Of Things That Have Been

I finger them mindlessly most days,

These tokens of thanksgiving.

In some familiar corner of my brain I am

aware of their weight and

the anorexic string that

keeps them connected to a well

untended.

But something has shifted

inside of me and

I can’t remember

how to see.... 

To keep reading this poem, please follow this link

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I am writing today over at my beautiful friend Elizabeth Marshall's home, 

Poetry & Prose Through A Lens of Grace.

She extended a gracious invitation to several of her friends that write poetry and I am honored to be included in that circle.

Elizabeth and I have a history of mingling words and images and stirrings of the heart.

Together, we created Adagio, a writing "pas de deux" of sorts where we wove our words together to pen poems. 

Quite a bit of life has happened between that last project and now, as well it should have. But we are both very excited to join together again in the new year. It is our hope that you will journey with us.

On the passing of my mother

She is from a white clapboard house with a wraparound porch, claw foot tub and Dove soap smack in the middle of Macon, Georgia.

From the streets of Madison and Carling, up and down Coleman Hill, where she walked to Whittle School and the Public Library, and boldly asked for a library card at the age of 5.

She is from playing under fig and pear trees, soft scented pines and shiny leaf magnolias, red clay staining her bare feet and the smell of paper mills filling her nostrils.

She is from Berry and Sallie Belle, Wiley, Sister, Doris, Roger and Jimmy.

She is from strong as oxen Shero aunts who farmed cotton and worked in pants plants in Wrightsville, Georgia.

She is from the Depression and Tuberculosis and a family that took in folks who were down on their luck. From fish on Friday and First Street Methodist.

She is from picnics on Stone Mountain, Finchers BBQ, NuWay hotdogs and LaVista Catfish.

She is from poise lessons and perfect posture and words dripping honey sweet from her mouth.

She is from a hair-brained idea involving a midnight double date rendezvous to Aiken, SC, a half drunk justice of the peace, and a 4th of July celebration that included one very busy rotating fan.

She is from moves to Indianapolis, Indiana and then St. Louis, Missouri that took her from her beloved South.

She is from north of the Mason Dixon line where she took it upon herself to soften the edges of every nasal accent in the Midwest.

She is from bacon grease on the back of the stove and dog bowls at the back door
and champagne bottles that toasted births all lined up in a row. She is from Boston Ferns and summer deck parties.

From coffee and cherry chip birthday cake and hands that smelled like onions.

She is from chuck roast in the electric skillet, onion soup mix brisket, Jello salads, massive pots of spaghetti, liver and onions, green enchiladas, asparagus disguised as green bean casserole, sweet tea and Hallelujah banana bread.
She is from “I love you a bushel and a peck” and “Gimme some sugar” and, perhaps most famously,  “Tim Smothers, you will nevah, nevah, evah drive that Aspen Station Wagon again!”

She is from Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass, the Johnny Mathis Christmas album, Dionne Warwick, George Carlin, Flip Wilson, Bill Cosby, Cheech and Chong, Fiddler on the Roof, James Taylor and that Classical Music in the background.

She is from You Are My Sunshine and Everything Is Going to be Alright.

She is from “To Thine Own Self Be True” and “It’s Your Mama.” From “All Is Well” and “It Is What It Is Grandma” and “Live Well, Laugh Often, Love Much.”

She is from dancing jitterbugs across linoleum floors and slapping her knee at every guffaw.

She is from birthday cards and notes in school lunches and throwing kisses and standing at the door until your car was out of sight.

From “psspsspsspss” and “chum on” and “doodlebug” and “Honey Bob.”

And forever and ever and ever, she will always be from shooting stars and fireworks and every smile shared by those that loved her best.

 ++++++++++

There you have it. The world as we have known it, all the days of our lives. We were molded and shaped and created from that celestial brew of whimsy and joy and strength.

We have never known ourselves or our world without our mother in it.  I am here, my brothers and sisters are here, because of her.  We are who we are, because of her.

Our mother was a curator of a welcome life.

To live in the orbit of our mother was to always be invited, received, entertained, accepted.

But perhaps above all, to have known my mother was to have been loved.

Her life was a lesson in loving.

What she taught us all was to always run hard after love. In all circumstances, by every means necessary, even when we screw things up or we do the exact right thing--we need love to be what is standing between us and everyone else. When love is what we choose to weave in among the fibers and snags of our everyday life, when love gilds the edges of tired joy or stretches across the chasms of unspoken fears then we become Love lived on purpose and that breathes life and one can catch glimpses of glory come down.

In the wake of my mom’s death, we are sad, yes. We feel carved out and empty and the truth of what we are left with actually aches in ways deep and long, yes.
But this, too, is also true:

There is still life, despite the loss.  There is still love in the world, despite the severing.  There is still light, despite the darkness.

And that gives me hope.

Because, if it is true, that we are who we are because of our mother...
then it means that this whole dance, all of the goodness and light spun dizzy with all of the defiance and angst, all of the ways that we continually fall down and help pick each other up, all of the beautiful and mundane, the fascinating and the trivial, the whole and the half?

It's part of us too, now, tucked away in the obvious and secret places, planted in soil made rich with her love and care for us.

It is through loving and singing with our own children or grandchildren, by partnering with kindred souls or living alongside people that challenge us...all of it ripples on and on and on.... people are continually made and remade because we are in their lives...which means that our mother lives on.

And I pray that one day, when the pictures are pulled out and the chronology of our becoming is on display, the one thing that will have leaked out all over, dripping from the corners of our eyes and the edges of our smiles, is the amazing truth...

that we were loved by her.

Running hard after love

I've wanted to escape to this space for weeks now. To get lost in that suspended place of word and thought that swirls like so much wood smoke, evoking both memory and revery with each bend and jump. Here is where I come to figure out what really is ... to remind myself of the ground that holds me up and the sky that pulls at my chin. It is here that I remember how to breathe.

But I have been living the last two weeks at my parents' house and despite the fact that I have all but completely withdrawn from my regular life, the days have been fuller, stuffier, heavier than most. My mom is in the thick of chemotherapy treatments attempting, with all that science and positive energy can offer, to fight a disease that alters the makeup of her blood. Rather than work for her, her cells have declared anarchy. And she is tired.

We are all tired.

And although we may be chipped and cracked a bit, dizzy drunk from all that is working around and in and through us, we are not defeated. Nor have we lost hope. Never before have I been more in tune with the song of the Gospel that sings over me, every day. That although we walk a tenuous line between faith and fear and every step seeks to hand us over to death, life is rising in us, as well.

I witnessed this truth laced through every.single.day I spent at my parents' house.

I didn't always see it while I was a child in their house. I was too busy living wildly off of the fruits of their diligence and gracious caretaking then. It has only been since returning as an adult, in a strange juxtaposition of caregiver and care receiver, that my eyes have been opened. It is only now, when the days seemed numbered, that I see the ring of light that circles the dark.

+++++++

My parents do everything with care. My mom keeps a very tidy house and my dad keeps the whole machine running smoothly. Such has been their dance throughout 59 years of marriage and they still do it beautifully. The glorious thing about it all, however, is that it never was, nor ever is, at the expense of hospitality or graceful living. Neither of them has ever answered the door to surprise guests only to exclaim, "Forgive the messy house!" Instead, doors were thrown open, arms were outstretched and visitors were ushered in with squeals of delight.

My parents are curators of a welcome life.

You can imagine the difficulty, then, when illness enters the room and, despite a willing heart, the body can't always comply. The tenuous line is drawn and its diaphanous form etches itself across the floor, like a crack in plaster.

But, over and over, I watched my parents, my mother, especially, tilt towards life.

+++++++

I always thought that if I was ever faced with a severe illness that I would, of course, take up arms and run into battle. I would not go down with the ship. I would rise above, stand defiant, go out kicking and screaming.

After witnessing the horrors of chemotherapy, however, I'm not so sure. The idea of fighting death with destruction doesn't settle well in my deepest places. But neither does quietly walking away from a life that I love. I don't know how to keep company with those who sing songs for Jesus' speedy return in order to save us from this swirling orb of humanity.

I want to live.

I want to wake up every day and gaze upon those that I love. I want to plant zinnias every summer and smell wood smoke trailing from stone chimneys. I want to eat gooey butter cake and lift weights at the Y and take road trips to the Rocky Mountains and cook bacon on Saturdays. I want to laugh at silly jokes and hear, once again, the stories that make our family its own brand of crazy. I want to hold fast to the hands clinging hard to mine.

I don't want any of this to ever stop.

I'm learning that the way to embrace a death sentence while simultaneously allowing life to rise in me is to run hard after love. In all circumstances, by every means necessary, even when I screw things up or do the exact right thing--I need love to be what is standing between me and everyone else.

When love is what I choose to weave in among the fibers and snags of my every day life, when love gilds the edges of tired joy or stretches across the chasms of unspoken fears then that cloudy glass is rubbed a little cleaner. Love lived on purpose breathes life and one can catch glimpses of glory come down.

I saw it most keenly the night I lay in bed alongside my mom. She was three days into chemo and every one of her body systems was in revolt. In that darkened room I quietly held hands with my mom and hung lavishly in that place of holding and being held. Our bodies formed a circle and I longed harder than ever that it remain unbroken. And then she whispered her thanksgiving, for me and my boys and my just being there. Her words, her naming the gifts, breathed life into my weary soul. It was love that floated between our souls in that moment and it became clearer than ever.

This speaking love into each others' lives? It is life.

Lessons in Light and Dark

It happened so fast, the light leaving.

It was a slow fade, at first, with the late afternoon sun casting weaker beams in the sky. And then, like a candle snuffed quietly, the sun disappeared and one day we found ourselves eating dinner in the inky blackness. That first darkened night we huddled around the table and felt a keen need to draw closer, to touch shoulders, to clasp hands.

The hushed darkness of winter will do that to you. Pull you in.

And although the earth spins faithfully and the calendar responds in turn, even though I know this cycle by heart, I am still surprised by its steadfastness. The resoluteness of time can grate painfully across this fickle heart of mine and my grandest intentions often fall like cinders from the flame that frames each season.

The passing of years does not always equate an increased wisdom and some lessons wrap themselves in new skin and walk themselves into my days.

My latest lesson wears the skin of a baby...

To read the rest of "Lessons in Light and Dark" please join me here over at SheLoves Magazine.

In which I begin the great unwinding

I suppose it has been a bit obvious, has it not?

The fewer blog posts.
Not as many comments at the end of others' pieces, if they manage to get read at all.
A diminishing Klout score.

Less of a presence.

On line, that is.

But, really, it has just been the beginning of a great unwinding. And as these days melt, one into another, and as I approach the day when life turns upside down, once again, I find my heart and mind being drawn elsewhere.

I am very much at home these days.

++++++++++


Ann Voskamp wrote once about how mother ducks "pick feathers from their chests to line their nests" and now I understand.

“How else did you think nests were lined?”

With leftovers.

That’s what I thought.

With feathers discarded, the molted, the not-so-necessary feathers.

I thought mother ducks picked feathers up from what was laying about, scraps, lining nests with what simply could be mustered after the fact.

But no. No, a mother duck plucks each feather out from the heart of her bosom.

She lines the nest with bits of herself — the best of herself.  

A mother cups her brood not with leftovers — but with her own sacrifice.

++++++++++++++

As I have begun preparing for a new baby to enter into my, and my family's, life I am having to let go of some things that I have been holding close.

I need to begin the sacrifice of my online presence.

Saying that out loud is like sounding the death knell to a modern writer. Stop blogging? No more tweets? No more platform building?

But at the end of that line of questioning and after a small but monumental silence, I stand resolute.

When I wash clothes and then hang them on the line to dry, it is a process that takes time. Each piece must be snapped free of wrinkles, clipped on with clothespins and arranged just so. When the task is completed it makes for an impressive sight, colors flapping in the wind, displayed for all to see. Work has been done and now the sun works her magic.
But if I don't hang my clothes on the line and, instead, choose to place them in the dryer, inside of my house, the work is still being done.
It just isn't seen by the whole neighborhood.

That is how things are needing to shift around these parts.

I am slowly bringing the work inside.

My sweet baby has been leading the way already. With each passing day he has been growing and stretching into the space within which he finds himself. And he has been doing it most beautifully.

But soon, his space will spill over into our space and we want to be ready.

So we are moving things from here to there. We are relieving ourselves of things no longer needed. We are welcoming, with open arms, the generosity of family and friends.

We are making room.

++++++++

This slow unwinding has made me aware in ways that I haven't been, for quite some time...

Aware of the way the sun light moves across the floor and walls of my living room, highlighting corners and gilding rough edges and generally making all things beautiful.

Aware of the ticking that comes from the small desk clock upon the shelf, reminding me of every.single.moment.

Aware of how conversations, connected throughout a day, can build bridges of thought and understanding and revelation to everyone involved.

Aware of the power of touch and eye contact and how melting into both provides a balm for heart space that you didn't even realize was rough and hardened.

And, most importantly, aware that every day is full of gifts to unwrap and in order to fully receive that multitude, one must not be looking askance.

So, friends, I am beginning the great unwinding.  I am letting the yarn unravel as it will. It will probably look quite untidy for a bit. Perhaps there will be tangles. But, together, my family and I are letting the colored strands fall into our open hands and, together, we will knit together new garments.

I believe I already like the fit of them.

+++++++

Photo credit: Ben Hosking via Flickr

Foretaste

"In the right light, at the right time, everything is extraordinary."  ~Aaron Rose

The daylight has shifted, quietly
and now it gently wanes.
Days are still warm and locusts still drone
but the world is tilting
and we adjust our steps
despite ourselves.

I watch as the sunlight
crackles through the emerald leaves
and the swaying shaking boughs
are clapping
right out
and I know it
down deep

That this dripping delicious daylight
is but a
foretaste...

You can find the rest of my poem over at SheLoves Magazine today. 

Would love to have you join me there.

Brave Words: I Believe

The years, they begin to stretch a little thinner with each turn of the calendar. There is always a slight pause at the realization, an imperceptible shake of the head, a quick tightening along the jaw bone.

And then the resignation and the practiced patience. The deep breath and the tight smile. Perhaps it is habit or even a feigned fortitude. Whatever it is, it pushes forward.

It must.

But this year’s turning almost undid me. It swelled loud and frightening and red and there was a hemorrhaging of questions and unknowns. There was fear. The cinch of my belt was acute and there was an ache deep within my belly.

And I found myself asking, no, begging, the question:

On how thin a line can one continue to balance?

But hidden within the possible answer was where my biggest fear actually lurked.

What if the answer was hidden in the hard truth of

giving up

and

giving over

and

giving into?

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I'm sharing my story of unbelief over at Kelli Woodford's place today. Kelli has been hosting a series on Brave Words and here are her words on this series:

"Writers see more clearly when they can cover an experience with words. Not to hide from it, but so that what is truest and perhaps most important about the experience is made manifest to eyes blind in all other directions.  This is my reason for writing this series. 
In it I hope to allow the courage God places in our hearts access to our tongue. That in looking at the many syllables of Truth, and how they differ for each of us, we can also learn to speak them bold when surrounded by the cacophonic glare of lies.  That we can recognize how God is speaking His courage through us more often than we know.  Oh, so much more often than we know."

Mother

I'm wearing a path through my heart's middle these days ... vacillating between worlds in a dance that has no set steps. There is only a song that warbles on top of the chill air, pulling me one way, then another.

There is now and its two boys and all that this demands of me.

Attention.
Presence.
Comfort.
Joy.
Laughter.
Food.
Warmth.
And love ... more love than I think I might have to give. Love that dives below the surface tension of now and pulls me into the deep places heavy with night and shadows. Love that believes before it doubts. Love that circles seventy times seven. Love unbroken.

And then there is a crossing over ...
and I am there, at my own mother's bedside
stroking her brow
kissing her cheek
framing her face in my hands
as if our hearts flipped in the night's chill and now I am mothering the mother.

On either side of me stand my two boys, warm from the car ride and woozy with sleep and before me
is my mother, hands clasped together for warmth, purple knitted shawl slipping from her shoulders.

And I hang for a millisecond, suspended between the role of mother and that of daughter,
until the tightrope snaps
and I free fall
head
over
heart
over
feet.

It is not until I land plumb in the middle of love that I discover it is simply the keeping of hearts to which I am called.

So the next day looks like a turning and a circling, over and over.

My stout sons are hungry, so hungry, and I parcel out first and second breakfasts and then whine that they are having too much screen time even as I turn my back and pretend the opposite. It's only for today, I whisper into the ether, not sure if I am confessing or hoping.

And then comes the swelling worry, wrapped in fever and fatigue, taking up residence in my mother's slight and wispy body. She is not prepared for this new battle. She has already been fighting a mutant army and it has been marching through her blood, pillaging her energy and vigor and she is tired.
So tired.

So I push for answers and advocate for truth and a hazy cognizance swirls around deep inside as I begin to see how she has championed the same for me, time and time again. That from the moment I was flesh and blood in her arms I became her cause and she has never stopped fighting for me. For my joy ... for my dreams ... for my life.

And when I wonder at what point I became equipped for such a time as this, when I realize that I must be all of that for her, it is then that I realize that a Mother is a life force. As long as babies are born and mothers are made, whether by blood or decree, a creative force is unleashed in the world and things are never the same.

I will never be the same.

My desire to nurture and sustain those entrusted to my care need no longer discern mother from child. All of it is a dance, a grand swinging, a twirling of tendrilous hearts.

To mother, to be mothered, all is birthed from Love embedded deep and long and wide.

And at the end of the day, I pull back the crazy quilt spread across the bed and crawl in next to my mom, my boys at my heels, all of us falling
head
over
heart
over
feet
into
love.

A foretaste

Your words

they speak

of counting hairs

and

grains of sand

And so

 it must be 

that 

You have touched 

each

and

every

golden orb

with

Light

And now

each

swells

with 

a

foretaste

of

Glory

divine

{Adagio: A Poetry Project} Born in the Night

Today I give you a second offering of Adagio: A Poetry Project. Perhaps you saw the first poem? The one where Elizabeth Marshall and I each strung words on colored threads and then wove them together into one unified piece. That idea, of writing collaboratively, was what initially launched this project and it is the heart and soul of how we see this project growing.
But just as its name suggests, an Adagio is a dance between two partners. A dance in which there is a lifting, a balancing, a turning. So, today, we are dancing as individuals to the same music. There is a poem from me, here, and another poem from Elizabeth over at her place. Together and apart, we are writing from the same prompt, the hymn "Born in the Night, Mary's Child."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It is night when you come

We have not made it to a place that makes sense

a place proper 

a place right

But still 

you come

First

there is darkness

so

much

darkness

But then

you burst forth

pulling on skin and bone and sinew

and the light

it 

drips

molten

from your face

You

who at once

knows nothing

and

everything

You

are the one

that will tell us

that

God is good

even while

all around you

that early darkness

swirls

black

Hope

grips at your heels

a streamer

dancing and flapping

on the wind

and it

leaves

kingdom dust 

on the streets

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Writing is, most often, a solo venture, a process worked deep inside the confines of one’s heart and soul. But when two pilgrim poets turn towards each other and embrace the tension that lies between, something new emerges.  A writing “pas de deux” is born and the two begin weaving their words together, in and around, over and under, into something bigger than themselves. The writing becomes a lifting, a balancing, a turning…and the words on the page become an Adagio.

We would love for you to enter into this project with us. Please feel free to leave your own poem in the comments, either here or at Elizabeth's place. We welcome your choreography on this endeavor and we long to hear your offerings on the prompt.

My Broken Hallelujah

He burst forth this side of heaven with a flourish, arriving earlier than expected.

It was there, in the hushed predawn light, before even the birds could herald the coming of the day, where I pulled him to my chest and breathed deep his nativity. For the holiness of that moment hung heavy and I lay still under the weight of it all.

In the months that followed I cradled my son continuously, in every crook and curve of my body. A skin to skin, breast to mouth, finger to toe rhythm emerged and soon we were connecting in thousands of ways, over and over. This sacred dance had no fixed steps. It was simply that Love led and we, the beloved, followed.

Both of us continued to grow in knowing and being known.

We leaned into the hard places, into the fevers and the pain.

And, together, we rose on zephyr winds, celebrating new exploits and the joy of new milestones.

My son was incredibly affectionate, with me. He would nestle down quietly into the folds of my body and he would fling his chubby arms around my neck, pulling me deeper into his heart space. I was enraptured with this little soul that longed for connection. He was mine and I was his.

We were growing into our God-stained selves and it was good.

We were together, always.

We spent hour upon hour curled up on couches, befriending the likes of Huckle and Lowly and Wilbur and Charlotte. We perched near our large picture window at every meal and, just as if he were learning his ABC’s, my son learned the name of every bird that visited our feeder.

Because we shared our home with other families, we almost always had one or two other children laced in and out of our every hour. My son learned the difficult realities of sharing and compromise early and he practiced them long.

I’m not exactly sure at what point I began to notice that things were changing.

*************************

To read more of this post, please join me here at SheLoves Magazine today as they partner with Prodigal Magazine in hosting a "Broken Hallelujah" link-up. Through stories of hardship and redemption we hope to open wide the gates of brokenness. Will you consider joining us by sharing your story?

Eucharisteo

This is a repost from last year but it remains the prayer of my heart.

As we pack up the car and drive over the river and through the woods 

to family and all those we hold dear, 

I pray that these words would sink deep.

And I hope that wherever you find yourself this Thanksgiving

you will be full to bursting with love unending.

“Eucharisteo—thanksgiving—always precedes the miracle.” 

-Ann Voskamp

Lord,

Despite the fact that I can feel the dance begin,

the one that sweeps up family and feasting, bustling hands and beauteous light and twirls them round and round my heart,

I sense You pulling me deeper.

Yes, it is good to gather, to greet each other with holy kisses and to give thanks.  Generations after generations have taught us that ritual.  We know it by heart.

But Lord, I long to live out my thanks giving.  I don’t want it to be reserved for pre-appointed dates on the calendar.

I need to practice this act of thanks giving so that it becomes a sacrament. 

Because on many days, the thanks are slow in coming.

And some days, they don’t come at all.

How can this be?

Perhaps it is because my wandering heart finds your shadow and declares you absent, choosing to embrace emptiness and despair.  Looking closer I might see that the darkness that puddles around me is actually cast by the breadth of your wing.  And that you are always passing by.

I must burn the Truth on my lips--that your mercies are new every morning-- so that when my heart fails and my vision blurs, my mouth will declare forth your praise.

Lord, may my thanks giving always be a response rather than a ritual and may I learn to see that your love is everywhere.

Amen.