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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.


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


in the hush of the moon

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.