Tuesday's Intention

What to do?  What to do with the free hours of this day? Find ferns? Fringey, wild art sprung straight from earth? Leafy filigree  - categorize, admire? Or instead, befriend a moth? Let bees carry off secrets, released? Maybe play with words? Pliable, abundant, but never enough. Draw? Paint? Create...create. Bow to spirit? Sweep broad strokes - awe across my horizon? Forget the brush. Soak hands in color. Life, so tender. Smooth this. Pat that. Grace in fingerprints, left behind.

just a whisper

in the morning hush
the seed cracks ever slightly
sprouting hope today

Tuesday's Grace

I sit with two cats
and sip pale coffee
from a Honu mug
savoring the wishes
that came
with the gift

Squirrels leap
from rooftop
to branch and
cheer about
their perfect
landing

Good books
and a red bowl of
rubber duckies
are at my feet

So much, it
is all so much
I lift my face
toward the
morning sun
and breathe

With These Hands

 

For 55 years these hands have cherished what they touched, cradled what they held. The work they have done, the tender care they have given, the gifts they have received has been guided by love. They created when they were not resting or working or nurturing. They have readily shared, and celebrated the gifts of the earth. Rarely have they acted in haste or anger, and with each passing day, they linger longer over the smooth surface of abundance that unfolds every day. I have tried, in their every movement, to uphold the dignity of their design. 

Like anything else, the longer and more often we do something, the better we get at it - one of the many good things about growing older. I love my age spots, I love my knobby joints and the veiny rewards of hands well used. When my grandbaby fell asleep in my lap today, they were expertly ready to hold her with absolute reverence.  

This Wrinkled Heart of Mine

 This wrinkled heart of mine, I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine...

Ahhh, if only that were completely true.  And it is not for lack of trying.  The sharp ache from the implosion of a 3 decade marriage that used to be constant, has given way to more of a continuous dull ache and maybe that will give way one day to the equivalent of an annoying callous and then wonder of wonders before I die, maybe just a clean, clear shiny heart... all better now!

Although, if it doesn't, I have a suspicion that all will still be well.

 We all have our heartaches, coming from all different modes of delivery. So I guess most of us walk around with patched-up hearts. Mine is cracked to be sure, but the crevices are over-flowing with the beauty of my girls, my grandbaby, my old parents and sisters and their kids, and friends and flowers and yes butterflies too, and birds and words, oh the words! that comfort and enlighten, and that includes words from fellow bloggers who affirm and commune and offer poignancy and humor. Thank you...

This wrinkled heart of mine beats another day, and does it still hurt? Hell yea! as my youngest would say. But at least I know that it is still working; that I have a heart that loves and longs and carries on the rhythm of another day. Pretty miraculous right?

So excuse me for now, as I get ready to enjoy a day at the beach with two of my trio of beautiful daughters. The sun awaits, the sky is open and my achy, breaky heart, is joyously, shamelessly full of happy cliches.

* A note about the heart rock. This was given to me from my daughter, who even on her honeymoon in Maui, found a treasure and brought it home to her mom. And it even still smells like the ocean! What a lucky heart I have, I have.. what a beautifully broken heart I have.

7:00 AM Grace

I wear the cool morning air across my shoulders, squint into the brilliance of the day. I hear birds celebrate in trees as millions of green bits of beauty ruffle this way, flipping that way, shush, shush, shush, in playful breeze. I get to see it, I get to hear it! I get to hold a tiny hand, touch my daughter's hair, smell the dark earth, taste this orange, write these words, breathe another breath...

On the Bright Side

 

I have been a slip of an oldie, a ghost of me, wondering around looking for myself. Frantic almost, like looking for lost car keys and running late. Now where did I last see me? Under the rubble on the old chest, under the couch next to the stray flip-flop? It is a strange feeling to misplace yourself, but that is kind of what has been happening. I knew of course it was from being too busy. I am not the sort of person that can go for long stretches attending to this and that without time to sit and ponder it all. I get lonely, oh so lonely, for the company of my own contemplation.

So the other night, I bundled up in my daddy's old sweatshirt, and dragged my old self out to the balcony. I wrapped up in a soft, shaggy pinkish red blanket, pulled up my hood (April evenings are still pretty chilly in Jersey) lit a lemon candle and sat still...

I swear I felt a subtle thump as my soul settled back into its rightful spot. I have no delusions about who I am. But I still wanted me back. So what that I am and may always be in an arrested state of development? So - I am immature for my age and under-accomplished; whatever. I know for sure that my grandest gift has been my ability to love and I do that fiercely, finely, most commendably. If I die tomorrow I will know at least that I was able to do that.

Having my soul back in alignment helps me view all of humanity more tenderly.  When a certain someone is being greedy, I am able to see his selfishness as fear.  When someone is loud and obnoxious, I am able to see it as a cry for attention, a plea to be appreciated. I love this fleeting state.  If it were permanent, I would be a saint. But I know all too well that it will fade and soon I will once again be cursing the certain someone, and rolling my eyes at the loudmouth on the train. But today, just for now - I  get  it.  It is a great state to be in.

And it colors everything. The trees are so green, it is startling. The laundry is a rainbow of thongs and socks. Yesterday, I went grocery shopping and instead of grumbling at prices or the thought of dragging all the heavy bags across the courtyard and up the full flight of stairs, I was happy to be bringing home cute little grapes and coffee creamer to my family. 

As I was driving home from the store parking lot, my car and I waited obediently for a woman,  who looked about my age, to cross at the walkway. She didn't look up and thank me for sitting patiently for her to waddle on.  On another day I would have been annoyed that she didn't smile or nod or at least lift her grocery bag in acknowledgement. But today, I just watched her cross in her too- tight, stretch pants that might have been better reserved for the privacy of her home.  Her cheeks jiggled independently as she flip-flopped on by.   " Awww, her butt..." I felt, rather than thought, in much the same way someone would feel about a baby duck toddling by.   Her rear was so apparent, not hidden away but right there - so...so... human? A butt, different, but still basically the same as mine, two cheeks, wiggle-wiggle, the same as each and every other human being's.

 I drove home enlightened, in love with humanity and all of it's failings, frailty and splendor. And to think that all it took was a glimpse at another fifty- year- old tush in motion. It is great to be "home" again.

a little birdie told me

                                             

 

Good Morning, my friends. I've been absent for awhile, but I am still wrinkling daily. Hope today finds you peaceful, and maybe even a little rested. Did you wake up to the chattering of birds, like I did? Did you remember to smile at the the thought of their soft bellies and curling toes? How good it is to remember.