How longing is yellow

i never knew, til that day, reading her words.
just a blip, but it screamed in my ears.
no, it didn't. but it did make my stomach leap a little
like ridng a roller coaster and the unexpected
thrill of suddenly going down
(just kiddng. i hate that part. no thrill)
"but it's true,"
i thought.
that ache in the pit of my stomache:
the smear of crushed dandelions on my fingers,
the creamy tart of homemade lemon curd
(even w/ some of the eggwhites showing their slip
like how i never could seem to keep mine
from peeking out of easter hemlines).
or the catch in my throat when i hear that line from that song:
the limpid curls of cressida's crown,
the flickering spark of butane lighters,
(i miss that smell, a little- not a lot, just enough).
 all this yellow melancholy,
dropping like the petals
(he loves me falls with just as much oomph
as he loves me NOT--
i believe this now. i didn't then.)

Where the wild things exist

a mother i don't know
told her daughter to save
room
in her world
for the
untamed
things

and

there is no
thing
as wild
and reckless
as love

(i don't think)

but some people
are
afraid

and weed them
out

i have

(i think)

is my heart
ALIVE
enough
to hold all the
tame, calm creatures
as well as
the wild that exists
in darker forests,
higher mountains,
eery oceans,
and vaster plains
than i'll
ever
know?

to love a wild thing
is a secret
inside

linking for the first time in a long time with emily and a whole wild community of imperfection

Welcome, spring

today is a beautiful day.

today we went outside to swing and practice bike-riding
and connor plucked dandelions, blowing their seeds
and avery picked wild narcissus and tried to blow their petals, too
and i couldn't help but laugh at such innocence
and the trees above us danced
scattering pollen in the air, and i wasn't even mad
because it just means more beautiful things will grow
(and there can never be too much beauty, ever)
like owen, laughing at the wind who hugged him right back
and me on the swing listening to all this music
the laughter, the little boys playing, the spring-song of outside

Shattered

there is a place where the sacred is unsafe
the holy burns,
and unsinged we dare to ask if we are secure

we think we purify ourselves
by removing our shoes
never thinking we stand a world apart
paperthin
between this world and the next
where our clay-frail bodies one day will shatter
like the stars

the dead sloughed off
shines nova-bright, now--

how unsafe it is to be burned down
only to be consumed again by holy fire

we shatter

A Girl Named Fragile, A Parable

this is my first bit of fiction. i'm afraid to share it, yet knowing it is imperfect, i feel emily's is where it belongs for a spell.




once there was a girl who lived in a Dark Wood, only she didn't know it was dark because she'd never seen the light. She came of age and chose to travel--she wanted to know what went beyond the trees. she came upon a forked path, and having never left her little yard, was forced to choose one way. she chose blindly, as one must always do in the Dark. little did she know that one path led further into the wood and the deep dark, and the one she chose led towards Beyond. as she walked and walked, little golden beams sometimes showed through the canopy of branches, and she felt a prickling sensation when she stepped into the little puddles of brightness. she was being introduced to Light, and she felt she loved him. by the time the last tree was behind her, and she walked openly in the well-lit Beyond, Fragile felt she'd known Light all along. in fact, she thought she'd seen glimpses of him even in her Dark Wood; had he not been in the fire where she cooked her meal and warmed herself? had he not been in the stars where she imagined her friends? yes, he'd been quiet and unnamed, but he'd been there. yes, she loved this golden Sun.
But one day, it felt too immense, too surreal--perhaps she was dreaming and it was still Dark. thus, she was introduced to Fear, and he wooed her for some time. Fear introduced her to his friend Anger, and he was so seductive, so beguiling. he made her feel safe and made her forget Fear's cold hands. she also forgot the warmth of the Light she'd loved once. Fragile and Anger journeyed for years together. he taught her the meaning of her name and how to abuse it. little by little, cracks were appearing all over, though Fragile wasn't aware of her changed appearance. what she did know was that she was getting weary, often having no strength for more than a day or two at a time on her journey. Anger became impatient with her, and so she became impatient with herself. the fissures were getting bigger, and now that Fragile saw them, she wondered what was wrong with her-why was she breaking? Anger didn't notice the cracks; in fact, he didn't notice Fragile at all anymore. Depression met them then, and she took Fragile's hands in hers, hugged her tight and whispered lies. "you were happier in the Dark, weren't you? the Light is making you ugly because if you were in the Dark you wouldn't even be able to see them. you deserve the pain you feel and inflict on others-wasn't it you who kept Anger all these years?" Depression's sister Loneliness visited often, and Anger kept his distance but followed still.
Fragile was more tired than ever, and the cracks began to hurt. she wished for Peace. she didn't know who he was, only that she'd dreamt of him long ago when dancing in the sunbeams in the forest. she wondered if Peace could ever find her. she went to sleep that night flanked by Anger, Depression, and Loneliness. She wished she'd never wake up; maybe that way she'd find Peace. In her sleep she dreamed a child named Hope cried. When Fragile asked why she was crying, she merely cried some more. waking up and confused by the dream, it took a moment for Fragile to realize someone was watching her. it was the child Hope. "you! i dreamed you were crying! why would such a beautiful child cry?" the child answered quietly, "i was waiting for you." Hope then introduced Fragile to her companion who came forward, Peace. Fragile looked around for Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, but to her surprise they were gone.
Fragile walked with Hope and Peace and asked what more they could possibly see in the Beyond. they arrived then at a castle ruins, and she was told it was the most precious thing in all the land. "but it's just an old broken castle," Fragile muttered, disappointed. "not, 'just.' it is also the house of the sun, and you are welcome." indeed, the castle was aglow, and from it shined the Light she'd once known so intimately. a tear trickled down her cheek as she whispered, "im sorry i forgot you on the way." upon entering the hall, the castle righted itself and transformed into its glory, and she was asked to bathe in the fountain of life. she did so, half-thinking her cracks would disappear, but when she emerged she was no different. Light took her hand and led her to his great mirror. "what do you see?" he asked. in it, she saw her travels with Fear, Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, and her short time with Peace and Hope, and she said, "i see Fragile." "no, my child, that is not who i see. look again. i see Treasure." she asked Light "why did i have to break, then?" "look again." this time when Fragile looked in the mirror she saw what Peace had seen and called Beauty and what Hope saw and called Worth waiting for. looking into the Sun's mirror, all she could see was the Light shining. she realized if she'd never been broken, she'd never have seen the Light inside her.

When you say nothing at all-Repost

toes push, heels rock, we're swinging
and my legs are metronome to the
heartbeat of a quiet afternoon.
neither of us are talking,
just sitting:

push, rock

the clanking of chain against chain
and screw inside of wood
protesting against our weight,
and we're simply sitting
amid the bird-song and each other:

push, rock

and i think, "we're here on a swing
and there is space between us
and he's just two
and i wonder if he knows
how much i love him?"
so i reach over,
caress his fat-creased thighs
and i whisper,
i love you:

push, rock

we're just sitting
and neither of us is talking
and there's space between us
and still looking forward
he reaches over the space and touches my hand:

push, rock


reposting this for enily's imperfect prose

The beauty that surrounds

there is a beauty that surrounds me,
(even when i overlook it.)
there are some days i forget to walk outside,
so fail to see how green comes in ten shades, just on ivy road.
or, how smart and wily the backyard birds are,
arrogantly eating the dog's food,
fluttering away with a taunting second to spare.

we return to play, now that heat is not so oppressive.
maybe now that we have more work to do?
the boys are more outside than in,
though the flies are more inside than out;
we dizzy in the middle, hap'ly.

my house has probably never been messier,
but why clean up the forts
and sweep away the dragon's lairs?

owen grows fat on mama's milk;
i blossom in his honey smiles,
us: making liars of canaan's promise.

this home i make in beds unmade
and arms entwined (yes, love is made, too)
surrounds me in beauty
i often overlook, but can't wait to see

Inhale their belonging

i sniff deeply behind his tiny ears and i inhale the scent of eight weeks:
johnson and johnson and milk that has dribbled and hair matted from deep baby sleep

my older boys smell of earth and sweat and summer-scraped knees
or, fresh from bath, like lavender whispers.

and his smell is my deep secret--my heaven on earth, for his is marked by
laundry detergent, deodorant, and the breath of kisses

i breathe these men in deeply, inhale their belonging

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
i hope i smell more than just unshowered and like last night's dinner;
i want tiny ones to sense in me a love that gazes long and prays hard
and i want my beloved to know my scent on the wind, home(where the heart is).

When you say nothing at all

toes push, heels rock, we're swinging
and my legs are metronome to the
heartbeat of a quiet afternoon.
neither of us are talking,
just sitting:

push, rock

the clanking of chain against chain
and screw inside of wood
protesting against our weight,
and we're simply sitting
amid the bird-song and each other:

push, rock

and i think, "we're here on a swing
and there is space between us
and he's just two
and i wonder if he knows
how much i love him?"
so i reach over,
caress his fat-creased thighs
and i whisper,
i love you:

push, rock

we're just sitting
and neither of us is talking
and there's space between us
and still looking forward
he reaches over the space and touches my hand:

push, rock

Where i'm from

I am from sprinklers and Flinstone vitamins and made believe stories, the things that grow a young girl up.

I am from the long yellow house with a wood and small pond

(I dipped my toes in once, rafting,

but never again because the fish liked to nibble)

I am from the garden’s canned tomatoes and peas shucked finger-purple.

I am from the mimosa in her fancy feathers

and the crepe myrtle with her july-bright pinks and purples,

these summer ladies amused at our paper-fan attempts to cool ourselves.

I am from “doodle sauce” and crooked smiles, from rosie and cleo and grandfathers I hardly remember.

I am from the crawfords and russells and I know my father’s name

but not his branch of history.

I am from bunkbeds and sleepovers and stage whispers through walls,

from plump, messy women who hold grudges and love too hard.

I am from mind your manners and don’t count your chickens before they hatch, from the Ten Commandments and faith rugged as old crosses

and red letter editions in a pew held down by sister mary, and I wonder

if she was afraid to witness about jesus like I was?

I am from the South, from biscuits and grits

and fried chicken and greens, though not like how

my mama cooked them for the first time at age 32

and added a whole cup of sugar because when she called his momma for the recipe, she wasn’t too specific.

I am from history in typeface, newspapers

yellowing and fragile on the shelf in her closet,

world events and family obituaries too rich to throw out,

stored along with photo albums of her first marriage and us as babies.

I am from books and history and photos that never tell the full story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i saw this at suzannah's (and hers is SO beautiful!) and decided to try my own.

432(1)

today is a day-
the last day-
i have four,
all stepped down
one from the other
by a single year.
this is the day so little
separates
them
but the year in which
they were loved alive.
shea is oldest, still 4
his daddy-broad shoulders
carrying the weight of the world
of little brothers
and wearing his mama-freckles
brightly asking of the world
all whys.
and
connor is middlest, still 3
with blonde ragamuffin
(i love that grace the best)
and eyes blue as a promise
that impish will and
push back against the grain
the strain of nots.
and avery is today's child, 2
finally out of ones,
and he is all brawn and laughs
and head full of cherub curls
intensity's child, he.
and lastbutnotleast owen is still just one
month (ok, and a half)
and he is quieting extension
of mama, still breast-close in all wonder.
thank you, Father,
for sons a heritage and ours a full house.

happy birthday, beautiful avery!

linking for the first time in ages with emily and others

Iron men

super heroes
equipped with webs
and guns,
(yes, even guns)
and strength hard to believe
yes, these men are in our house
and those little boys' brains
and it makes me smile
that he prefers the ones that
are real,
still human,
just more, somehow
not the ones that are
all hero
or even all villain
(is it natural for all
boys to love a good villan?)
and i think how
his daddy heart is
iron will
and sharpens iron willfulness
times three
and well, four, when i let him sharpen me.
we watch these cartoons
and even i catch my own interest
by surprise
and wonder
at the power of hero worship
and how, some crazy how,
oldest started praying more
out loud
and he believes it
and i humble on the whispers,
cry when he prays for this tired mama
that [baby's name] comes soon
and i think
today i will be iron-strong for them, too

~~~
unbelievably i'm still baking this fourth little boy with an iron will to stay inside. i'm in all new territory as i've never gone a day past 38 weeks, and yet here i am past 40 and miserable besides. if i may draw on you to pray: if we make it to my monday OB appointment, i will be induced, and i'm terrified of a repeat c-section. i'm also afraid of a NICU stay for the baby; we will be paying for this birth as we are uninsured, and really, we just need a nice, normal birth if at all possible. could you lift these with us and take our fears to the Father? i'm ready to have him out on the outside, and i'm in denial at how hard it's going to be, that initial stage of newborn!
i am eager, though, to meet him, to be in our next phase, and i can't wait to share him with you. thanks for hanging in there with me, especially as i've been so reticent in this space and yours. i treasure all my friends here.

As you are going: Worship

i see songs of worship

in a mother's hands, unconsciously pressed on her purple-stretching skin, a responding call to the fluttering thumps below

in milk that leaks nourishing comfort

in the toddling steps of a wee one, shaky on legs but certain in love's fall-breaking

in the fart-jokes as oldest little one grows--there is a letting go, even this young--and the burst of " i do it" as 3 year old insists on independence

in the quotidian click of wedding bands as she hands him the plates for the table, the eyes catching with an old flicker

in hands that fold laundry and reach under tables during grace

in wearing wife role, which looks a lot like red toenails and the two curved bodies asleep before they intended to

~~~~~~~~~

i sing worship as i tend this home. sometimes i bake the bread, and sometimes i buy it straight on sale. i raise these three boys and grow another, and sometimes it means avery kisses my bottom because that's as high as he can reach, and sometimes it's the constant yelling to QUIET DOWN. i sweep floors and consider decorations, but we have written on our doorposts to Whom we belong and serve. i remember meg's words: just as you are going. one step at a time.


linking with emily and others for her imperfect prose

Lines

the lines on his face tell me a poem,
of the three-before-three trips to emergency:
the gentle dog who bit him
the coffee table collision
the tumbling off railroad tie;
another scar where football scramble
was prayed over, no stitches and healed anyway;
his eyes crinkle like a pleated skirt when he laughs
and i wish i'd carved them all myself.
his dimples drew me in, "hoyuelos" i said on an early date
and i trace them every night in my sleep,
kiss those parenthesis, all mine, gentle scruff scratching me.
those furrowing lines of pressure and worry
no botulism could ever straighten out
and i know he holds us in his thoughts, his
high proud forehead
all the time
and i love him for his lines

************
(241-256 of counting gifts with Ann and others on this journey)

so grateful for the love of my life.
for his patience as daddy and
ability to be jungle gym
b/cs i can't.
for his patience and grace with me
and holding my hand always
for his worry for our needs
and his strength to carry it all
for his searching heart
even when i don't understand
and his laugh that literally keeps me sane sometimes
for his work and ethic to work
even when he doesn't like his job
for his urgency in providing
for providing all these little boys
for the love we make and share
and the oasis in a difficult time we were able to have this weekend,
no getaways, just staying, and being present
and connecting in a way we haven't in a really long time
and always, always, the Grace of the Beloved
in providing me with the helpest of mates,
knowing exactly what i needed and desired.

The deepest secret nobody knows

when the world was kaleidoscope under shining tears, she was always there in focus. when laughter cried down freckled cheeks, mouths wide and heads swung back for the joy of it, our arms were linked. when the night sky broke in a million raindrops, and we saw only mirror shards of each other's love, we stood still in the knowing. we can't be without each other. we've only ever known the other's presence, like sun and moon aligned (never eclipsing, we know that now).

we've shared seasons apart--a frozen rhode island i will never know, and georgia peaches that are mine alone. sons have been born without the other to kiss welcome hellos. but still we always breathe one.

we followed her out here to this vast skyland of texas. i missed my poplars and friends and that feel of home. but she became home to me, here. we shared our sons, five of them all stair-stepped and enough crazy to gray us infinitely. we've learned a new knowing as mothers-together. we thought sisters had it best of all, but our womb-sharing with each other only ever taught us to be the women who opened wombs to children of our own, and there is magic in the revelry.

and we leave again. go back "home," and i'm happy and broken in the tearing. love that city with its blues and elvis-stamp, its barbeque and smoky grace, the friends eagerly waiting to love on me (all expanded with my boy group in tow), the city of a thousand churches if i could find one to embrace me.

the world runs together like watercolor and finger paint, all smudge and swirl for tears that know no matter what we'll survive distance, but also know magnetic pull to be one, here, always. my boys need their bebe as much as they need their mama, and she knows it. we both do.

so much new to come: new job for rickey, new hours for me to learn to be wife and mama and teacher, new city/old city (moving always brings new, doesn't it?), new balance of friend-church-rest. and new without her.

(me on the left, her on the right)

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
~ e.e. cummings

The jungle book

i have monkeys who swing hard on furniture and make-believe, and on strong Daddy's shoulders.

i hear a stampede of elephants and wonder how my house can hold them all,
only to find 6 impish eyes staring back at me.

we even have a panther, all bagheera disdain and flicking tail, and his ears get pulled a little too often.

i was once baloo (my nonvirtual friends understand), but now i'm mama bear, less silly (though i have my moments) and more fierce love.

best of all, we have a King here,
not man, not fire, not water, He lives here, reigns here
even in the messy jungle of our hearts and home.

In wonder

breath has been baited in expectation
we wait for you
we wait to know,
we wonder and ask each other
and name a million names
knowing you'll wear all of them, and none of them.
my heart flutters in pink expectations
and i wish to grab his hand late at night
feel
but he can't - not yet, you're still all mine.
we've been waiting to know
who to expect
and dreams and hopes and promises lifted high
and today we
find
i wish i can grab his hand as i see you
but he's not here,
home with those other three
and i learn you're fourth.
inhale
really?

then happiness bursts blue all over
i can't imagine this home
our hearts all intertwined
without these four boys to hold and love.

~~~~~~

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
~ e.e. cummings

Pause and privilege

(a repost from the archives. thanks to those who've written to me and prayed for me; i have lots to share when next we get a free moment!)


i pause, "consider all the world thy hands have made."
i, just dust, can star-gaze and sea-wonder,
revel in my own ordinary and know that
i was made for this--
beyond this--
of this.
moments to breathe in, savor, hold in, exhale.
i, muddy soul, love-struck and faith-child,
swallow daily pride and try to remember
i was made for Him:
his pleasure,
his worship.
giving thanks in all things, i drink full moments of
stop-don't move-remember this scene
remember in stones and banners
how He paved the way,
i, ragamuffin beggar
wearing white linen Privilege.


grace to you today.

Reflection

sexual abuse is part of my story. and while it's something from my past, like a light illuminating from behind, shadows project, affecting some of my todays, some of my tomorrows. i have come a long way from the hurt and pain, and i'm joyful to be in the process of repairing some of the resulting broken relationships. i'm reposting this from my archives because it still hits home after certain discussions with my counselor. this poem, in fact, was a previous response to an exercise she had me do. thank you for grace in reading.



breasts, once touched til my heart
was RAW-
please stop-
flimsy layer of lace no shield,
now sway, stretched with
nurturing
those little red lips
those closed eyes
small hands clutched close
how can i hate these breasts, still?

stomach, once held sucked in a constant POPULARITY
contest
now squishes out, having won 3 times
-MAMA-
but i had no mama to help me push these
little ones out
where was she, then,
and now?

no was meaningless.
hands felt helpless
now cradle sweet, sweaty palms.
voice left powerless
now sings lullabyes
and kisses boo-boos away.

old body, ragged cavern of hate
(don't look, don't want, don't touch)
new body, birth-scarred victorious
nursing love and milk
wombing body and soul
turned inside OUT.

linking with emily and the other imperfect journey-friends on the way

Some hope, restored

i think a broken hallelujah is the only kind there is:
the one of splintered hearts
shy good-byes, and journeys
starting with a single step,
slouching towards bethlehem, as she says.
but it's true.
we can slouch. that's all,
and wait at broken earth, under cross's shadow

and

whisper, "today i am broken.
tomorrow, will you break me
again?"
lips dry and cracked under desert sun
throat or soul more parched than last

and

all that's left is a poet without words
a singer without melody
a craftsman without his tools
all, breaking hallelujah in bread
and wine
and self




i wrote this poem a couple of weeks ago, but after the hopelessness i felt yesterday, it felt very appropriate to link up to emily's imperfect prose. i'm imperfect indeed, but that's where His beauty fills and makes whole.