Blessing for the Longest Night

All throughout these months,
as the shadows
have lengthened,
this blessing has been
gathering itself,
making ready,
preparing for
this night.

It has practiced
walking in the dark,
traveling with
its eyes closed,
feeling its way
by memory,
by touch,
by the pull of the moon
even as it wanes.

So believe me
when I tell you
this blessing will
reach you,
even if you
have not light enough
to read it;
it will find you,
even though you cannot
see it coming.

You will know
the moment of its
arriving
by your release
of the breath
you have held
so long;
a loosening
of the clenching
in your hands,
of the clutch
around your heart;
a thinning
of the darkness
that had drawn itself
around you.

This blessing
does not mean
to take the night away,
but it knows
its hidden roads,
knows the resting spots
along the path,
knows what it means
to travel
in the company
of a friend.

So when
this blessing comes,
take its hand.
Get up.
Set out on the road
you cannot see.

This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.

[Jan Richardson]

Thank You

I have just said
Something
Ridiculous to you
And in response,
Your glorious laughter.

These are the days
The sun
Is swimming back
To the east
And the light on the water
Gleams
As never, it seems, before.

I can’t remember
Every spring,
I can’t remember
Everything-

So many years!
Are the morning kisses
The sweetest
Or the evenings
Or the inbetweens?
All I know
Is that “thank you” should appear
Somewhere.

So, just in case
I can’t find
The perfect place-
“Thank you, thank you.”

[Mary Oliver]

The Truelove

There is a faith in loving fiercely
the one who is rightfully yours,
especially if you have
waited years and especially
if part of you never believed
you could deserve this
loved and beckoning hand
held out to you this way.

I am thinking of faith now
and the testaments of loneliness
and what we feel we are
worthy of in this world.

Years ago in the Hebrides,
I remember an old man
who walked every morning
on the grey stones
to the shore of baying seals,
who would press his hat
to his chest in the blustering
salt wind and say his prayer
to the turbulent Jesus
hidden in the water,

and I think of the story
of the storm and everyone
waking and seeing
the distant
yet familiar figure
far across the water
calling to them

and how we are all
preparing for that
abrupt waking,
and that calling,
and that moment
we have to say yes,
except it will
not come so grandly
so Biblically
but more subtly
and intimately in the face
of the one you know
you have to love

so that when
we finally step out of the boat
toward them, we find
everything holds
us, and everything confirms
our courage, and if you wanted
to drown you could,
but you don’t
because finally
after all this struggle
and all these years
you simply don’t want to
any more
you’ve simply had enough
of drowning
and you want to live and you
want to love and you will
walk across any territory
and any darkness
however fluid and however
dangerous to take the
one hand you know
belongs in yours.

(David Whyte)

1 in 10

Untitled

I am 1 in 10.

1 in 10 women living with endometriosis. That’s an estimated 176 million of us worldwide.

We are your daughters, your sisters, your wives, your mothers, your friends. We are someone you know, someone you love. And today, I am speaking up to help raise awareness for this disease that has irrevocably changed my life.

Learn more at The Endometriosis Coalition

A story that is only half my own

latte art

between the sacred and profane
nobody hears me chant your name
another year has gone again
and i will never be the same.

it was one of those days that never really ends; there were no goodbyes.  i remember the fog and the ice and the road leading me south. and that is about as far down the path as we can go together. unless, of course, you’ve already been there yourself.

sometimes the only way to tell a story is to not tell it at all.

← before