I no longer wish to be sensible
To tuck in my wild edges
Or explain my joy
Sensible is beige
And boring……..
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We begin
Where the roots are dry
Where separation has left its mark
On our bodies
Our relationships
Our world
We begin
Not with grand gestures……
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There is a kind of love
That asks for nothing
But your presence
Always there
A soft heartbeat
A snuffle…..
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When I lay down my head
And take my very last breath
May I feel content and at peace
Knowing my life made a difference
Maybe only in small ways
But in ways that mattered
May I know my own heart
Fully and deeply…….
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Taste everything
The still-warm sweetness of the tart
Let it melt, bloom, linger on your tongue
Lick the spoon
Let the juice run down your wrist…..
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Give me the kind of laughter
That forgets to be polite
The kind that snorts and wheezes and spills over
Unapologetic
And utterly alive
Let it barrel in
Loud and glorious
Let it shake my ribs loose
In full-bodied surrender…..
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What is enough?
Is it something we produce, own or achieve?
Or is it something already living within us?
We have been taught to measure our worth
In what we produce
Accumulate and prove
But enough is not external
It is not waiting on the other side of doing or effort…..
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Come
Let me care for you
Let me nourish the quiet ache
The tender, frayed edges
That you’ve ignored for too long
Let me help you
To slow down
To tend to your self
And soothe the pulse of urgency
The restless hum beneath your skin…..
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Let me dance
Without asking if I’m doing it right
Without tightening my belly
Without the need to be graceful
Let me be wild and awkward and free
Let me dance
Not to perform
But to feel…….
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How precious is our life
And the body that carries us through it -
This sacred vessel
That holds our breath
Our pulse
Our moments
Yet our body is only one part of who we are
Our heart
Our spirit
Are all woven together
In a dance of flow….
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This life -
My life
Has become a garden
It is not neatly planted
It’s wild in places
Soft with moss and memory
Littered with fallen rose petals
There is rich soil here….
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They dismiss our hard earned wisdom
As if time has not shaped us
As if we were dust on the windowsill
Not the sacred ash of a thousand fires survived…
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