in search of beginning ~

It seems as late, I am compelled to writing stories. Maybe it’s the look in my daddy’s eyes when he’s telling me something I didn’t know already, or maybe I’m coming to understand that it’s something I do well, and that poetry need not be lost in the process.

I’ve discovered is that I don’t need to create an imaginary world to write. I have the world already, and stories that I’ve often worried to – that they would disappear completely if someone (if I) didn’t write them down.

You see, I love the story. I want to know the why of everything. I refuse to chalk off violence or ignorance as just poor breeding or insufficient laws. It’s impossible to ever truly understand, to truly know compassion if you don’t know the story of how someone (anyone) got to the place they are, how they come to a crossroads where the choices were so blurry (and perhaps so few). I want to know because every story is in some part my own.

Do I know you?

I watch the news and hear the latest details of a killing, a beating, a thoughtless remark…….and know there’s more to the story – a betrayal, a loss, an act that seems beyond reach of forgiveness. And yet, as a rule, society cares not much for the why; with most attention focused on who – who can we blame? Maybe if we spent a little more time understanding, there would be less that needed fixing. If our sympathies extended beyond others just like ourselves, then maybe we could become part of something more than a temporary distraction – a moment of outrage.

A moment beyond the moment in which we’ve forgotten.

I will listen.

Instead, reporters tell us the same thing over and over (we must have someone to blame). We hurt for the victims of senseless violence, and yet cannot see that we are all victims. Most perpetrators have family, people who love them, people who will struggle with survival in the world of ‘after’. Do we grieve for them, or are we much more selective with our compassion, identifying only with the survivors we recognize? Do we grieve for the soul that was so lost as to think this was really an answer?

Who let go?

It makes us angry, when it should make us sad. “Every man’s death diminishes me.” Every story becomes a part of my own, every sorrow, a memory mine.

which way
the beginning –
was a moment in time
when love
found a way
through the dark
forsaken the promise
would take them to home
and a light
on the porch
burning still

walking and wearing
boots into dust
the wringing of wrinkled
these hands
are emptied by losing
each innocence come –
by way of the path
we’ve forgotten
to watch

. . .

fragile joy ~

24 Saturday May 2014

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

bliss, connection, conscious consciousness, divine this, dreams, faith, forgiveness, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, love, old maps, one, passion, reason, relationship, spirit, spirituality, truth, understanding, wisdom, wonder

as silent hands
remember touch –
a fragile cup of joy
as carried once
across the depths
of time

reminders
of each sorrow
held us near to love
treasure
far too sweet
for one to hold

in seasons of
together
from close – a distance none
is lost to these
who gave of light
away

beyond the knowing
meant for sight
a truth that needs
not seed
I carry still
another me somehow

conceived
of something greater
than want
to understand
how fleeting
we –
a moment saved
to love

. . .

like no other ~

13 Tuesday May 2014

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

bliss, connection, conscious consciousness, destiny, dreams, eternal, faith, fearless, forever, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, life, living, love, memory, old maps, passion, poetry, reason, relationship, restless, resurrection, spirit, spirituality, time, understanding, wandering, wisdom, wonder

were we ever
(not together) –
bound forever by a dream
(by a kiss) to unremember
every sorrow
passed between

the whisper
and the longing
for (another)
one more life
a sunrise (like no other)
stealing covers
from the night

once a vow
was laid to silence
I shall wait
(for you) til then
lest my soul
remit this passion –
(come awake) to dream
again

. . .

direction ~

06 Tuesday May 2014

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

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

beauty, becoming, connection, conscious consciousness, faith, fearless, forgiveness, grace, gravel roads, imperfections, knowledge, life, love, nature, poetry, reason, relationship, southern, spirit, strength, truth, understanding, value, wonder

It’s that time of year. Spring is shaking off the quilt of winter, and especially in the south, the signs are everywhere – buds emerging, lightning bugs in the soft evening light, and the droning of lawnmowers, clippers and weeders.

Those who’ve spent the last four months complaining about the cold are at last vindicated with something new to complain about. Already, the local markets are overflowing with customers seeking a quick remedy for weeds, bugs and moles. Add in all the new prescriptions being written for allergy meds, and only a fool would be oblivious to the page turning.

But back to the post. Ahhh, yes. Each year, I am filled with anguish as my forsythia bush is clipped, and my redbud tree trimmed. Various other bushes and trees are not exempt. Only those who have suffered near death are spared the pruning that spring seems to necessitate.

And every year, I express my weariness with the process. It seems wholly unnatural to me, for I cannot recall a single instance of such in my childhood, one spent much closer to the trees, plants and weeds than I am now. Part of my problem is my understanding that all these are extensions of us, connected to us. When given dominion, I’m not sure that meant authorization to change that which seems to work quite well without any assistance.

It also reminds me of society’s innate desire to put everyone in the same box, even if that means lopping off what doesn’t fit, or that which might be less appealing. As if somehow we are more perfect without our flaws. As if a dogwood needed directions to know where to grow a branch or blossom. The truth is that we’re less perfect when we spend untold energy and expense trying to look like everyone else, to be like anyone other than ourselves. Our flaws are what make us uniquely beautiful, our scars but proof that we’ve lived (that we’ve loved).

My favorite tree – the redbud that leans into the driveway, but remembers a place in the woods. My favorite bush – the forsythia that ignores the clipping and seems to double in size overnight – with arms swaying in the morning light, ‘look at me, look at me’.

Pruning seems painful and honestly, a waste of good sunlight. I grew up in a home with two basic rules. If it grows, you let it. And, if shows up on your porch in the middle of the night, you love it.

come these hands
as fertile ground
these eyes –
an eager sun
were guarded
by a swollen heart
to shade

the arms
of birch and maple
pressed between
the pines –
as shelter to the babies
unafraid

of dark
wherein the blue spruce glows
beneath the night’s
caress
– blossom sleeps
beside the tender blade

morning wakes in colors
a poet cannot tell
where breath became
a promise
of heaven here
was made

. . .

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

. . .

distances allowed ~

23 Wednesday Apr 2014

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

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

breath, connection, conscious consciousness, death, destiny, dreams, faith, fearless, forgiveness, knowledge, life, love, memory, old maps, passion, poetry, reason, relationship, restless, resurrection, spirit, spirituality, truth, understanding, value

Last week my mama called with the news – an old friend was gone. Certainly before his time (yet not). He was nine years younger than me – the same as my baby sister. In fact, my very first job was babysitting him and his two younger brothers. It was sudden, unexpected – his heart gave out during the course of a night.

He lived alone; slept alone; died alone.

It’s a formula that breaks my heart, and one sure to haunt his girls with what ifs and who could have known.

And yet – he wasn’t found in the hallway or the bathroom floor. He was on his side, as if the moment was first presented as a dream.

Such news moves us for surely we know the echoes of such emptiness. We grieve with the broken, and grieve for ourselves, as we are reminded (again) of the frailty of life, of the breath that stalls, cleaving us from this world, from every might have been.

It’s not the dying that scares us, but the running out of road. It’s not the trip we never took, or the book we didn’t write. It’s the half dozen eggs in the fridge, yesterday’s mail on the counter, and laundry not yet dry. It is the heart that will wonder to words never spoke, our last time forever the last. It seems as tho the things of little weight in life – weigh the most in death. Faith gives us assurance of another sun, but it is an assurance unfamiliar to this life.

We breathe, and we shed unseen tears for a loss greater than our words. Days pass as memories soften, such that one day we are surprised anew by the passing of life into fall.

I’d swear
there was a time before
I memorized your kiss
wrote your name
in cursive
next to mine

waited one more
always –
of reason to recall
and traded me
a winter
for your touch

you claim
to know my stories
when nights
I find you there
walking all alone
on roads
I go

torn between
the now and then –
were distances
allowed
a light we burned
– another
shining bare

memories
relearning –
the warmth that is
your soul
come again
to carry me
to home

…

where petals fell ~

14 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

awakened, breath, conscious consciousness, destiny, faith, gardens, grace, gravel roads, growth into more, knowledge, life, living, love, nature, old maps, passion, relationship, softer ground, spirit, spirituality, truth, understanding, value, waiting, wisdom

between the lines
where petals fell
counted back from none
he loves me
loves me not –
or so the story goes

where once
the soul was wary
mercy came as time
from brokenness
– a sweeter blossom
grows

warmed beneath
the same ole sun
rocked upon the wind
sorrows burst
to bloom
beside the rose

presence
keeps a hallowed path
reminders mark
the way
were petals loosed
as questions –

now I know

. . .

hands to watch ~

11 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by tornadoday in Poetry, Rambling, Storytelling

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

bliss, breath, connection, destiny, dreams, grace, gravel roads, knowledge, living, love, memory, my way back to you, old maps, passion, poetry, reason, relationship, spirit, spirituality, strength, understanding, wonder

how sweet
where springs immortal
some provision for the light
an extra sheet
with blankets down the hall
a book of story
read to me –
one night
when morning came
listening
was I
so sure to fall

in wonder unexpected
a corner
dusted bare –
else distance will
my soul to disappear
how many times
were hands
to watch –
a sweeping into day
love is left a promise
– silence I can
hear

. . .