Rains come, pounding rooftops, saturating every
inch of soil down to the deep. Water creeps
under floorboards, pours past garage
doors, gushes into low-lying collection basins.
Bridges connecting small country roads turn
impassable, the ones
at the bottom of mountains
near abandoned railroad tracks.
Grief is a sister to flood rain.
Holding hands, they roll over restraining walls.
Together they stream, surge, cascade — out over the land
of the heart, into valleys of the mind, through the dark woods.
Grief is love out of the cage —
overflowing, endless love.
Grief is love realized and released.
Grief is love let free.
Words come in the morning, rising and ready before the sun. Yawning, I cooperate, streaming my way to the first glass of water, the coffee pot, the writing place.
Already I can hear the p itcher of pearls spilling long strands onto my desk.
Can I catch them?
If not, strands roll away, crash onto the dark floor. Single pearls, once connected, bounce everywhere .
Quick! Five shades of cream! Beautiful! I scoop them up, lay them on, notice how they feel resting on my heart.
Glancing down, I notice the word count. Not more, not less. Exactly one hundred.
What if nothing and nobody is wrong.
To consider the impact of a broad stroke, begin with the small brush. Consider the fly speck on the otherwise clean window, say. Graduate to the unkempt office. Then and only then rise to meet the unkind word.
Every sound from a throat or a tongue is the voice of the world.
Speaking against is a way to spend life force. Speaking for is another.
What if we breathed in the love that built us so deeply that it caused a breeze of kindness to move gently across the land.
She thought she’d handled her move from house to house fairly well, thank you, all things considered.
But today, no.
Human-leaving-the-house-behind-where-they’d-lived-and-loved met up with the mystery of the missing stapler.
It’s possible the human threw a thing or two, then like loose rags, she dropped.
Not about the stapler.
You see, when least expected, a heaven full of sky blue ribbons holding her life together untied themselves. Underneath, thousands of shimmering tethers to her past snapped, spilling light everywhere.
That’s when her heart poured.
She said at last, “I wonder if this is the feel of freedom ….”
Wisdom calls gently to learn in slow motion. Walk wide awake through things you’d rather not feel, find self-compassion, notice beliefs you’ve accumulated, realize what’s actually true.
Wisdom holds the clarity to know that what you resist holds your greatest surprise-teachings. That big rock over to your left appears ominous, but holds secrets that will help you.
Don’t run. Don’t hide.
Take a deep breath and lift the edge of the dark rock long enough to view its underbelly. This seems counterintuitive, yes, but ultimately it’s revealing. Illuminating. Liberating. Enlivening.
Some of your brilliant, bold light is under that rock.