My hands, oh, marvelous hands They are more than an instrument For survival and instinct. They hold what is dear. Protect and grasp. They lovingly clasp hands Overlapping the fingers of another Like a zipper All knit and closed up. They carry more than their weight And sometimes I burden them as I try to hold more than is manageable. They are in tune with the seasons Even when my head and thoughts are not. They reflect time and age. There is no denying the changing Shape and texture over the years. They hold my pen and Create shapes that move Across the page. They allow me to type and Send my stories across The globe. And with a click of a button, My hands reach out to you. My hands, Just for today, I will appreciate all you do, Routinized and mechanical at times, Without much thought You are always there for me. So today, I celebrate and thank you.
Category: Connection
Stories connect us
Each Day is a Gift
I welcome my mortality. It’s scary to share with another Thoughts of the impermanence of life. Perhaps it is too morbid a subject for some And it can really darken another’s mood. Once you hit middle age You begin to realize Half of a lifetime May already have been lived. Maybe one day you notice It takes the body longer to recover than it used to. Like I can’t roller skate as fast as before And my balance is a bit off-kilter. If today was my last day to live How would I want it to go? What would make my final moments Have meaning? Would I feel I’ve lived a well-lived and well-loved life? Or would I deeply feel the shortness of life And the reality that there isn’t enough time To do “all the things;” That there was more in this lifetime for me to experience? Checking things off a list or a life of comparison, wanting what they have even if it doesn’t resonate with you, isn’t the point. Each day I try to embody that life truly is a gift. And I intend to bring that appreciation And gratitude into all my days While I get to roam this earth.
What’s missing these days?
Time to pursue my creativity; Too many distractions and obligations That eat away my energy. And then when it's a good time to do the one thing I most want to do, I put it off, yet again. In the moment, Dusting the shelf just seems easier than writing. Just when I’m getting myself Motivated to start, There’s always one more thing to do. And that seems to take priority Over my creative pursuit. What’s missing? Time to connect to myself and others. A sense that there isn’t enough time; That I could or should be doing more. Although, how can that possibly be true? What ifs, coulds and shoulds are easy to be explain and defend When there’s no evidence to the contrary. And it takes me further away From my desires, my dreams. Even though I know the reasons are untrue That I can prioritize myself, My creativity, My movement, And the momentum gets started again. Everything ebbs and flows. Energy and time. Winter is the season of quiet reflection Of taking stock And not regret for what never was And couldn't ever be.
Winter
The cold bitter wind Nips at my nose and my ears. I tighten my winter hat Snug around my head And walk on. My legs stride on Over the sidewalk Into the street. A biting chill enters my lungs. I must walk on. I marvel at my speed And surprise myself at the quickened pace; Wanting to lighten the load of thick gloves and Puffy winter coat. To feel warm again To breathe steady and rhythmic. I throw open the door. Once I step inside The heat engulfs me And I sigh in relief Unzipping and shedding Layer upon layer Forgetting that I’ll have to Step out into the world Once again After the cold has become A distant memory.
I marvel at the light
At winter solstice darkness dominates the days And light seems to fade shortly after its arrival. I marvel at the light. At the sunrise The neighbor’s chimney smoke Graceful and floating Like a dancer in the sky. The sunset that takes my breath away And I linger to look A little longer. I marvel at the light. Everything seems aglow Orange and burning Then quick pinks and purple Gone in a flash. Over and over again. I marvel at the light. I surprise myself And take it all in. Darkness may seem to Envelope and surround. And the bitter chill Nips at my nose. The light that appears is just a little bit brighter, a little bit more alive. I marvel at the light. We take in the light and create our own Be it holiday lights Or candlelight. This little light I hold in my hand It warms our hearts Through and to The brighter days ahead.
I come from there (volume 2)
I come from there With the spark of Light, life and love. The light that emanates From my windows And the voices that echo Through the walls With play and song. The seasons come And shape the landscape. The house is warm, aglow Or cool and dark. The space we occupy And call home On this double lot Of land with Double driveways And a large lawn for Running feet And space for the swing. The hearth and place For childhood memories, Of love and stories Made believe and real, For connection And friendship, A gathering space For family and friends. The house may Be small and Feel confined At times Within these walls. But love Rules the day As we read Our bedtime stories And share our Nighttime rituals. We kiss and hug A love that lasts More than space or time Could ever endeavor. And I, too, am aglow Because I belong And I proudly Come from there.
I welcome and open to the mystery
The mystery of love: How precious, rare, Amazing and alive it feels when it is reciprocated and shared. The mystery of the body: The hormones, chemical compounds, the tissues and organs. Each unique and together They manifest into the whole. The mystery of creativity: Where a word, thought or prompt sparks the Imagination and I am writing again. The mystery of Modern technology: How it is new and novel terrain Yet ingrained into Every day life. The mystery of life: A sudden arrival without any effort And the path of Potential that Each life holds. The mystery of Earth: How our planet came to Be in the best position To create and sustain life. The mystery of watching steam float up from my coffee mug. The mystery of the flame Dancing atop my candle. The mystery of the glow in the darkest night. And the mystery of my role in it all.
Remember (part 2)
I don’t remember being born or how I came to be. I arrived and here I am. I don’t remember the very early years, So dependent on my mom. Her love, her safety The spaces we occupied. My first memory I remember is when I was two. My siblings and I were playing with a plastic toy house. My uncle blew cigarette smoke through the second-story windows. It was such a delight to see the shape, the form the floating vapors that defied gravity. I remember winters of sledding down the hill in the backyard on my mom’s childhood Flying Arrow sled. The joy and momentum of the downhill slope. I remember our swing set with metal frames and hard plastic seats that brought me to far away places only in my mind. I remember learning to roller skate for the first time. Clinging to the side wall as I found my balance, my courage, and eventually my confidence to skate on my own with grace and speed. There are so many moments that I may not remember. But the ones I do are cherished. And they connect me to my siblings and stand the test of time as they shaped and formed who I am today.
In darkness
Each morning I awake in darkness. My mind tricks me that it’s still night. But the alarm can’t be wrong, Can it? So I grumble a little Then I sit up and swing my legs to the side of the bed. I take sweet side stretches Awakening my muscles and side body. Only then will I stand up And greet the day. I begin my morning yoga in pure darkness. The only light emanates from my iPad as I start a yoga video. My personal asana practice is quiet. Everyone else is slumbering. They, too, feel that it is still night. Too dark to awaken. So I enjoy the solitude and present moment to connect breath and movement. My yoga practice ends with a brief meditation. Then I click on a lamp so I can write in my mindset journal. Sometimes I write about last night’s dream Like a real, tangible memory deep in my mind. Oftentimes, I like to write my lunar affirmation and intention three times in a row in my notebook. That is my ideal morning trifecta while the sun is still in slumber. My favorite time of the year is when the sun rises while I’m in the shower. I see its rays peek behind the curtains and begin their path up along my bathroom wall. If I time it just right, the whole shower gets illuminated in fresh morning light. For now I will have to wait for the synchronicity of getting to bathe in sunlight. It is all right. I can wait. My morning routine is a constant even when the sunrise is not.
The Deciduous Tree
The deciduous tree does not appear as it once stood just one month ago. Its outstretched arms are glowing against the backdrop of the deep blue sky. Splotchy green with yellow or browned edges. Yet the mighty maple is just the sum of its many tiny parts. The branch reaches toward the sky on its solid trunk. A resting place for tiny buds that blossomed and burst into a big bold green. Seeds descended and dispersed. And now we get to see the leaves’ true colors. The deciduous tree does not get to choose when it’s time to blossom or seed. It is synched to the rhythm of nature beyond our concept of time. The seasons connect me and ground me in a world that always seems to be spinning faster and faster, Almost off-kilter Off balance. As the cycle of the season begins I’m suddenly reminded of the color, the beauty, the cycles of nature that surround me. Always there. A constant reminder that I, too, am a child of nature and connected to the timeless rhythms that surround me.
Healing Insights 