She sat in a chair with her back straight and her head hanging down
A young woman.
Though maybe not so young.
(Everyone seems so young to me on the days when my bones are aching and I am tired.)
She was pretty and delicate and had small hands with fingers that tangled and untangled themselves
As though they were keeping rhythm to a song inside her body and couldn't be still.

"How are you?" I asked.
Because I knew little else to ask but that.

"I'm doing okay" she answered.
She drew in a breath, with a tiny shiver, like a baby who is done crying and needs to sleep.
Her head lifted just enough for her eyes to meet mine.
For just a flash of a second, a nanosecond, a fraction of a blink of time,
A great well opened in the depths of her eyes, a window unshuttered,
And I could see in to a soul holding a candle of pain.

Quickly, the curtains were drawn tight. The chasm closed and all was still.
Her hands twitched and her breath drew in and held.
So brief was the moment, I might have missed it had I not been looking for her eyes.
But I had.

I felt a cracking in my chest, an opening up in my core, a small burst of flame and hot tears in my eyes; my soul coming forth.

I reached out to touch one of her small, dancing hands.
To let her know that I had seen and understood.
"Me, too," I said.
She looked to see if I was being truthful or fair
I knew that she knew.
"We see one another.  Your pain and mine."

Those of us that hold candles behind curtains drawn tight
See the light in others, brief but sure.
In all our hiding, in all our putting on our best faces and pretending that the pain is controlled or gone,
Our pain reflects itself back to us in eyes of others.
Like a window on a dark or rainy night.

I touched her because I wanted her to know that she was not alone.
And I wanted to be not alone.
To acknowledge that we are, so many of us, doing okay while not doing okay.
That candles of pain still are light that shines out to others.
That there is a place where light reaches - from you to me to all the young women with small and restless hands, moving forward, moving, coping, hanging on.

For my friend Bobbi waiting for a word

Autumn leaves
And winter follows
And night comes on so early.
Morning is a series of snooze alarms ringing and ringing and ringing again
Because my body is too slow in the chilly air
And wants to stay inside the nest of blankets and flannel sheets
To keep on dreaming.

Autumn finds me still in childhood anticipation of
New shoes and new pencil cases
And new teachers of new lessons
That might change the course of things and turn the page
On old stories that I want to leave behind.
I look for new friends on the old playing field and
Hope that I can finally be less different
And more alike-able.

Autumn finds me still in the thrill of later years
Twisting the schedule of week in and week out to free time
To be out in the falling leaves, sleeping in the chilly grass
Falling in love with the whole wild world.
Walking up mountainsides and seeing the breathless wonder
Of the world laid bare by the naked trees and the falling leaves.

Autumn finds me still in the longing of the days
When I stood waiting for the bus to stop at the corner
To let the children off.
Just to see their faces and hear the stories of their days,
Lighting up my hours of fog and fatigue
With memories of the wonders of childhood beginnings
And the grace of love that moves up and down and over and through
The generations of the fall leaf catchers and daydreamers.

Autumn finds me now at the start of the waning,
The coming to terms
And the reckoning of all that has been lost with all that I have gained.
I want to dream.
I want to wander out into the falling leaves and dance to the beat of the different drummer
That has always been me.
To be free at the closing as I was at the start
Of the tethers of grown up things that I have carried as I should but need no more to shoulder.
I want to play in the fields that are turning golden and calling to me to run.

Autumn leaves
And winter follows
And night comes on so early.
I am full.  I am satiated.
I am ready for sleep.
I am ready for dreams.
I am ready for wonder.
I am ready to roam out to where the cold meets the warmth
And the heart explodes with the ending and the beginning.
                   ---------for Bobbi, for my father and for my children, October 2013

The beauty of dreams.........

I haven't written anything here for a very long time.  Life has kept me too busy and too caught up.  I have been missing it - my writing.  All of my writing has been missing from my life.  And it's a part of me that is constantly pawing at the surface, trying to find its way out.  I have a new song, slowly growing inside with a whole concept and lines coming together little by little.  I have several poems brewing.  I have thoughts, thoughts, and more thoughts fighting for my attention, longing for some avenue of expression.  And I have this little voice that keeps whispering in my ear, saying "You know you'd feel better if you'd just get off your duff and let us out."  So here I am.

I had an experience today that brought about one of those clear and shining epiphanies that seeks a place to be heard.  An epiphany that wants to be thought out loud.  I want to share it.

A young woman, a coworker, who has become very precious to me, shared with me a dream she had.  She has had this dream once before, and it visited her again last night.  She said she dreamed that she was in a park - a beautiful place, so beautiful that it is one of those places that is only found in dreams.  And she was playing with her two year old son.  Her partner was sitting on a bench near by and there was another little boy, standing near him, watching her at play with her son.  The little boy just stood and watched.  Her partner finally asked the little boy if he could help him find his mommy.  And the little boy said, "No.  I'm watching her play with her other little boy."  Several years ago, my friend lost a child during pregnancy.  He was growing and moving and they were eagerly anticipating his birth, when he suddenly stopped moving and they discovered that he would be stillborn.  She still grieves for that little boy, everyday.  I can see it in her eyes.  Her grief does not govern over her, but it is always there.

I sat close to her and touched her arm and tried to be as still as possible.  She was allowing me the privilege to see a part of her soul.  I was so touched by her trust.  I could see her dream as clearly as if I had dreamed it myself.  The park, the color of the trees, the sunlight moving in the grass, and I could see just a brief glimpse of that little boy, who he was and still is in her heart.  Huge tears spilled over her eyes and down her cheeks.  She was so moved in the remembering of the little baby she lost and by the whisper of him from the place where he has gone.

I came to realize how beautiful this thing is - this ability we have as humans to dream like this.  What an incredible gift it is!  I said, "He's telling you he's alright."  And she cried, "I hope so! I hope sometime, I will see him again." 

And the epiphany for me was this:  it does not really matter where this dream came from.  Either way, it is an incredibly beautiful thing.  Perhaps it is a message.  I believe that such messages happen, though I know many people do not. I believe that there is but a very thin veil that separates us from those we love who have gone on before us.  And if there is a way that their essense comes back to us - in dream or vision or guidance or protection - that truly is powerful and exceptional beauty.  And if, as many folks would say, the dream was just her mind's way of creating a picture to comfort her - how cool is that?!  How amazing and awesome that her mind can do that - create a beautiful and lasting picture that connects her to a soul she only got to hold for a brief but profound part of her life.  Either way - it moves me very deeply.

I have been thinking about my father these days.  So much and so often.  Yesterday marked four years since he died and went on ahead.  I am so lonely for him sometimes.  But so many times, he comes to me in such beautiful ways.  In the way my sons express ideas, in the way my sister smiles, in the rising notes of a violin, in the very love I feel when he is in the middle of one of my childhood memories.  This, too, is beautiful.  The way my mind can hold him so closely.

I am reminded of Langston Hughes' poem about dreams - "Hold fast to dreams for when dreams go, life if a barren field frozen with snow."

I was humbled by my friend's dream and in her willingness to share it.  And I am grateful to have been allowed in to see it.  I have been saying, "Thank you" all evening.

Peace and love and light y'all.
I'll be back again soon.  I hope you will be, too.
Thanks for listening.