Our Stories are Held
Our stories are heldand carried close to our body,pressed into our chestlike a heavy, brown paper bag. We hold the handle,and the bottom,taking care not to spill out its contents;not until it’s time. Yet with time,the bag becomes heavy.Sometimes, the bag begins to break down,wearing thin and ripping at the edges. The handle starts to fall apart;the bottom unglues.It’s time to set it down –the bag; the story. Maybe it’s time to throw it away.Maybe it’s time for a new one.
You Call Me to Wild Places
You call me to wild places,
of gnarly, twisted roots,
where curly telephone-wire vines reach and grab a neighboring trunk;
And so much life is found in a crag.
You call me to wild places,
where only the smallest creatures see the ripples they cause from under the surface of hidden bodies of ethereal, blue-green water
reflecting off the brightest chartreuse moss banks I’ve ever seen.
You call me to wild places,
of displays of glorious velvety petals,
adorned with sparkling water-diamonds
that only the resident dragonflies will ever see and taste,
as they buzz wide-eyed and free among this living masterpiece -
this wild and familiar place they call home.
You call me to wild places
Where no path exists besides the meandering ones
from the leaf cutters who always know their way,
And no feet have padded through this forest floor,
except those who know this place as home.
You call me to wild places,
where over the hollowed bamboo, wind passes and whistles a melody,
and my senses are never more alive and alert,
and the one thing I am sure of is that only more wild exists right around the corner,
as my mind sees chaos and tries to make sense of it all.
You call me to wild places,
in unfamiliar spaces my mind can’t quell,
because you know it’s where and when I can receive
mysteries you are ready to reveal to me.
You call me to wild places,
To remind me that as unruly, untamed and filled with chaos as it all appears to me,
this is perfect order and perfect beauty to you;
And everything here is perfectly yours
and every living creature is perfectly cared for.
You call me to wild places
Because here, I am aware that as alone and unprepared as I feel,
I am far from being alone
and all I need, you have already given me.
God Speaks Through the Forest
I was 45 when I first laid down in a carpet of cushiony, bright green moss under a towering oak in the middle of the forest.
Before that, I cared too much about tardigrades and other tiny bugs that would crawl into my hair or on my skin, but this time, I didn’t, because I couldn’t.
I was carrying heavy cartoon-anvils on my shoulders and chest, forcing any remaining shallow breath in my lungs to come out.
With nothing left in me, I looked down at my feet through watery wells of anguish, and I heard the moss say, “Look out!”
I looked out and there, beyond my feet, the brightest moss bed invitingly beckoned me to rest – right there, on the ground! I scanned my body and could feel the exhaustion down to my bones. I accepted what I felt was an invitation to lie down.
It was then I heard the oak tree say, “Look up!”
I looked up and above me stood this majestic oak tree with leaves the size of giant’s hands, and I noticed they were casting the most perfectly shaped-around-my-body shade, blocking the sun’s rays from spoiling this rest I was taking.
I next heard the forest floor say, “Breathe!”
I breathed – inhaling the dried lichen and earthy dirt, the faint smell of pine and the musty, cool smell of ‘under a rock’ and exhaling over the sounds of the nearby trickling creek .
I heard the entire forest say, “Give thanks!”
I gave thanks: for the soft place for my head, for the perfect tree and shade, for the smells of summer afternoons playing in the woods as a child, for this magical spot I’d found that seemed to be placed here just for me. And I rested.
Before long, I heard the dirt under my body say, “Get up!”
I got up. I shook the tardigrades off and laughed because I was shaking off tardigrades. I laughed because the imprint my head left in the moss made the shape of a misshapen heart. I kept laughing because it felt better to laugh than cry.
I heard the entire forest, “You are going to be alright!”
I was going to be alright, I knew I was.
I was 45 when God made me lie down in green patches of moss, by the trickling waters. He restored my soul. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
To The Choirmaster - for the periodical cicada
Of course you emerge
Lifting your voice over
The earth you’ve been under
For more than a decade.
Joining the chorus,
Of all the voices
in the land of the living -
The mountains,
The sea,
The trees,
The birds.
Out of darkness,
Your wings are freed.
Yet, you don’t take flight,
In your freedom,
those short months
you live in the light -
You sing.
What a surrender.
What a perfect creation.
God of Creation gave you a voice,
And you sing.
Selah.
this wild and familiar place they call home.
You call me to wild places
Where no path exists besides the meandering ones
from the leaf cutters who always know their way,
And no feet have padded through this forest floor,
except those who know this place as home.
You call me to wild places,
where over the hollowed bamboo, wind passes and whistles a melody,
and my senses are never more alive and alert,
and the one thing I am sure of is that only more wild exists right around the corner,
as my mind sees chaos and tries to make sense of it all.
You call me to wild places,
in unfamiliar spaces my mind can’t quell,
because you know it’s where and when I can receive
mysteries you are ready to reveal to me.
You call me to wild places,
To remind me that as unruly, untamed and filled with chaos as it all appears to me,
this is perfect order and perfect beauty to you;
And everything here is perfectly yours
and every living creature is perfectly cared for.
You call me to wild places
Because here, I am aware that as alone and unprepared as I feel,
I am far from being alone
and all I need, you have already given me.
Not All That is Fragile Falls Apart
Spring’s arrival summons green blades,
Sharpened and erect, standing at attention.
What treasure of blue lies atop these swords –
delicate and weightless, like manna,
Discarded from nest;
My clumsy fingers can’t protect.
Shattered shards crumble under my most fragile attempt.
But what of this treasure is most precious?
Remains of sticky birth and new life,
So tiny, such a miracle –
Listening for the life, the lives,
My wisdom cannot discern over the
melodious chorus of the air.
Carefully, my hand faces heaven,
Cupped the same when I stand and worship,
Holding fragility, witness of miracles,
And a promise of a new song;
An offering from heaven for the one who
Gathers, for the one who sees.
I hold treasure that survived the sword,
And understand that not all blades, cut,
I understand that not all that is fragile,
Falls apart.
Heart of Rock and Skin to Shed
// Heart of Rock and Skin to Shed //
I had them once -
Big feelings and arms stretched out wide;
Wide smile, wide eyes, wide glow;
Wide stage that was all mine.
But over time, there was no space for them,
So I put them in my pocket,
and carried juvenile discernment in my juvenile hands,
and learned to read the crowd, but
can a child determine who has space for them,
or know that rejection shows up as people-pleasing?
Certainly a child can learn to grow tough skin,
from always stuffing down their feelings.
And later on, storms of life came,
Wounds accumulated and opportunities came along,
Unhealthy coping patterns, I did them all,
Fight, flight, freeze and fawn.
But I didn’t understand how I could cry about a wounded animal,
Or a friend’s hard life circumstance,
Or with my child’s big feelings,
But for my own pain, there was no chance.
“You get good at what you practice;
Be careful what you’re practicing.”
These words I say all the time in my home,
I guess I need to practice feeling my own feelings.
It’s why over and over, my therapist asks,
“BUT how does that make you FEEL?”
And over and over, I respond with an explanation,
My left brain’s description of what is real.
Just tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.
“But Kelly, it’s a move from the head to heart.
It’s logic versus feeling,
And you have to FEEL these parts.”
I ask, “And what do I DO with that info?”
“Nothing. Just FEEL.” She replied,
“It’s not information you’re after,
It’s where these sensations are felt inside.”
“I’ve been bulldozing”, she told me,
Too many times I’ve ‘pulled up my big girl pants’,
She asked, “Has anyone ever been tender,
Has anyone ever given you a chance
To share your tender hurts,
And meet you there in your pain?
You’ve gotten good at dismissing your feelings,
To avoid the discomfort, again and again.
Your view of everything is clouded from wounds,
It’s time to heal and get to know yourself again.
Be present with your body, and know
God is helping you from within.”
Breathe.
Well, I guess this heart I have has become a rock,
And I’ve got thick skin that needs to shed.
I’ve got a map, where I have trekked once alive,
And where parts of me are dead.
Note: this was going to be a poem about the heart rocks and nature finds my boys collect and proudly gift to me, but this poem came out instead.
The Promise I Made - The Promise I’ve Kept: an essay
My mother said the first time she took us to the beach, as soon as we walked over the dunes to finally behold our destination, after a long, hot car ride, our eyes grew wide. My brother zeroed in on the waves, and took off toward the ocean. All my eyes could see was the glorious, endless sandbox upon which my tiny, pink feet stood. She said it took some time before I even noticed the water.
I wasn’t yet two when I fell in love with the beach and all of the treasures she beheld. Of bird and crab, castle and sea, it was the seashells that did it - they stole my little heart.
Every year, I looked forward to visiting Mamoo and Pappy at their beach house, two blocks away from my endless sandbox. Lined on a ledge of their back porch was their permanent collection of large, imperfect conch and whelk shells; I checked every summer to see if it had grown.
One summer at that beach two blocks away, I remember making a promise, which I’ve kept to this day. I stood, pink-footed on the hot sand, blonde pigtails bouncing off of my head, staring into my cupped, sandy palm, as I blissfully held the most beautiful sunrise-striped lilac and ballet-slipper-pink coquina shell, my two favorite colors at the time, and whispered, “I will always love you.”
What that meant was, there would never be a time when I wouldn’t appreciate and adore everything about a shell: their varying sizes, even the tiniest ones; all of the delightful shapes and textures; their delicate stature, even making sure the broken ones felt loved by choosing them, too; the knowledge of the creatures they once held; and above all, all of their delightfully beautiful colors.
As a five-year-old, confident artist, browns and earth tones had never thrilled me. I was more of a rainbow gal. But, seashells changed my mind for good. I had never seen such an array of colors displayed on the world’s most beautiful objects. Indeed, these sepias, olives and rusts have since become as equally beloved as their bright and cheery cousins.
Nothing was as special as collecting shells with my Mamoo. She has long been gone, but when I think of her today, I picture her bent down, matching my excitement with her warm smile as we find a good shell, using the corner of her white, unbuttoned overshirt to wipe it off before handing it to me to place in the large bucket she’d carry for me. Her legs, drizzled with purple lightning-bolt veins under her knee-length crisp chinos, frail but never tiring of doing the work to hunt with me. Her breath and golden, wrinkled skin smelled like cream with a little coffee in it, the way she liked it, and Chanel No. 5: sun and sand edition.
As we’d prepare to leave for home, I would wrap up my treasures in paper towels to keep them safe and sound for their return inland and hours away from the sand and sea. When I’d get home, I’d just as carefully unwrap them and set them, lined up on a shelf in my bedroom, just like Mamoo’s outdoor collection.
Walking over the dunes and onto the beach, with my kids running ahead - one stopping in the sand, and two heading straight to the sea - I join my youngest, who has picked up a perfectly imperfect chipped scallop shell, and hold the bucket out as he places it ever so carefully in the bottom. I recall a promise I once made when I was about his age, and wonder if he’s made the same.
What Existed, What Died
What breathed, what bled, what fought, what cried,
What slept, what praised, what existed, what died –
Minerals and elements formed rich dust,
Gathered masterfully from Earth’s crust.
Flesh and blood, and Breath of Life then came;
Upon each was given purpose, to glorify his name.
And when their time ended, as they returned to the earth,
The ground re-mineralized, preparing for new birth.
From his hands and breath a new creature is made,
While buried in the dirt are stories displayed.
Though many remain hidden, never to be discovered,
Other stories are unearthed, released and uncovered -
Revealing a greater purpose of life and merely being,
One of intelligent design and a love that is most pleasing.
Are we not from the same dirt and even more so, masterfully created -
And when to dust we return, will our stories that remain be a testimony or bated?
While Breath of Life still resides inside our bodies and bones,
Let our stories bear witness to the greatest love ever known.
What breathed, what bled, what fought, what cried –
What slept, what praised, what existed, what died.