Life is not a straight line. It's a downpour of gifts, please – hold out your hand

Thank you for being here. I'm so glad you're here.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

On My Knees

I am on my knees
I don’t know what I’m doing here
I do not scream out
or cry
I do not hold anything back
Yet nothing comes
No voice telling me what to do
or not to do
No answers to the questions
I’ve asked for millions of years
I do not feel angry
or sad
just a noisy numbness
and an aching need
to be Free

Thursday, May 15, 2008


Remember the beginning
how we sat crossed-legged,
knees brushing knees
while you fed me mango,
one slow bite
after another.

Eyes seeing
all the way
to the deepest parts.

We kissed
in produce aisles,
next to blooming Rhododendrons
In wide open meadows
where wild flowers grew.

Between juicy bites
and slow sips of red wine
you told me.
Not with words
but with hands
and eyes

and layer after
layer fell
leaving behind
a fullness,
calm and cloudless
and sure.

Then came the I dos,
morning sickness,
middle-of-the-night feedings,
toddlers and tantrums
and disagreements
over who should
or shouldn't, who did
or didn’t

And the insatiable need for sleep.

But under layers
of heavy storm clouds
that clear sky

Still and sure
and waiting
for our quiet

Thursday, May 8, 2008

Writing Practice: 10 minutes

Note: *This is a blurb that came out during a ten-minute writing practice. It is in its raw, unedited form. The prompt for this particular piece was an object my little girls had placed in a box...a small plastic castle filled with glittery-little-girl makeup. For more information on writing practice, click on the heading writing practice at the top of the page.

Oh the beauty and sweetness of little girls and their glitter; little girls and their rainbow-colored fairy wings, little girls who lie awake at night wondering if this will be the night the fairies come and sprinkle them with fairy dust so they too can fly.

What is it like to be young and new at it all? To be seeing things for the first time, to know so little and want so much. I wish I could remember better those days when I was young. What do I remember?

I see the chunky little girl I was with the pigtails and freckles, taking walks by myself at the age of three. My mother said I insisted that I go alone. She would watch my small body disappear over the hill and would wonder where it was that I would go. I wonder now what drove me to go off alone at such a young age. Was there something I was looking for even then? Did I think it was around the corner, on the other side of the street, just over the hill?

As I write now, I know there was nothing I was looking for, nothing material anyway. What I did want and knew I could find on those quiet little walks, was time to myself; time to be with my curious little mind, time to look at the cracks in the sidewalks and the tall-rooted trees. I wanted a reprieve from all the noise they made, all the earth-shattering fear they both had and couldn't help but pass to their young children.

They were just children themselves, afraid to look themselves in the mirror, afraid to admit they had no idea who they were, afraid to admit they shouldn't be where they found themselves-married at the age of eighteen, pregnant too soon, lost inside their tired bodies. They were just kids and still needed to be taken care of by the beings who had never done it right.

Yes. I walked away from that, toward the sunlight, around the corner toward the rooted trees, a few steps away from his anger and her silence and their refusal to pick it all up and start again.

My mom said that when I was two-ish, she would come home from working those late-night shifts and I would be, once again, standing up in my crib saying over and over again, Mommy, I don't understand. Mommy I don't understand.