stepping out of the way.

the snow came back, I felt it melt down my cold cheek.

It shivered my bones and in a n instant I was reminded of the cold days,

with the short hack job haircut, a tiny frame, lying in a fetal pose under piles of quilts.

Blue hands, I never want to see those blue hands.

so I must use these hands now, strong and able, to pull me out of the way

I clasp my hands in a shameful prayer, I know what he’ll tell me,

He’s been whispering it my ear all week.

He’ll tell me to step out of the way, to follow his stride

and he’ll sweep me off my feet and into a waltz step

I just have to make the first move.

So I pick up my lazy legs

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

stand close, I’m afraid of falling

These Trees

Even the trees here whisper,

they point their twig like fingers at the people below and cackle in the wind.

They reach out their crooked branches,

we grab on to this extended gesture.

but branches break and we come crashing down

hitting backs hard on the ground.

I would like to rest in a hammock, hang it from a tree in the yard but the branches shake and I shy away.

We would like to put up a swing for sister,

the trees know

they scratch the windows in the dark night and listen in to our private chatter

They grow up the walls of our house and spread our words to fellow flora

I sit sipping coffee and watch the trees toss gossip in the wind

I watch trees knock down a stranger because they do not fit the town’s mold

We run about under these trees

and try to find shelter where we can just be

but they take our words

and we become silent in our motion

hush and chatter

branches twigs and limbs in the wind

pray for the leaves to come,

fresh and green,

muffling  the ears of These Trees

painting flowers when the ground is still bare

I can not write and all I paint is flowers,

I sketch sofas and paint flowers.

this is weak and weary

this new town is beautiful but all the music has been turned down.

It is hard to dance without a beat

so

I vacuum my bed and eat soggy rice and lentils.

I try to write beauty, to spill poetry on paper

but this is all I can force out.

just a drip from the teapot, a small stain on paper.

strum my guitar and go to bed.

salty blue mess

I got a job offer and I cried.

I tore it apart

and chewed on it all day

I spit it out

organized the soggy pieces into a pros and cons list

and dripped tears on the paper

ink ran until it swirled in a murky puddle on the floor

I looked into the puddle hoping for an answer

nothing…

salty blue mess…

So, I wiped it up

and made my decision.

 

the book part 2

Writing is important.

It draws people in

Demands their full attention

Spoken words can be powerful, but they ring out in vibration and eventually become lost in the roar of highway cars and the click of tiny keypads.

Written words are permanent, they can never be fully erased.

Even when thrown in the flame, they become dust and mingle around our being, then in stillness settle at our feet

—————————————————————————————-

PART 2 the HOLE

We lived in a green siding house on the corner,

It was a rental, and on late evenings Mum cried and Dad would shout about being in the hole.

I was puzzled.

Holes were dark and scary, our little place was a bright green with a cement block out front.

That block was our stage.

Dad brought us home new dress up clothes and we put on a show.

There was a garden in the back, down a grassy slope.

The perefect sized tobogganing slope for toddlers in the winter.

The garden was small and thriving. It grew carrots, legumes, rhubarb and tomatoes. On hot summer’s days Mum and I would eat the fresh peas right off the vine.  Dad made pickles from cucumbers and I marveled at how the flavour went from soft and plain, to a nose scrunching bite.

We were schooled in that home, and we slipped out at break to eat Popsicles in the sun.

This place was not a hole.

This was the place where a prayer was changed and then a prayer was answered.

We sat on the bottom step, of the staircase in our home. Mum and I, and I told her…

I could not ask for a baby girl,

so I changed my prayer

and in a months time, Mum and Dad called us together at the dining room table.

J squirmed and N looked bored, I tried not to sit on my knees in those blue chairs we owned.

The ones from an old restaurant, will the vinyl puffy seats. They had nails that stuck out below the vinyl. They were sharp on your knees.

Parents spoke, words came together in sentences, and my tiny eyes lifted, the boys hooted and hollered.

A baby boy, a brother. We were having a baby.

Remember when you sang to me

They forgot to invite her to the support group.

It must have hurt, pierced flesh deep,

She waved it off,

Like she waves off the pain in her knees

Like she waves off the bruises on her heart, from each time a rebellious teenager took a bat to it.

She needs support most right now and they forgot to invite her.

So mummy let your tears fall down

Each one precious and valid.

God collects them in his cup

Remember when you sang to me about the overflowing cup?

Well he has turn your tears into love

and it overflowing all over you.

the book, the start

I like to run by the lake,

It puts me in my place

reminds me how small I am

the lake, stretching beyond what I can see, it is just a tiny tear drop in the palm of my maker

If the lake is a tear drop…

we must all be specks of glitter, I decide

like ones we use to craft valentine’s on our dining room table

we shine and shimmer off eachother

all different shapes, sizes and colours

The lake makes me want to write

to start my book

because it is not for the little glitter people that float

about beside me, but for him and him only

so here I begin.

——————————————————————————————–

let me start before her start,

back to the days of pink bedrooms, and white framed toddler beds

a wallpaper border of puppies and kitties

two rough and tough big brothers

who pull my hair and laugh at my pretend games

The huggable J who always finds trouble

and a tattle tale N, the eldest and wisest

back to the days of Daddy sandwiching us three together and dropping us off in our beds,

We take the boys upstairs first, and kiss each one good night

then I am last

back down the stairs and to the room at the end of the hall

he plops me into my blankets and he and mum shower me in goodnight kisses and hugs.

when the lights are out and I hear their quiet chatter in the family room,

I slip out of my bed and get on both knees.

Chubby child hands clasped tight, and a head of messy hair, bows

I asked a little prayer

to the BIG man up in the sky

he never answers

but it is always the same prayer,

night after night

dolls and stuffed toys lay with me under covers

and my hushed words echo through the dark of the night.

The art of falling down

The art of falling down

we ring around the rosy

we fall down on our faces then laugh it off

roll over onto knees

climb back up and do it all again

I’m decorated with bruises

and there’s dirt in my teeth.

but here we go again

hold my hand

round and round we’ll go.

 

on eagles wings

 

(painting commissioned piece for friend, see more of my artwork at owlmeetsfairy.etsy.com)

an eagle in the sky

and I want to sit on her wings

I will enjoy the fresh wind in my face and the sights below.

enjoy,

the word feels funny on my tongue.

It bites like dark chocolate and red wine. Red wine I swish and sip, dark chocolate I nibble and savor.

I sewed last night, the buzz of the machine was musical in my ears.

I sketched handbags in tattered sketch book

and sewed things that I like

The eagle sweeps down and picks me up, angels lay a daisy chain like a halo over my messy french braid

It flies me to a throne, But I do not sit

I dance with all those who are weary

all those who feel unloved

all those who are weak and worn

all those who search in the mirror for their beauty but can’t see past the refection cast by light.

the eagle has brought them too

One by one

they are dazzling and whimsical in their crowns and white dresses

all of us are dancing

twirling and smiling

Then I am back in my living room, laptop humming and woodstove warming my toes

Sister’s belongings are scattered around and puppy’s paint-covered-paw is flopped across my lap. Mum is resting her knees,

and the room next door is torn apart, but this place is just as beautiful as the dancing place

because the girls are the same

weak and weary but beautiful in his eyes. In his place

This is his place too, we have invited him here. Too see our messy renovation to warm his cold toes.

enjoy, dance and love

you deserve it, daughters of the king.

cold castles

I trek through deep snow with brother

he speaks of school friends and sitcoms

Big castles face the lake

and look out at the storm with dark square eyes

They look beautiful and extravagant, but inside they must be cold, with a little stove trying to pump heat throughout the hollow rooms

The cold is eating me the same and my heart tries to pump heat, enough to hold my smile in place

enough to keep me from wading into a ball in the corner,

but its a fight.

I write this then backspace

highlight and delete

Is it okay to be fighting?

to be tossing in the night as tears stream from my eyes?

to wake up on the floor with my bed made, and room spotless because I am trying to keep things tidy and together?

I would like to break out and scream, roll on the floor and kick my feet in the air,

The cold would be so surprised it would grab frost and snow and run across the lake,

Away from me and never to return

This morning before sandwiches and potato chips we spoke of grace as our sword

a small community of believers huddled and studied, I listened

God does not take things away. The cold will always come, but he will give us a sword to fight it with. Grace like warm woolen mittens to put on and face the storm.

my prayer

We’ve moved and I never write anymore

Everyday is a struggle for sister so tossed and twisted

Dad brought mum roses today and she sat and cried on the couch

brothers writes worries to friends from a far,

who will he be in this new school of fish

Does he fear the sharks?

I do for him

In church, the people pass funny glances at our family so new and different

a tall thin boy, a flapping girl and her older pair with a scowl and tousled hair

A mum and dad so worn from an 8 month storm that deep shadows are  harsh under eyes of love

Puppy waits in the big cold home with paint on her paws, from the wall we took out.

we try to mold into this big house, i shuffle my furniture around and fall in tears on the kitchen floor one morning

asking God to take away fear

to help me stop counting

counting days, counting seconds, counting meals, counting people

for what?

I need to create more, I need to be better, I need to practice my music, I need to write every day

I need to be this present moment

There are toys on this floor and denim threads from a love quilt scattered around mum

Lord help us make it

be with brothers lonely, living afar

help me mold into you that you fulfill my every need

help me to know if I should travel afar to home-school missionary children

or do you have life for me here

Send this home peace and warmth

and order that we can hold amongst the chaos

we will all grab on, and bare our white knuckles

so that we can make it through

help us make it through

 

Linking with Emily today

booming voices and Christmas trees left out late

Sometimes I think it would be hard to be her.

The pastor’s booming voice making vibrations in her chest

little glowing LED lights on the Christmas trees at the front, shining bright in both her eyes.

Christmas trees….that should be have been taken down when Christmas ended.

People whispering in their seats,

being able to hear their every word.

The crinkle of candies

and the smells of coffee, morning mints, bad breath and earl grey tea, as church goers open mouths to yawn.

The way the berber carpet in the sanctuary catches under her shoes.

Holding herself down in a chair, when her body wants to float away

being so afraid of germs, as the man across the aisle sniffs and wipes his red nose.

I thought of her those days that I was sick

poisoned by rotten food, from an unknowing grocery store

she stood a meter away at all times

at night she shook with anxiety in mums arms.

so afraid of what was not routine

something un-named but mean enough to change the people she loved, change her everyday world

her everyday world already so shaken up since that summer day when Dad said we would move.

She started skating last week, watching her skate was like watching her dance, a beautiful evolution, learning steps by sight.

She skates 2 days a week, two scheduled days

by building blocks her life is being put back together

block by block

Rome wasn’t built in a day

this one is to love

He fed her a snack with a straw, then gently wiped away her drool with a terry cloth bib.

She was dressed in a purple track suit and sat reclined in her black rolling chair.

I watched from our circle of chairs.

We were circled around grandpa,

he told us jokes and pretended to blast off in his chair.

we burst like balloons filled with confetti

into giggles and smiles

 

Grandma fussed and brought out his Christmas gifts to show us.

She ran her fingers through his hair

and I understood.

I understood the simple sandwiches, Bun’s sliced in two, canned meat spread in the middle.

I understood her tiny pot of soup, made with frozen vegetables and broth with noodles.

The brownies from the freezer for dessert, with potato chips and little mandarin oranges,

I saw the couple in the hall, a man pushing his wife in her chair, looking proud as he carefully navigated carts and oxygen machines.

The walls were cream coloured and little blue snowflakes hung by fishing line from the ceiling tiles

Two goldfish swam together in a tank at my right side.

the filter bubbled and the florescent light buzzed

two Goldfish,

a boy and a girl,

they danced in their little tank, tails swishing and twirling

The fish becoming entangled in one another.

Grandma showed us the photo of her and grandpa dancing

his head hung low, her laugh lines beaming.

This man/woman love so foreign to me, the idea of it like a beautiful alien, I watched it make motion.

I watched the fish dance, and the proud man push his wife in her chair. Grandpa looked down and made funny noises, grandma laughed placing a hand on the lap of his elastic waisted corduroys.

this one is to love

 

king of the brokeness

The ice glitters and the frost bites the bare flesh of my leg, where a hole is wore in my tights.

I look at the lake , it is sparkling blue today, it reminds me of the soft blue in mums eyes.

I kick chunks of ice and marvel at how they glitter in the sun.

All the more brilliant in the snowy white December day.

Siblings bicker around a turkey dinner

I fret over dessert

We could not be more perfect in our brokeness.

but he was the king of brokeness

so I smile and sip my wine.

 

jingle and kringle

We sang carols in a church pew, our words mixing with new strange voices.

 

Joy and Good Tidings

Rising up to the heavens.

Puppy danced at the talent show later that eve. Barking and hopping while mum and dad told a story with puppets.

we smiled and giggled, giddy with excitement.

A cake was shared to celebrate the birth of both earth father and heaven father.

Both strong yet humble.

I thought of Dad’s tears over sickly puppy, his crushed expression as they almost took her away.

Puppy welcomed the morning with us.

Sister whispered sweetly at my doorframe.

“Wake up, its Christmas time”

She ran down the hall in tears hands flapping out of control,

 

the excitement winning her emotions

I chased her and we tackled her with a hug, mum and I

And then the three girls went downstairs.

 

TEAR and RIP with the paper, Gasps of excitement and squeals with each gift.

we shared smiles and fruit salad sweet on our lips around a dining room table

I think back to last year, a darker time in my heart

I did not share fruit salad, each gift was lain with guilt as I felt undeserving and ashamed

I did not gasp or squeal or snap photos of siblings as they enjoyed each present.

 

When God shone through the angel atop our tree, I begged it for help.

On knobby knees in hopeless state.

I remember

my sunken faced, thin and pointy

my string like ankles in sockmonkey slippers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

my choppy haircut, wrapped up in a headband.

This year I smile at handmade gifts and fresh brewed coffee,

the Lord smiles at our family weak from our battles

but linked tightly in love

This was what we wanted most for Christmas, to be here, to be together.

Merry Christmas

You are all so dearly loved.