Witness and Wonder

Water from the spigot rushes over red boots,

Pools gather rapidly around them,

brimful buckets sway back and forth

drenching plants already damp from the storm. 

Where would the world be without children

who fetch pails of water?

At times the kitchen sink is all they find

for the sacramental filling and pouring—

Whispers uttered over sour cream containers

submerged in a mixing bowl lake. 

People rescued, fires put out, boats capsized, 

the front of their clothing dark and heavy,

saturated with wonder.

At best, I am ready, 

towels in hand, raising shirts

bound to goose-pimpled skin. 

My breaths are deep,

pull the mind

back to the heart. 

Order is secondary.

Witness the moment

that cannot keep.

Write Anyway

This post was written on the first day of Fall.  I never finished it, but in an effort to get back to writing, I'm going to post it anyway.  I feel new courage to write.  My poetry group, Wordsong Poets, met tonight and encouraged me in my work.  It all takes time.  And memory.  And being centered.  Although this post ends on a somewhat angst-ridden moment, it is strangely uplifting.  OK.  I'm weird.  The reason I am seeing it in a positive light is because at the time I felt broken, but I WROTE anyway.  That is the point....to enter those moments and not let them lay stagnate.

Here it is...

Today is the first day of Fall.  We filled our bird feeder yesterday, and this morning I am distracted from my writing by a tufted titmouse and chickadee just two feet away.  Our cat is on high alert.  He stands at the screen door, tail flicking, and tracks the the flight path to and from the feeder.  It is all just too much for Chandler.  In the backyard, a chipmunk family.  In the front yard, a slew of birds.

Lion has been in Kindergarten for three weeks now.  He told us that he needs more than two days off.  My heart breaks.  I would home school him if I could, but I need help raising my children.  I can not do it alone, therefore my children are in the pathway of public schooling.  I feel broken.  Broken.  I used that word to describe myself to another stay at home mother once.  She laughed and said, "You are NOT broken."  Apparently that's impossible for a white suburban mother.

But I am broken.  I gave my life to big ideals for ten years.  I made huge sacrifices, but I lived in beauty with constant companionship and the ability to escape to solitude whenever I needed.  Granted, I was constantly battling an undercurrent of manipulation and emotional abuse.  But I fought to possess an interior life that was my own doing.  Because of my efforts, I was able to leave that abusive environment and retain a sense of faith and trust in God.  What I didn't anticipate was the utter brokenness that comes with possessing and then losing community.  My compass is smashed.