Reclaiming Myself

You rejected me, hoping, I suppose, to punish me,

maybe to force me to shrink to a size you could manage—

small enough to control,

small so you would always be bigger.

 

I knew that smallness, lived it for years,

diminished by your put-downs, the guilt you

laid on my shoulders to keep me

shrunken, less than, making me think it was

benevolent of you to love me.

 

Your big threats stirred something in me,

something that had not dried up by your abuse

and I rose up by your rejection,

reclaimed myself, set myself free.

There was enough of me without you,

more than enough to thrive, to shine,

to live fully alive.

Origin

 

Happy are those who trust in the Lord,

   who rely on the Lord.

They will be like trees planted by the streams,

   whose roots reach down to the water.

They won’t fear drought when it comes,

   their leaves will remain green.

They won’t be stressed in the time of drought

   or fail to bear fruit.

                                           Jeremiah 17:7-8

 

Down—the unlikely way to go,

but it is where the water of life dwells.

My roots went down to the Source and I found

my origin: to be one with nature, to play

outdoors, to see the world with child’s awe.

I am reborn by descent. I lived serious

far too long.

Now is the time to play, to be curious,

to live in wonder.

Pond

Though stillness seems to define its surface,

a closer look gives hints of what lies beneath.
Small fish, tiny I should say, active at the surface,
create sparkles as they pop up to feed, and less frequently
a splash speaks of larger ones deeper within.
Unseen current, life force, revealed in the sound
of water through the dam pipe
reminds me that this is not the same water I saw yesterday
and will be different tomorrow and the day after that.
Is this how my unconscious looks to God?
Is this the point of pure nothingness that surfaces 
in dreams I don’t recall?

March Ferns

 

Coming up a rise in the trail I spied them,

poised, still life of a dance beginning.

Some stick-straight except for their fiddle heads

bent in a formal bow as if preparing to contradance.

Others, more unfurled, a bit wilder, looser,

looking almost raucous in their heady celebration of spring.

It is this dance I want to join, moving loose, lanky, free,

intoxicated by new life, waving wantonly in the spring breeze.

Tastes of Heaven

 

But our gusty emotions say to me that we have

Tasted heaven many times: these delicacies

Are left over from some larger party.      

--From Tasting Heaven by Robert Bly

 

If tastes of heaven are the tidbits from a larger party,

then what was the larger version of the soft mist I enjoyed on my cheeks

this morning? Was it the residue from some heavenly celebration,

where bottles of champagne erupted to celebrate

the blooming of tulips, or the woven engineering of a swift’s nest?

 

I wonder what gets celebrated in heaven.

I imagine the minute, tiny, barely noticed (by us) events,

fattening buds, pink hue on a cloud, the way

sunlight filters through upon forest floor,

the first breath drawn by a foal—these

surely elicit uproarious response.

If I could count the misty drips as they touch my skin,

each drop a celebration to last a lifetime, ah,

this is a foretaste of eternity!

Blackbirds

 

Settled, at least for now, in the act of feeding, 

birds blanket the ground, their chirps and cackles 

drench the morning air with sound. 

I could not count them if I tried, the volume 

and their movement muddle any hope of totalling. And why 

would I want to count? Better to stand in awe, 

witness to abundance, communion, energy of life. 

Enjoy the gift, marvel at the scene, for it is fleeting. 

A sound, movement, something I don’t sense, disturbs, 

in a flurry of sound, a thousand wings lift the mass 

into the sky. I stand, agape, in the silence they leave behind, 

 recognizing the place I stand as holy ground, 

 receiving their mantle and their lesson. 

Sing, eat, share life with friends, live in this moment, 

turn aside, be awed.

Close to Water

What is it about water that soothes the anxious soul?

Sound, sparkle in sunlight, the rhythm of waves or current,

the concealment of what lies under. . .

Water wears many faces,

lives differently depending on location,

but woos and mesmerizes in its varied forms.

Rushing, undulating ocean waves,

singing, shimmering stream flowing through forest,

peaceful pond reflecting moonlight.

I am drawn to water, soaking in its call to calm, my soul

slaking its thirst for peace.

Is it the water in me that makes me feel at home,

at one with water in the world,

joined by our common nature?