the stuff of living a life
There is no controlling life.
Try corralling a lightning bolt,
containing a tornado. Dam a
stream and it will create a new
channel. Resist, and the tide
will sweep you off your feet.
Allow, and grace will carry
you to higher ground. The only
safety lies in letting it all in –
the wild and the weak; fear,
fantasies, failures and success.
When loss rips off the doors of
the heart, or sadness veils your
vision with despair, practice
becomes simply bearing the truth.
In the choice to let go of your
known way of being, the whole
world is revealed to your new eyes.
~ Danna Faulds
The skies sob for days
grieving my losses
The sunsets shine glory
bringing hope to my nights
after my bouts with prairie madness
from this God forsaken place of lonely crucifixion
I wait in a shy place of peace
buds slowly blooming like new spring
in my hesitant still-beating heart
I have done with the earthquakes of anxiety and fear
the clay tentatively stilled beneath me in this ground breaking moment
of wonder and amazement
something tender is taking root inside me
this new thunder moon
brings loud silent space for
the desires of the holy trinity of myself –
I acknowledge deep calling to deep
within this waterspout of quiet spirit
there is dawning of truth
softly arriving on the wings of the summer breeze
clouds and answers silently forming without the need for words
recognition is first step into new beginnings
grateful hearts, wrung dry as deserts,
somehow know for sure:
the best of life is always yet to be,
true spiritual waters always grow corn
Listen: there are those of us from somewhere else,
the names of birthplaces, of hometowns,
under our skin, tattoos always felt, never seen.
We live here now, though we always meant to leave.
And there are those of us who were born here,
passing the landmarks of our lives so often
we don’t think about them. We never meant to stay.
This place was marked as just for now, as stepping stone,
as temporary on our well-drawn maps.
But for one reason or another, years pass
and we find ourselves hot-stepping with jobs and kids
and this and that and a million little possessions.
Now, the kids say they want to move away. They point
their faces the same directions our faces used to point.
We’ll let them go, of course, knowing more of them
than they think will come back, and that various wayfarers
too will stop for lunch and find themselves
staying for years’ worth of dinners. They will all
find themselves here with the earth spreading
out around them, whispering a welcome
they will be more than a little surprised to hear.
Chorus by Gillian Wegener