His poverty of love betrayed every effort
and he settled for survival-
afraid even of comfort
a man alone in a mind framed by fear.
His death came as could be expected-
outside, nature fallen.
Along his years-
he was loved without knowing how to love,
embraced not knowing how to hold,
home not knowing how to father.
Yet in this moment, in this breath
he is today beloved.
photography courtesy of Sarah Vaughn
A year of days learning framed love circling hate
disease stuck and captured
with thoughts small and great.
Weeds purple miles traveled on mondays commute
pressed edges of asphalt
by wild flowered fruit.
Yet not many linger so driven so straight
bound to mark souls
captured and saved.
I wake now to birth from life to my life
from breath to a death
grace sun-kissed in now.
Cicadas fading hum meets the cool morning breeze
with a call and response litany among the usual flight of birds
except geese in formation against the wind directly pointed
while the lutheran’s sanctioned bell begs their ordered migration.
It is Sunday.
It is the day the trees dance in 1st position to know Sabbath’s touch.
photography via Stephenltyler.
Maybe it’s just restlessness
in the perpetual grind of a broken spirit.
Maybe it’s fearfulness
in the gasp of life without meaning.
Maybe it’s loneliness
in want of being home where I can be we.
It’s definitely unstable
with steps not leading to a lone path.
It’s definitely noisy
with doubts out-crying a rhythm in dissonant tunes.
It’s definitely me
in a space holding it all
in a matrix of twisted becoming
in quest for a soul – everliving.
photography courtesy of Pat Cegan
A journey to stay connected and embraced leaves you vulnerable and obvious.
You will not be strong all the time.
A journey to be present even among shame and pain leaves you broken.
You will not win.
A journey with the sun leaving for winter and then back again leaves you tired.
You will change.
A journey to find your place with strangers at the table will leave you hungry.
You will know–bittersweet.
Holidays always carry an energy of remembering. This season included table talk with my mother, the heroine, of many sad and ugly tales…her memories of life from a darker side of life. I know few whose life embodies “survival” as hers does.
The tales, however, have left me grieving a heritage of pain. I am most sickened by tales of my middle name. I learned I am the name sake of a Jane who guised humiliation and murder with postures of rescue and embrace. I am that Jane who battled for a baby not mine by stealing from a mother in a court of law, that Jane who arranged a drowning at birth to hide the shame of a holy seed in a less holy womb, that Jane who welcomed only to the basement the lesser ones in the unsanctioned family tree.
I have asked myself this new year, “who am I really?” What does the power of my name speak in the circles of life? What part of this heritage have I carried to daughters and granddaughters? How can I redeem time in my life as Jane?
I will start by saying I prefer the name Lolly.