Month: November 2015

Refugee

To follow your bliss 
You don’t have to trudge to distant lands;
No matter what you do, 
It’s fighting for its’ life to find you.

But you do need to learn 
That it’s not chasing fun,
It’s not escaping a hard life,
Expecting bonfires of constant delight.

Bliss knows happiness is fleeting and lovely 
Like when the sun hits you
But then it’s gone,
And once more you’re left just cold on a beach.

Your bliss is not an impractical pursuit,
It’s just misunderstood; 
It’s not for dreamers who refuse to see how things are
Or for those who won’t stand on their own.

Don’t you know you must commit fiercely to what you know to be true
In the face of every unknown terror? 
Only then, neither logic nor loyalty
Can take it away.

And if you’ve turned from it and left its’ small body to die on another shore, 
You’ve forgotten what it feels like 
When one humble act of generosity
Or thousands of strangers in a foreign land

Lift and carry you wet and exhausted,
Further than you’ve ever known;
When you end up where you didn’t plan to go,
With no words and an impossible heart

If you will please show up, 
If you just show up in spite of your fear,
Someday,
Bliss will follow you.

Fracture

Sometimes

The weight of it is too big

And time moves too soon

And no one is talking about the right stuff;

I don’t care about your stupid trip to Myanmar

Or your cauliflower pizza crust

Or your day.

 

Sometimes

The loneliness is too vast

And words are too small

And no one is meeting you where you are;

I don’t want to read the book that changed your life

Or told I have a choice

Or join your cause.

 

I don’t get why you run.

I don’t get why you fix.

 

Let me tell you what love looks like;

 

Sometimes,

It suffers.

sides

I’m thinking about the tension between being an artist

And needing to make money,

And how I divide myself in pieces over this;

As if in loving one

The other becomes the enemy.

 

It would be easier if only one survived;

Then I would know which to root for,

Who to talk about in snarling tones,

Or what to leave behind at the water cooler.

 

Maybe like the trees on both sides of the pond,

In the reflection that comes between them

They proclaim a way

To be.

Hymn (After Paris)

At the end of it all

All the grasses are singing hymns.

 

As the sun sets low they humbly glow,

As the birds get still they gather,

As dusk arrives they gently wave,

To passersby and griever.

Fringed and reeded and meadow sweet,

Tufted and fine and common,

From prairied, salted, rice worn fields,

A chorus rises from the breath

 

Of all the love that’s always left

Still, at the end of it all.

Whole Heart

What’s wrong with me?

My head is foggy. I can’t think of anything to write. I’m exhausted. Maybe I have some kind of ailment. Maybe it’s lack-of-fiber-myalgia or osteo-lyme disease. Or a serious case of how-will-I-eat-when-I’m-old-iosis. Whatever it is, I’m always searching for why I’m tired, why my left temple hurts, why the sound of people chewing fills me with rage. I’m always asking what, for the love of god, is wrong with me? Just ask my browser history:

January: depression statistics, New Hampshire vs. California

April: tightness in chest, sweating, anxiety

August: sudden dark freckle on forehead

October: pumpkin seeds and pain, lower left side

Clearly, the only thing wrong with me is that I’ve come down with a horrible case of seasonal googling disorder.

It’s astonishing how much time I’ve spent sifting through the days, searching for why I’m just not feeling right. Why I’m just so tired. And while there may be many legitimate reasons for my malaise that google can help me with, I read something a couple of years ago that really hit home. I read that the antidote for exhaustion is not necessarily rest. The antidote for exhaustion is wholeheartedness. And I wholeheartedly agree.

What do I care most about? What is the conversation I want to be having with the world? Am I having it?

Pamela! This is not a dress rehearsal. Don’t be afraid. The world is waiting for you. Terrible things and good things will happen. Go, look at the sky, lay on your back and see the stars, watch the red trees reflected in the lake, hear the owl, the woodpecker, the emergency alarm of the chipmunk. Leave your office chair turned on its side, slam the door behind you, put down the cell phone, get off of Facebook. Silence the noise outside of yourself. Silence the noise inside.

 

Pamela! Live wholeheartedly! There is nothing wrong with you, except you keep forgetting to live the life you were meant to live.

Presence

On our morning walk to gather chestnuts and ticks, Gilligan and I keep pace without the same agenda. What a relief to live fully in the presence of another, without smoothing the wrinkles of our differences, without gathering forces, without cause or word. When we get home there may be burr or bittersweet, but just now, moving in the light of silence side by side, what a gift; to meet at the altar of the day and find communion.

Artist

I’ve been told there’s a parachute somewhere that will help you land in your own color, but all I know is to watch for what propels you, what lifts you, where you circle back around. Are you light with grace, or limping numbly through?

Watch for the speck of sparrow in that endless, empty sky; how it catches the corner of your heart and swoops you up and toward it; I know a sparrow won’t pay the bills, but skies are dark where all the crows gather, leaving you blind and blackened and blank.

Watch for the red cap that hangs in the pine, the blue and urgent cry, the gold and purple finch. I’m here to tell you this is color enough to land, and color enough to fly.