented to a friend here that we feel empty at times with the loss of presence in our life, and maybe the ache is as much for the person we were (when in their arms) as it is for the individual.

This morning, I was thinking on the entire evening – time reconnecting with an old friend, and time with my parents, putting names to pictures, people and places before my time. I thought of how our lives are interconnected with others, fit against each other, like pieces of a puzzle. You can remove a piece and insert another, but only one piece fits perfectly. Others may come close, but there’s always some overlap or space left between. Surely, it’s exactly as it should be for none of us can compare to another, as anyone else fails comparison with us.

Our stories are twisted together into one story. Even the faces in pictures from before my birth are of people whose stories were weaved with those of my parents, my grandparents – branches beyond my knowing. Tho ultimately, their story became some part of the beginning of my own.

Our world celebrates individuality, and even nature delights in variegations. And yet, there is a reason our roots run deep, tying and retying with those of others, becoming an anchor, a network, a family, a garden, a home.

Who we are is so much more than the words of one song, the leaves of one old tree.

send me not
the ways to grieve
for places passed before
when laid with you
beneath a northern sky
telling back
to other times –
faces we have changed
becoming this
immortal
as the night

. . .

God’s light ~

28 Friday Mar 2014

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

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

connection, conscious consciousness, dawning, death, family, fearless, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, love, nature, old maps, passion, poetry, rain, reason, self, spirit, spirituality, star crossed, truth, understanding, value, wisdom, wonder

I love my drive to work. With the exception of about eight miles, it’s mostly rural roads (back and cross). It’s fifty miles of curves and shadows, branches low enough to block radio signals and time enough to reflect on both the ‘leaving from’ and the ‘going to’. It is a blessing – this God’s light.

This morning, there was a steady rain and at the ‘nearly light’ time of my passing, dawn glistened in silver pools on blacktop.

There’s a place where I always go especially slow, for I’ve found it to be a favorite crossing for deer. On more than one occasion, I’ve spotted them in advance of the curve as they traveled down the sloping hills to the left. I stop as they move independent (some quickly, some hesitantly) into the road and then across, and up…… More than once they’ve stopped mid-road to watch me (as I watch them). When I become concerned for their safety, I roll down the window and call, ‘you best be moving on’. Some snort and others seem to nod their heads before continuing; before I put the car back into drive, caught within a moment’s prayer of gratitude for this place where our lives (our lines) knotted together.

But back to this morning. The rain was shining, and in an area of winding roads and hillsides, I’m amazed I could see far enough to catch the blue streamers off the cruiser at a distance. I slowed, unsure of what to expect, but fearful of what I might find. It was near the ‘crossing’.

I made my way, slower than usual, only to discover a tiny red car with the frontend smashed sitting at an angle in front of the police car. And in the road, a friend lay still no more than a foot from the white line. She looked to be at peace, and I was grateful for anything the rain had washed away. I scanned both banks, wondering where the others were. Almost always, there were three or four together*. Might they be standing just beyond the veil of rain, waiting for the intruders to leave?

I don’t know. I rolled my window down, sticking my head out into the shower. “I will never forget you.” For several miles, I can’t be sure whether my face was damp from the rain, or from my tears. Somehow, both tasted the same.

Surely, some would tag me a fool, but it wouldn’t change the things I know in my heart. We belong to one another, and when nature cries, we cry. When nature breaks, we break.

Perhaps Monday, I’ll bring a bunch of newly budding wildflowers.

o babe of mine
denied my voice –
swing low your ancient cradle
as bunting falls
from candles – blue divine
to fuse these times
with essence
reminders of our days
are spilled between
our fingers –
holy thine

. . .

*A little known fact – Among whitetail deer, triplet fawns can occur from time to time, and more often than you might think. Most does will have a single fawn their first time giving birth, and then have twins from there on out as long as they live. Of the twins, a high percentage are one each, buck and doe.

forgotten voices ~

13 Thursday Mar 2014

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Poetry, Rambling, Storytelling

≈ 12 Comments

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becoming, breath, connection, death, destiny, faith, family, fearless, forgiveness, grace, knowledge, life, living, love, memory, old maps, passion, poetry, reason, restless, southern, spirit, spirituality, strength, truth, understanding, value, wandering, woman, words without voice

I have waited. To speak with you again; we have forgotten our voices. Printed words are rare, sterile and devoid of intention.

You have another life beyond our memories. Beyond the years that unite us solemnly like family.

We were once close, like siblings, like lovers, like keepers of secrets. Monks praying, tending to the garden of their Eden, respectful of life’s gifts. We carefully removed the thorns and weeds of the space surrounding us; there were many. We planted borders of flowers to bloom in all seasons. Taking us in each direction we imagined for our lives. Perhaps that garden is still colorful, year round. Even today. Perhaps other people walk on our stones.

I grow older, more silent, wearing the years like a monk’s cloak, although I have left the prayers for others. You never understood. Like an old oak, my limbs grow stiff, waiting for the fatal wind to break down their last vestige of strength. I leaned on you for so many years. Time’s crutches bear me less and less well. Before I die, will we speak again?

Leave me to the ocean breeze, my ashes dusting high cliffs of heather. Will you come for me then?

a forest of time
saluting through dead branches
another full moon

. . .

the best of me ~

07 Friday Mar 2014

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

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

becoming, blessings, breath, cherokee, connection, death, destiny, faith, family, forgiveness, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, love, memories, momentos, old maps, passion, reason, relationship, self, soul signature, spirit, spirituality, story, treasure, truth, understanding, value, wisdom

I realize it’s been a few days since I posted. I recognize the cycle even in myself. Periodically, I feel a need to break free. Periodically, I become convinced that everything I write sounds the same.

Maybe all writers do that. Anyway, a dear friend suggested a story.

Earlier today, I posted a note to a friend. She spoke of taking a day to drive along the coast, stopping at every little antique store along the way. There was a promise of a future time when we could share that love, and some discussion of pieces she had purchased because they reminded her of another time, and other places since gone. My note to her included this story, and so I include it here, with hopes it fills the void where poetry waits.

‘O, I must tell you about my aunt – the wife of my dad’s oldest brother.

My uncle passed about 10 years ago, and my aunt lived in the same little house they had near a lake in the town where my parents live (once retired, they relocated from Georgia). Anyway, since my uncle passed away, my aunt had lived pretty much alone. She has a sister that lives nearby but the two could never get along well enough to live together. Anyway, my cousin (my aunt Lillian’s daughter) was an only child. Years ago, she and her husband lived in Chicago but then they divorced. He remarried and moved to Salt Lake City, and it wasn’t long before my cousin moved (with her two children) to SLC. Rarely do I recall a time ever when the daughter came to see my aunt, or to see her father’s family. She has always been distant, but my aunt was fine (and loved) near her husband’s family.

Well, last May, the daughter flew in from SLC with demand that her mother could no longer live by herself. I hear they looked at a couple of assisted living places, but my aunt didn’t want to leave her house. Ultimately, the daughter packed Aunt Lil up and allowed her one little U-haul trailer of personal items to take with her. Then she called Salvation Army and had them come and pick up everything else. Mind you, this was without even letting my parents or any of her family know. She had a lifetime of things (memories) she had accumulated, left behind for strangers to fight over.

See why I have to have time to start stories? More detail than most people want.

Anyway, at Christmas, I received a little note from my aunt wherein she talked about how much she loved me and how much it meant to her that I was so good to Eucle (my uncle). She mentioned blankets I had brought him when he was ill and how they were now keeping her warm. There was no return address, but I got to work and found both the address and the phone number. Through word-of-mouth, my mother had heard she was living in the basement of her daughter (June’s) house. Not as bad as it sounds – it’s a basement apartment, and I can imagine it does give my aunt some privacy and independence. Although, if I calculate right, she’s 89.

I wrote her back, and because I feared for the part of her left behind, I decided to insert pictures that I pulled off all the facebook pages for my cousins, nieces, nephews, etc. It ended up being two pages of letter and 30 pages of pictures. I mailed it the middle of January.

Last week, I came home to find a large envelope with a SLC return address on it. My first thought was that June had intercepted the package and sent it back to me. But she hadn’t. It was from my Aunt Lil. There was a sweet letter telling me that she had the flu and that her hearing was getting worse, but that she hoped to write me a decent letter soon. I had offered to send her some books, and she said she would like that because she knew that anything I thought was good, would be really good. Then she said, “I’m still unpacking a couple of boxes. When I find more pictures, I’ll send them.”

There must have been 100 pictures in the envelope (some still in photo album pages). There was even a picture of my great great grandmother. Most were from my grandma and grampa’s childhood, but others were of my dad, his brothers and sisters. Of course, there were lots of pictures with people that I don’t know. I have no idea who they are. But I’ve already told my dad and promised that I would bring them so he could tell me who everyone is. He can hardly wait since we had such a great time on my last visit when I had him tell me stories. Now we have pictures to jumpstart the stories. 🙂

My plan was to take all the pictures to Walgreens and have them scanned to disk so that I could print them off, but also give copies to my brother and sisters (some of my cousins would love them too) before I mailed them back to my aunt.

I made the comment to my sister that Aunt Lil must have misunderstood me when I sent her the pictures. She must have thought I wanted her to send me her pictures. But my sister thinks different. “I don’t think she was confused at all. She’s getting older, and she’s probably worried about what would happen to those pictures when she dies. June would probably throw them out (she might have already said she didn’t want them). She wanted someone to have them – someone that would treasure them as she has.”

I don’t know if that’s the case, and it breaks me to think that’s true, or that my cousin wouldn’t want some piece of her parent’s story (because it’s part of her story, even if she doesn’t think so). In fact, it tears my soul in two thinking my aunt is seen as a responsibility, or anything other than the lovely woman she is.

I will send her some books and ask (gently) about the photos and whether she wants them returned to her. I will cry and I will worry. I will share in stories I don’t yet know, and I will thank God for the blessing that is my family.

Of course, I also realize that a part of me is always wrapped in the story, for surely it is another means by which we attain immortality.’

See why I am a storyteller……….

when the longest night
is fallen
from clouds above my bed
when trees are bent
the meadow wears a chill
reminders sit in cardboard
cedar trunks
and lace –
names are written down
where none can see
ne’er a darkness passes
as shadows
o’er my dream
the wind shall take
and leave the best
of me

. . .

a softer view ~

28 Friday Feb 2014

Posted by tornadoday in a time for telling, Poetry

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

awareness, becoming, cherokee, compassion, connection, conscious consciousness, destiny, faith, family, fearless, forgiveness, grace, knowledge, life, love, old maps, passion, poetry, reason, relationship, seeing in the dark, self, spirit, spirituality, strength, the broken ones, truth, understanding

Yesterday, on my drive home from work, I called to check in with one of my students. I had created a resume for him; and he had recently graduated from the program with a mandate to find employment within three weeks.

He had good news to share in that he had found a job. He was excited as it was the first in a long time (as he put it, ‘this side of clean). I commented that I knew he would make it past the fear of each day. He then said something that I pondered most of the night. He said that most had stopped believing him. At a loss for what to say (imagine that), I replied ‘maybe they just need some time to adjust to the new you’. He laughed, and said, “I think it’s because you see with God’s eyes.”

I wasn’t sure what to do with such a compliment except be grateful (and blush, tho he couldn’t see it). As I sometimes do when at a loss, I laughed, “I think His eyes are grey”.

It was a good talk, but it left me thinking long past my drive home.

While I’d love to think that I always see with God’s eyes, the reality is I don’t. But it’s something I aspire to. Surely we should all aspire to see beyond our own insecurities, failures, and fears; beyond our own ego into the worth of everything. Beneath every tear, every scar, there is a story. There is value.

I pray that I find myself more and more seeing with God’s eyes. And when the story comes (and it will), I pray that I will listen with His ears and remember with His heart.

before the day
another night –
is passed to consequence
stars are led
in silence round
the sun

leaves are turned
as blossoms fair
look beyond the path
to search the sky
for angels
come undone

. . .