Stormy Weather


I am awake earlier than I prefer on a Saturday morning due to the storms blowing through the area.  The wind gusts are creating limbs to fall on the roof and I worry about the creek rising again.  I can already see that I’ll have some fence repair to do later today and that a nap will likely be in order.

I feel like I wake up to a stormy climate every morning now.  “What could possibly happen next?” “What hateful action has occurred again?” “Who said what to whom and for the love of God, not another Tweet!” “Why is this happening?” “When will this disgusting hatefulness end?” “When will logic prevail?” These consistent feelings are just about enough to make a person give up all hope for humanity.  Then, I have to Google “What is feckless” to keep up with the news.  The word means lacking strength of character.  So, I sit at my desk and smile at the irony of feeling frustrated with the lack of strength of character with so very many of the leaders in our midst today.  Leaders that we knew behaved badly, but we (by voting or not voting) put them in charge and crossed our fingers that everything would be alright.  Then there are the people in the public eye that we put on a pedestal and hold to a higher standard because they entertain us in some way.  When they get caught making mistakes or revealing their true shitty character, people are upset and disappointed.

Now I sit drinking my green tea with honey, listening to the cats play and the thunder roar, pondering life and feeling grateful.  As the Earth rotates once again to show us the morning sun, love is still fighting its way through the hate in ways that are plain to see and ways that we need to try harder to see.  Be kind.  Love your dang neighbor.  Write more poetry.  Color with crayons.  Dance longer.  Sing louder.  Pray harder.  Do better.   #profoundshiz


Free As A Bird


I did a brave thing.  I let vulnerability happen and shared my feelings.  In the end, I felt empowered, heard, and loved.  Bravery has not been kind to me in past relationships, unfortunately.  This time, this experience, gave me hope beyond all expectations.  This is freedom.  This is love.

The next day, I unlocked my front door, looked down next to the porch behind the bush, as I have done each day for almost 6 years, and I saw a bird.  Not a real live bird, but a figurine of some sort.  I reached down to get a closer look and picked it up.  It was pressed into the dirt and leaves a bit.  I took it inside to wash off the dirt.  Its beak was broken and the base looked as though it had been attached to something else somewhere along its journey.

Where did it come from?  Why was it there?  How long had it been there?  Why had I not seen it before?  What the fuck does it mean?  Is it a sign?  A sign for what?

So, I’ve been thinking about what birds mean to me.  When I interview someone for work, I always ask the question:  If you could be an animal for a day, what animal would it be and why?  I have found that the answer to this questions solidifies my character assessment of the person.  This is not scientific or Human Resources approved, but it is important to me to hear the answer.  When I answer this question for myself, the answer is:  bird.  For me, the bird is free to fly and sing, rest when needed and can observe all that is going on below.  I have spent a few days spent on thinking way too much about concrete bird statues and recall that several months ago I had shared this interview tool story with the man I love.  He didn’t laugh, he didn’t mock me as others have, but he said, “What kind of bird?”  I paused and thought about his question.  I replied, “No one has ever asked me that question.  I honestly don’t know.”  What kind of bird am I?  No one on this planet has wanted to know what kind of bird I am, but he does.

Birds symbolize hope, freedom, liberation.  Did I only see the bird when I was feeling hopeful and free?  Did the last layer of dirt and leaves finally blow away to liberate this bird that had been under cover for so long?  Am I this bird?  Am I this bird, who is a little broken, but found its way out of the muck and darkness to glorious freedom, love, and a prime spot on my mantle?

I don’t know if the bird is a sign or just a bird.  I do know I have felt at peace while marinating about birds and the meaning of life these past several days.  I am worn and a little broken.  Also, I am free and I am loved.

a bird in hand

Love Limps & Hope Floats


She sat on the veranda with her glass of wine, staring at the leaves on the trees, content to listen to the noises of the neighborhood until her mind took back over with thoughts of doubt and fear.

Does she love him?  If she tells him, will it matter?  What if he doesn’t love her back?

She has loved before.  When she loves, she loves deeply.  She means it.

She has heard the words from men before.  Did they know what they were doing when they said the words but did not back them up with their actions?  One man used “But, I love you,” as an apology of sorts for his bad behavior.  Another eventually said the words only as a rope thrown for her to catch after he distanced himself, in hopes that she still believed.  She also loved a man who would only say the words as a reciprocation, she hoped that he would somehow find his way through it, but it was not meant to be.

Now she questions her feelings, her motivations.  Some days the process of thinking through all the possible scenarios and outcomes is likely more painful and exhausting than what could happen in real life if she was brave enough to speak her mind.

The good news is that she understands now, after all this time, that she is lovable.  She can be loved.  She is worthy of love.  She deserves love.  Perhaps she finally loves herself.  Perhaps she is now fiercely protecting that which she loves.  Recovery is a slower process each time her heart is broken.  What if she reveals her heart and finds herself in a daze from the letdown, feeling like she’s falling out of the plane without a parachute knowing she will be broken when she hits the ground, but still be expected to get up and keep going?  What if she exposes her heart and receives love back?  What if she invests in a relationship, having high hopes for success, but is always wondering when she’ll be pushed out of the plane?

The leaves gently dance in the breeze.  The birds flutter about and chatter.  Perhaps they sing about the lady on the veranda.  Do they know she limps from the crashes, but still thinks and hopes about love?  Maybe that is why she looks up at the sky, the tall trees with dancing leaves, and the ballet of birds to and fro…because hope floats, as they say.  Hope is unsinkable, even when we are so weighed down with fear it feels like we can never come up for air.  Just keep breathing.  Just keep swimming.  Please keep hoping.

Hope Falls


Here is my heart: wide open. 
Here are my words: awaiting response. 
The overwhelming noise of silence: rebuilds the wall. 
Hope falls, time slows, the air grows thick again.  
So tired. 

Hope is Revealed


So, I bought a necklace on the internet. Kohl’s clearance, it will go with most anything, and was only eight bucks. I noticed that the little silver disc at the bottom said “hope” and decided that seemed like a nice sentiment, even if it was very small and would likely not be noticed.

I put on the necklace today and didn’t see “hope” at all. It was hooked onto the chain backwards in the necklace. I said to myself, “Where is the hope? I don’t see it! Oh great, there is no hope. Wait—I see hope now, but it is hiding and no one will see it.”

I smiled. Hope revealed itself when I wanted to see it. There was hope after all. And a new topic to ponder on a Sunday afternoon.

Wandering Soul


A wandering soul…looking for something, looking for somone, an idea, a purpose. A path is chosen and it is new and beautiful. Then darkness falls, fear creeps in…twists and turns and then–light shows a new path.

A wandering soul…searching for something, someone, an idea, a purpose. A path is chosen and it is new and promising. Trips and falls, up and down hills and valleys and then…a new path reveals itself in the distance.

A wandering soul…longing for something, someone, an idea, a purpose. A path is chosen and it is new, yet familiar. Thorny bushes, tangled vines, scrapes and bruises–it is too dark to see the path. The path ends in paralyzing stillness.

A wandering soul wakes. It is dark and quiet…but the broken clouds above let in the light. The light reveals many paths. A path is chosen. It is new and hopeful.