Who
am I?
"That is a very nice
shirt," he* says,
"whose shirt is that?"
"My shirt,"
I say.
"But you take your shirt off, and
put it back on again...
without your shirt, are you still
you?"
"Without shirt
or shoes,
or car,
or job,
or house,
or i phone,"
I begin to think beyond the
veil.
"Yes," I say to
myself.
"Ahhh, yes,"
I reply with
wonder.
Then something begins to
dawn as he turns
me away from the sliver of
shadow self
and
towards the full
light of
conscious being...
the being that
is consciousness...
Well yes,
I think...
as he urges me on...
I am something more
than this shirt
that
is
"my shirt"...
yes,
even though I wear
it
almost
everyday...
and can’t
imagine
wearing anything
else tomorrow...
if its fabric
were to dissolve
beneath
my fingertips,
I would still be me
therefore,
I am not my shirt.
Hmmm,
"But what about my body?"
I am not my body...
I have a body.
I have arms,
and legs,
and eyelashes,
and tearducts...
If I were to lose
a limb,
or eyes went dim
and hair fell out,
I would still be me.
So I guess,
I am not my body.
And...I am not my thoughts.
My thoughts come and
go
and change and morph.
Thoughts I had yesterday
I cannot remember
today.
Sooo....
Yup, you guessed it...
I am not my thoughts.
I have a name
but it has changed...
I have been a first name...or two,
a maiden name and
two married names.
I have had spiritual names, titles,
prefixes, and suffixes.
Names of streets and
names of schools...but they are not
who I am.
When I walk into a coffeehouse
tucked along a quiet street,
on the outskirts of
a prairie town
right in the middle of Kansas,
no one knows my name,
but I am still me
and they don’t think
that I
am nothing...because
with,
or without,
a name to hang my
identity on,
I am still
me.
I am
sure of who I am.
I am not confused....at all.
Therefore,
I am not my name.
I am not my shirt,
my body,
my thoughts,
my name....
I am not the memories I carry,
or the regrets that I was once
burdened by.
I am not the schools I attended,
I am not the beliefs I cherish...if I were
to wake up tomorrow with no
memory of any thing I have ever
learned,
or able to
recognize even one face I have
ever known...I would still
be me.
I would be
the me
that
knows my Father’s voice
as dearly
and as nearly
as my own
heart’s
beating...
it would sound
an
eternal
rhythm:
I am
that
I AM
I am
that
I AM
I am
that
I AM
and the
I AM
that
I am
is
the love
of
Love.
And that is enough
of an
identity
for me.
" based on an exercise conducted by Sandy Wilder during an Educare Unlearning Institute gathering. For more information about the Institute, please visit their website at: www.educareunlearning.com
"We have to dare
to be ourselves,
however frightening
or strange
that self
may prove to be.”
- m. sarton
I used to want
you to know
the me
I wanted
to be for you...
but
wasn't.
I lived to
be loved
for
something I
had never been,
and might never,
ever
be
no matter how hard
I tried...
All the while,
I was
judging and
rejecting the
me I was:
fallible,
uncertain,
goofy,
bookish,
simple,
shy,
sometimes,
somewhat
confused,
and always
just a
little bit
awkward...
But
I
really
kind of
like her
I just never thought
you would.
She has a charm
that I deprived
you of
knowing,
by always
wanting her to
be so much
more...
I am sorry
for
both of
us.
I will bring
her
with me
next time...
I
promise
It does not
matter
if you pick me,
want me,
choose me,
keep,
appoint,
or promote me.
I have now
chosen
to
be
me
and this is
more than
enough
re-
cognition...
from the only
One whose
approval
really ever
matters...
to
free me from the
bondage of
my own
desire to please
you,
or anyone
else...
man, woman,
or child...
In the quiet
summit of my
own
heart's beating I
can hear an
eternal
rhythm...
like drums
reaching across
the African
savanna...
it is an ancient collective
sound that
rises and falls with
the life breath
of
other women
whose voices have
been silenced
by
uncertainty,
self-doubt,
and the mirror
of another's
approval...
that
primordial
slave-trader
...the desire to please,
to fit in,
to be recognized,
it hypnotizes
us, convinces us that
we must speak with
forked tongues,
dance to a
common drum,
rise politely,
but unwillingly to
the
snake charmer's
melody,
walk on
eggshells....
throughout time
but
if I listen carefully,
I will only hear
the
divine
drumbeat -
I AM,
I AM,
I AM,
it is a primitive
song of protest
that
reaches
across
centuries,
cultures,
continents, and
coffee tables...to
help
another sister who
was on the brink
of
selling her
soul
for the price of
a smile
from the
mirror that doesn't
hold her own face...
or God's
will you
join us
it begs,
and learn to
dance to the song
of your own
truth*?
*The spiritual sense of truth must be gained, before Truth can be understood." - Mary Baker Eddy
my
daughter-in-law
is so young
she is just a girl
herself,
and
yet she wants to
stay with me,
to follow me,
to
care for me.
"entreat me not
to leave thee..." she
weeps.
"to not leave me?'
I say, stunned
by her
desire...and her
defiance
of
custom and common sense...
she doesn't want to
leave me...
me,
a widow
with
no more sons
to marry
even if I were to
bring another son
into the world,
she would be an old
woman...like me...
by the time he is
a man
no,
she should
go to her
own mother's house and
find a boy from
her own tribe
one who will understand
her language
her customs
her practices
her gods...
but she doesn't
want to return
to her mother
her father
her kin
their gods
she wants to
follow me,
to be with me,
to care for me,
to be with my people
to follow my God.
to be a stranger
in a strange land...
"Whither thou goest
I will go...thy people will
be my people now,
and thy God will be
my God..."
she says with all
the solemnity
of an altar vow...
This is the love that
is more than
ten sons,
this is the gift that is
more than riches, and
silks, and orchards,
and wells,
and flocks and herds
This is the love of a
devoted daughter...
this is the love of loves,
this is the love
that is sent from a God who
sees me as His beloved,
and has sent me
what I need
most...
someone
to
love...
I am still strong.
I can
carry water
and plant
and glean and
harvest and
bake...but
without
someone to
love
what would it
matter...
yes,
she is better
than
ten sons...
she is
not just
"his wife,"
she is
Ruth,
my daughter.
"Okay," he said,
"remember,
you're on belay.
You can't fall.
Really...I promise,
you can't fall."
I look down at the
steel cable
attached to somewhere near
a spot
where an
umbilical cord once
held
me close
to
love's
care.
He yanks on the
cable...
thinking that by doing so,
I will feel more
securely
attached to what
he promises
will
not let me fall.
I step up
on to the log that
rises at an angle from the
ground in front of me
and
step-by-step
I
climb into
a canopy of
pine trees
high
above terra
firma and
into the
clear blue
Colorado sky...
"look ma, no hands,"
I nervously
banter
but I am not laughing
and soon I
am weeping...
uncontrollably.
Arms wrapped around the
tree trunk at the first
station
I am paralyzed with
fear.
The ground is too far away,
the rest of the
course stretches out like
a labyrinth snaking through pine trees
and over the heads of
the young counselors who
urge me on with encouragement and
inspiration.
They remind me..."you cannot fall,
you are belayed in,
the steel cable attached to your
harness is secure..."
but I forget
over and over again,
clinging to the tree trunk
that anchors the small
platform at the
end of each element,
I weep
certain I cannot
go on.
but I do
I step out on a horizontal
rope ladder,
a pair of double strung steel cables,
a log that stretches from one station to
another with nothing to hold on to...
and I cry.
They remind me
that
I am safe
and still,
I forget..
"You are attached.
you will not fall,
children do this all the time,
you can step off the log and
you will just dangle in the air,
your belay is secure..."
they coo with gentle, kind
love-filled voices.
and still I forget
until I reach the last
element
a zipline
that stretches from
high in the trees
to the ground far
below.
"fling yourself
backward from the platform
and fly,"
she says
I haven't had one moment of
fun this whole
afternoon...
but I say, "what the heck"
and without looking
where I am going...
my back to the
destination...
I am flung
backwards
and I
fly
and finally
I remember
I am
attached,
I am belayed in,
I am secure,
and
it
is
fun...
why do I
always
forget
"Hey,"
they ask at dinner,
"did you do the
leap of faith?"
"Did I?"
"Ummm, no..."
This time I will have
fun...
I will not forget that
I am secure
on belay
attached...
I will remember
and I do
and I fling myself
off the platform
face first
and it is fun.
How often
do we forget
what every bird,
every tiny fledgling
must know...
that
we are always,
spiritually...in unseen
ways...
on belay
that we
can
fearlessly
step off
the
branch,
fly,
and
have
fun.
I saw a film once...
a woman was
walking
quietly along a
sunny beach
children were building
sandcastles,
sun-bathers were
sleeping,
a man was reading the
New York Times
and drinking
ice tea...it was not quiet,
but it was
what you would
expect at the
beach
all of sudden
lifeguards stood and pointed,
whistles blew,
mothers screamed for their
sun-kissed
children,
people ran...
a wall of water was moving
towards the beach
a wall of water,
taller than a building
screaming,
panic,
cacophony,
running...
then it rolled
over the beach,
over the people,
over the woman
who'd been
walking on the
sand
a tsunami
the screaming stopped
the running stopped
under the water
people smiled at
one another as they
tumbled noiselessly
their voices were not heard
there was nothing
coming,
there was nothing to run from,
there was nothing to resist...
it was there...
it was all around them,
carrying them,
moving them,
buoying them,
silencing them
there was nothing to do
but surrender to the
surge and lift
of the sea
as it
returned them to
the sand and
rolled back
into
its
infinite
basin
surprised they
stand
surveying
their surroundings
they begin to
search for
what was
once
certain and
familiar
before
making their way
towards
home
sometimes
this is how God's
presence
feels to
me
like a tsunami of
irresistible
unfathomable
unavoidable
Love...
and sometimes,
in its wake
all my
perfect
planning
is
gone...
I sometime think
the path is
to the left,
or the right,
and
then
it turns upon
itself
and veers
within.
Caught up in
the labyrinth
of decisions,
choices,
what nexts,
and where
thens...
I become a
mental contortionist...
twisted into
knots of
exasperated
confusion.
But...
she* reminds
me...
You know what
to use
to disentangle
the
interlaced ambiguities
of being*,
the
knots of
self-determinism and
a false
sense of one's own
power to
make
things
happen...
Oil*.
Yes, that's it...
Oil.
applied
drop-by-drop
upon the knotted
chain...
each twisted link a
self-forged prison of
"it is mine to decide,
choose,
make the wrong choice, and
fail..."
falls into place
when Love
flows
through
the tightly
coiled
snake of
me,
my,
mine...
the grateful
drops of fragrant
Oil:
consecration,
charity
gentleness,
prayer,
heavenly inspiration
tenderly massaged into the
tangled mass of
thoughts,
loosens its grip,
and
frees me from
myself
then,
stepping back
from
what only
moments before
felt like
shackles,
I can
see
His
hand in my
life,
His
plan for
my family,
His
divine design...
a beautiful
chain of
thoughts,
and experiences,
I mistakenly
thought I
was in
charge of --
and responsible for
choosing...
The spiritual
Silversmith
had chosen,
heated,
stretched, and
hammered...
crafted
and
welded
each
link of
inner beauty..
His design
for blessed living
was
always there,
always God-forged,
always prepared
for each new
link
of Love's
attaching...
like
footsteps
in the
sand.
His sterling
plan
for me,
and mine,
and all.
* from the writings of Mary Baker Eddy:
1. "It shows the scientific relation of man to God, disentangles the interlaced ambiguities of being, and sets free the imprisoned thought." (S&H 114)
2. definition of Oil. (S&H 592)
She sits
weeping
silently
at
the edge of
celebration
a woman
veiled...
covered from
head to
toe in
black
with nothing
but
her eyes
exposed
and yet what
happened beneath
her robes
is as
raw and
naked
as the hot trail of
tears she
weeps
beneath
that
veil.
the men will cheer their
freedom...
those
who
walk with
bruised
faces and
tired
feet --
aching from
their
march
through
Tahrir square --
but their
bruises will fade
and their
swollen feet...
soaking
in the cool
waters of
the Nile...
will
dance
again.
but her
bruises will
take more
understanding than
time,
more reformation
than
revolt,
more forgiving
than
forging a
new
government,
even
more
mercy than
the
the Nile's
long
memory
I wonder
if the price she has
paid
will make a difference
for her daughters,
her nieces,
and the
mothers of
Egypt's
future...
remove the veil,
let her speak,
help her
vote...
and
heal.
My heart is breaking
wide open
I learned today
that
I am not the
only one
A child,
a small girl,
a broken fairy...
was once
a grown
man's
dream
I can
take the
pain of my own
tortured
nights
because I know
how strong
I am,
how strong
I was...
I know that I survived...
no,
thrived...the terror,
the darkness,
the disconnection
from my
innocent self
living on the
ceiling
night after night...
I don't know
if I
can
survive hers.
Shouldn't I
have
known,
seen,
intuited,
stopped
the
madness...
It is
too
much to bear
Help me
God...
Help me
please help
me remember
that
You were
there for me,
and please,
assure me that You
were there for
her too
that You
helped
her
find her way
to the
ceiling
where she...
the real her...
was unreachable
That You did
not forsake
her,
that You
held her
close,
covered her ears
from the sound
of her own
crying,
whispered
love,
love,
love into
her heart.
Promise me
that
You will be
there
to remind her
that she
is pure,
good,
innocent,
untouched....
Please...
promise me
that
You
will not forsake
her...
that You will
tell her
that she is Your
daughter...
that she was
always Your beloved
daughter...
always
"all glorious
within"
and please,
help her see that,
someday,
she will be able
to help others
with
her compassion...
it will be
her gift
what she will be able
to pour
from the place that
she thought
was broken...
broken wide open...
her heart.
please...
oh dear God...
please...
the house is
silent
except for the
whir and hum
of
the furnace,
the refrigerator,
and my
mind.
"Quiet..."
I beg.
"Quiet."
I unplug the
refrigerator.
I turn the thermostat so low
that neither furnace or
fan are needed and
suddenly it
is
silent...
I sit in a pool
of sunlight
and
let its warmth
seep deeper
and deeper
into my
bones...
But there is
still noise...
"Quiet,"
I say,
to the opinions,
what ifs,
and
do-it-later
lists,
the
letters-to-be-written,
and the
conversations -in-
my- head ...
and they
slink out
of the side door,
ever so
reluctantly...
And from
right there,
in the middle
of the room,
sitting in a pool of
light,
something
blossoms...
a small
bit of birdseed
that the
vacuum missed,
is watered by
the silence
and begins to
grow.
Tiny tendril roots,
a bold first sprouting,
bursts the seed shell
reaching for
the light...
Something is
growing in
my heart's room..
I will not let
her die...
I will make a
plan for her survival
I will ensure that she
thrives here.
I will protect her
infancy,
I will nurture her
strength,
I will celebrate
her fruition...
and God says,
"Silence..."
you will do nothing of the
sort...
"She is mine..."
"Be still...
just
be
still..."
and the
mechanism
of the
mind
stills...
again.
Pain:
you scream at me...
you rant and rave...
and at first
I think that you
are
mine
a
real something
living
within me.
But you are nothing
more than
a cunning
ventriloquist
throwing your voice
in my
direction.
You do not
live here
you do not have a
home in my
heart,
in my body,
or in
my life.
If you did,
you would be
confident
in the power of
your message...
You would not
need to
scream,
using your
out-of-control
earthquake,
wind,
and fire voices.
That is how
I know
that you are not
mine.
You are not
my pain,
my hurt,
my anguish....
You are outside of
my being.
You do not belong
here.
I refuse you entrance.
Get thee hence.
What lives in
me is
the great
I AM,
a peaceful
Sovereign,
the power of
the Word,
the
still,
small
voice of
the divine
asserting its
holy
reign
with
unopposed,
perpetual,
constant,
peace...
and
I
can
feel
it.
"The midwife cometh ..."
whisper the villagers
as one-by-one they place
their candles by the road...a trail of hope
lighting her way towards the
bed of expectancy...and promise.
"Who is she"
they ask
as she steps through
the bramble and over
a rain-swollen stream...
steadfast in her journey to where she will
coo a message of encouragement and comfort...
in a voice,
"low, sad and sweet..."
"I do not know," one man says
in hushed tones of wonder,
"She comes from where there is no
question of hope
and joy is not a trembler
on the brink of chance."
"She has boys," another volunteers,
"wee ones, too young to know that sometimes
a cry of pain can really be a song of
promise and a mother's bliss....
but I hear
that
her father carries them on his shoulders and makes
them laugh when she must leave them in the night...yet again"
"And yes, her mother sings them lullabies
until they are sighing in their sleep."
"A wonder" they murmur from their front porch swings
as silently she passes,
"She is a wonder and a mystery...
a veiled figure
on an errand of mercy."
"But who gives birth to the midwife's calling?"
asks the spinster
gazing out from behind the gingham curtain,
washing dishes on a moonless night,
"What unleashes this kind of selfless courage
in one so young?"
"She is loved well by her mother,"
says the woman at the well.
"And those sweet boys are her inspiration...
this is why she leaves them...night after night...
so that other children will know a mother's love."
"Her father smiles when she laughs, "
says the baker as he removes a loaf from the oven.
"And she has sisters," says the carpenter, nailing a board
above the entry to the chapel. "
I hear they
bring her tangerines from their adventures to
far-off lands...tangerines and alabaster jars, and
silken robes to caress her skin."
"But, " says the old one, "the tangerines are
not enjoyed by her alone...
they are fed...
section by section...
to the weary ones whose brow she cools...
saved for when the last push seems too
much to bear...too long to endure...
and the silken robes she turns into swaddling clothes,
blankets so soft
the babe forgets she's left the womb.
"And the alabaster jar," says the baker,
"is filled with oil for each baby's feet."
"Ahh," says the stranger at the gate,
"she is the one who passed me on the
road...her steps were light and filled
with purpose...and yet she wished me well and
asked if I knew my way...the air around
her carried the scent of
lavender and sandalwood.."
"But who encourages her?
Who gives her what
she needs when she returns from a long night
and the dream-cries of her own babes
call her from the deep, soft space
of a well-earned cup of tea
just before the blue light of dawn?"
asks the stranger.
"Her mother, " says the
carpenter as he
waits for another nail, "her mother
tends her heart,
feeds her dreams,
sings of her hopes,
and
watches the wee boys
so that she
can
bring another lad
to rest
in his own mother's arms.
"But when does she rest...and where...
when the day finally breaks and another
child suckles for the first time at his sleeping
mother's breast?"
"I told you," said the
old woman, standing straight and strong...
waiting by the well...to give her cup of cold water...
"I told you,
she rests in the sanctuary of her mother's eyes."
she is
a
woman of
substance,
strength,
delighting in
the Lord...
she is galvanized,
honed,
polished
after
the similitude of
a palace
long before
maya
sang of a
phenomenal woman...
the span of her hips,
and
the stride of her step...
there was
barbye...
she came into my
life like
molasses cookies and
sweet tea on
a missisippi
porch
one winter's
day
in Boston.
she was stronger than
an oak tree,
but as resilient and
flexible as
willows in
a storm
motherhood
was the color of her
skin and
sang from the
depths of her eyes
before long
I wanted
whatever she had...
it was
palpable,
visceral,
real...
young sons,
the gentle sway of her
steps,
laughter that
coursed through
your veins, and
courage...
oh yes,
I wanted her
courage...
"her candle
goeth not out
by night..."
she floated
above the
pettiness,
she swam easily with
sharks,
she fed snakes
the honeycomb and
rose petals
that
fell from her
lips...and
they
were
calm...for a while...
but she
never gave up...
she never
gave
in
maya knows
why the caged
bird sings,
but barbye
sings the
songs
that caged birds
only dream
of one day
hearing...
she is
as full of forgiveness
as the stream that
bursts its banks and
floods the
plain
she is as generous
with her
mercy as
she is
genuine,
authentic,
honest, and
true.
to
her husband
she is
blessed,
her children
see the world
through the kindness
of her vision,
her grandchildren
feel the
softness of her cheek...
the tenderness in
her eyes,
her daughter-in-law
calls her in a
voice that
every
mother
aches to
hear...
for she is
loved
I call her
friend.
Her face
appears before me
and
a
tiny,
essential
sprocket of hope
in the
mechanism of
my heart
clicks and
shifts,
and
almost
without realizing
i'd been
holding my
breath...for
so long...
I feel
the
inner workings of
that something
most
essential,
but dormant,
begin to
turn
ever so
slightly
awakening
from its
deep
slumber of
waiting.
she is here
and
how is it
that I didn't know
I'd been
in
stasis
all this time...
until
those
first few
beats
of
tick
tock...
tick
tock...
the metronome of
my being
finding its
new,
but somehow
once-remembered,
rhythm
the music of my life
was tuning itself
to a truer
tone...
with her
I was a song
not just words
on scrips and
scraps of
paper
napkins and
the backs of
business cards filled with
words and
phrases that
would
someday find its
music
it all fit
so perfectly
in the beauty of
her
face,
in the silent
wonder
of her
eyes
in a heartbeat
the song
was born
and
we
were the
chords,
melody,
descant,
harmony,
the orchestrated
rests of
ancient
music
whispered
in
silent
wonder...
mother,
daughter...
us.
I remember
the way her hair
became
braided by the wind...
twisted
by the fingers of
a mountain
sylph...
at one
with
her horse's
mane
she was like
a bay
colt
who'd been
given her
head
and
streaked across
the clear blue of
a Colorado sky
as surprising as a comet,
behind her
a stardust trail of
rodeo
dreams
her eyes
crinkle with
gentleness as
spring foals
drop from her
arms
into
tender
grass
and her
husband's
trusting
smile
her hands are
strong but her touch
is light and firm
her seat is
sure
confident
as she
leans into
a barrel,
or urges
a
stallion
through
a
labyrinth
of poles
we have cried together
in pastures...
green with
a blanket of
summer
hay
beneath us...
and above us
only sky...
we have
prayed our
faith in hymns,
as we
circled
a paddock
or
comforted
a
nervous
rider.
she bears
the lantern
of a
young girls
secret
summer
dreams,
while
dancing and
flying
to the
nickering
of
her
mare's
nightsong...
her love is
as
fierce and hot
as
a mother's
tears, and
as
sweet and
fragrant
as
prairie
yarrow
in
july...
she is
linda
There is
a tree in the
crook of the
mountain's arm
She is burled with
a thousand
winters
when
her sap was
slow and
her knees
pulled
lower into
the
hardening earth
before
it refused
to yield
even
a
drop
of
what
she
needed..
I climb into
her
low branches
in the
early spring
and
lay my cheek
against her
rough
skin...
her new
growth...
flexible and
young
sings with the
soft breezes of
white blossoms
and
sweet fruit...
as a child
she was
my
spa,
retreat,
hiding place
from all
that
loomed
dark and
stormy...
a boy's teasing,
a
girls
sharp words,
a father's
frustration
with a
world
he could not
change...
she fed my body
and
my soul...
She was
God's
mothering
when
there were
too many
mouths to feed
I loved her...
her voice is
like
cool water
offered
in the desert
of my crowded
loneliness
when I
am
thirsty
for
someone who
knows the
me that is
sometimes
more
fragile
than
others
think
they
see..
she is my sister and
I have heard
her sing in her sleep,
whisper to dolls,
scream on a rollercoaster
and
recite math facts...
I have heard her
cry with heartbreak
and
laugh till she cries
her voice is all
the sounds I love
it is crystal,
crisp,
clear
as
the sound of
a
December
wind
blowing through
the icicles that hang
from
our cabin's
eaves
it is as smooth as
warm honey
dripping
straight from the
comb
it is as strong as
our mother's
love for us,
and as
fierce as her
correction
when we
have
erred
my sister's voice
echoes through
the decades and
whispers,
"I am here"
rending the
veil of night,
and
slaying
the pale
dragons of
childhood
terrors
that
taunt
and
threaten from
behind the
closet
door
and
under the
bed
her breathing is
the lullaby
I long for when
I cannot fight
the demons
of regret,
and sleep
alludes
beyond the
blue light of dawn
her sighing
says we
share the same
concerns,
worry about the
same loved ones,
are baffled by
the same
decisions,
and
are wearied by the
same social injustices...
her voice has
the timbre of
a gentle
God
whose
name is
Love,
and the
sweet
resonance of
a woman
whose
name
is
hers
to hear her
voice is
to
have
found
my
way
home
annie is the color of
the sea just below the foam and
above the deep
her heart is as strong as the robin's egg
that needs two million pecks to
release its gift
her eyes are deep, gentle, and knowing
with shards of sea glass light
dancing like laughter
upon waters that heal and refresh and
nourish a family and now
her own awakening artist soul
annie is the color of a lullaby
the satin binding on a baby's blanket
faded and sacred to a mother's
cheek
she is the shade of hydrangea blossoms
as they dry and
fade in baskets on a farm table
she is the
delicate shade of an aquamarine
mined from
granite mountains broken open
by ten thousand
springs that waken on
warm days when snow
surrenders to the
sun
and pours through the
canyon
searching for the color
of annie in
the grays of stone and shale
she is the color
that the wind
paints in
brisk strokes
upon a
lake in Harrison, Maine
a slatey, green-ish blue that
only comes
when gray clouds
hover
turning
water into something
a painter
aches to capture
before the rain
begins to fall
she is the shade of brackish
water
a
sea captain's bride
dreams
will be the color of
her baby's eyes
annie is
a color to
be treasured...
held in the hand
a sand
burnished,
transluscent
shade of
water
turned to
stone
she
is
the
color
of
sea
glass....
drop it
release it
set it down and
walk away...
burn it
shred it
let it go
cast it off
shake the dust
remove the burden of your past
shuck it
loose it
brush it away
peel back its cold hard-fingered
death grip upon your life's promise
break free from its grasp
on your pulsing
breathing
living dreams
leave it
abandon it
walk away,
retreat from its imploring,
refuse to return to
its calling,
weeping,
hauntingly familiar
cry for
company
bring it
carry it
drop it
at My feet
and walk
away
leave it with Me
My mercy
sets
you
free
I actually like
being on the
road...
anonymous,
unknown,
mysterious
I could be
no one...
or anyone
I like the
hope
of
making a connection -
eye contact,
a smile,
a shared compassion for
mothers with children -
a connection with someone
whose name
I do not
know
to connect,
not because of shared history,
geography,
religion,
career,
or alma mater...
but because of our
common hopes,
conmmon desires,
common humanity...
we all want to be loved
we all want to
make a difference in this
great wide world
we all want to know that
our time isn't wasted and that
our lives are not lived in vain
there is a woman sitting next
to me
we share
long, white hair
but she
is not afraid of being
too
"you're so weird, mom"
to her teenage daughters
so
she wears
whimsical red glasses
handpainted with
spirals and stars along
the temples,
she
only needs them for reading the
New York Times
but I like the
way she
lets them
perch on the tip of her
nose like
a circus acrobat
balancing on
a ball,
balancing on
a tightrope
I notice that she, too,
reads the sections she loves most...
last.
She is
saving the Book Review
like a savoured
dessert.
I would like to know her,
but the headphones she
wears
while she reads
tell me that
she and I are different in this
one thing...
I am interested in hearing
us laugh together
heads bent in
conspiratorial
discovery
"you do...me too"
she is not
the men along the window
have found eachother
like moths in
the gathering twilight
on a summer's
evening
they are all headed
somewhere important -
offices,
board rooms,
conference centers -
but they don't
waste time
telling eachother about the
meetings and
sales calls that will
absorb them
over the next few days
the terminal is
corporate-free zone
this morning
they talk of
sports, fishing and lawn fertilizers...
the shiny peppers
and fresh goat cheese at the farmer's
market on Saturday mornings
and the last episode of This Old House
anything but
The New York Times
and the
stock market
I like the couple sitting near the gate
she holds his water bottle
and the bagel they are
sharing before they pre-board
his wheelchair is draped with
her floral tote and
his parka
his lap piled high with
her scarf and their travel pillows
but you can tell that
she once sat in his lap
her arms draped around his neck
her kisses landing on the
neck that now
wear an oxygen mask...
they make me smile
I want to
grow together
like that
someone to hold my
hand
and my quilted
floral tote
I am an observer
I like to sit
here
not knowing anyone
and yet
knowing
enough to
smile
in spiritual
fellowship...
what lives within
us is more
alike than
we
ever
really
know
make me
as
soft as
teardrops
on the
face of a child
as warm as
rain
that falls
in the desert
washing
dust from
the coat
of a
horse with
no name
make me
as clear
as
spring water
spilling from
a canyon
crevice
caught in the
lips of
a dewdrop
as holy as
a woman's
tears
falling on the
master's
weary feet
make me
as gentle as
the splash from
a
feathered
wing
during the
first spring
bath,
as strong as
the sea
beneath a
gathering
storm,
as flexible as
the wake
of a
tall ship
untethered
by
anchor or
chart
make me like water
make me like water
make me like water
willing to be sent
not wanting a
plan,
needing
only a purpose
just this:
to
be
like
water
to fall
lower,
and lower
still
seeking
the endless
the infinite
the unfathomable
Sea
to
know
the
thirst for
a sense of
belonging to
the Source
one that
gives purpose
to
it
all
meeting,
barely touching,
now...
converging,
mingling,
amalgamating,
dancing,
coupling,
coalescing
atoms of
hyrdrogen and
oxygen...
bound together
without
question...only purpose
to
fall
that is our
purpose
drawn tightly
together
to fall
and
fall....and
fall
then taken up
we
touch only
by
fingertip
a
misting
of
who we
were
then
tightly
bound
again.....
we fall...
going
down
on
our knees
a servant's
tears...
washing
carving
soothing
softening
softly
falling
down
to
where
we
will rise
again...
taken
up...
only
to
fall...
always to
f
a
l
l
Who
