I can bench.
I can press.
I can curl and lift and squat.
I can run until my lungs burn and my thighs turn to fire at the knee.
I can pull in water till the air escapes from me.
I can hold the ocean back behind my lips and never utter

what I know.

what I feel.

what I want.

I can acquiesce to sand
and let those things fade away
like foam trails from fading tides.

 

but the weight of not holding you?
this, I do not bear well.

strong is as strong does.

some days my strength is shown in what I cannot do.

---

---

 

it’s the WAY we’re living it,
it’s not the where we’re living it,
nor the who we’re living it with.

 

i have met so many people who feel isolated or lonely
in a crowd.
on a farm.
from a city.
from an island.
in a daze.
married.
not.
single.
searching.

all of us –

we all want for something  –

out there.

 

but possibly,

it’s not there.

never has been.

it’s here.

close your eyes,
put your hand on your chest,
breath in.

yeah.

there.

right there –

it is.

 

it’s history and memory and future and dream and all the wonderful things that happen without having to ACTUALLY happen to be real. and shared. and remembered. and felt.

there are only a few people you can share that with
and you don’t even need to be with them to feel it,

but there are a few.

living,
dead,
near,
far,
close by and barely out of reach,
but never,
not ever,
forgotten,

there –

some kind of home does live.

 

---

---

 

When you wake to the sound of strings
you forgot you haven’t heard –

I haven’t heard  –

that sound for so long.
so many years.

 

skin on steel,
slide and grit,
that pic,
that pic,

 

has been the song to my chop wood, carry water
for countless hard-worked days.
o how that cadence kept my back from breaking
under all the weight-

-under all that water and wood.

but the music went, one day.
duty died it away.
the beat went still
in that boy,
in that heart,
in that bedroom,
and the safe, blue, dark.

 

but I kept           moving

i        kept

moving

i kept

somewhere, that song,

 

in my chop, wash,

carry, knead,

beat, brush,

bandage, seed,

hurry, hurry, hurry,

I kept it for you.

I keep it still.

 

low tones rising
high voice crying
accidentals warning:
give heed.
the song will change again.

plucking braided rhythm
it’s the first time I’ve been with’m
in years maybe, who knows?

When you finally, finally say
with note and strum and chord
who you were,
who you are,
who’s the who you’re moving toward,

play, baby, play,
‘cause I can hear you now.
it may be I would stay
if that song you would allow
out of you and aching,
all defenses breaking

when you play.

play, baby, play.
it might be I would stay
if there were someone here beside

and singing too.

 

---

---

I’ve never had many memories of my childhood. But as I grow in years and witness my children growing in theirs, some faded images of youth are making their way to my mind’s eye and heart’s ear.

One that recently came to me dates back to about age 12: I was visiting my step-grandmother in Arizona. I hadn’t met her very many times. She was a nice lady, but we had little understanding of one another. I remember getting sick. I remember a pain in my gut and a weakness in my head. I remember being afraid that I was ruining vacation.

This woman – her name is Ethel – she sat down in a rocking chair and told me to sit on her lap.

Now, I was 12 and I was no dainty 12. I was already aware of being the tallest girl in class who outweighed most of the boys and was extremely cognoscente of my mass.

She rocked me. It seemed like hours. She wasn’t afraid of my weight. She wasn’t afraid of projectile vomit. She wasn’t afraid of a ruined vacation. She rocked that bug right out of me.

 

You know, I don’t remember anything else about that “vacation” and though I’m sure there was a lot of money spent on souvenirs, I recall only that moment.

---

Fast forward to age 27: it was the morning of my wedding. I had spent the night at my folks’ place where we’d all head to the church together. As I came downstairs, groggy from last night’s rehearsal dinner and aiming for the coffee pot, my step-mom, Ethel’s daughter – her name is Jane – sat on the couch and told me to sit on her lap.

A MENTAL PICTURE:
Jane:
5’4”,
maybe 100 pounds
(if she’s carrying a bag of groceries),
legs criss-crossed
so she could put me:
5’9”,
at least 140
(without groceries),
in her lap,
wrap her arms around me,
and sway.

 

She rocked me. It seemed like hours. She wasn’t afraid of my weight. She wasn’t afraid of spilling coffee. She wasn’t afraid of getting to church 5 minutes late. She rocked those prayers right into me.

---

 

Fast forward to tonight: I heard my daughter crying. I couldn’t tell you about what. I still don’t know. But as I stood there with my mouth full of toothpaste, and the laundry timer going off, and the list of “to-do-before-bed” unsurmountable before me, I heard that sound we humans utter that says, “I hurt.” It wasn’t the “I-didn’t-get-my-way” whimper. It wasn’t the “please-someone-notice-me” wail. It was the sound that we make when we ache in deep places. And my daughter made that sound.

I picked that girl up – all 10 years of her – and leaned her into me, and I just let her cry. And I rocked her. It didn’t seem like hours. I wasn’t afraid of the weight. I wasn’t afraid of the snot and the drool. I wasn’t afraid of the hours I’d spend past bedtime getting things done. I rocked the sad right out of her.

---

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow she’ll wake up and maybe not remember anything else about this whole summer, save the feeling of being rocked when she didn’t even know she could be.

 

---

---

 

It can’t be done,

holding water.

 

it slips through your fingers.
it absorbs through the skin.

 

 

You can freeze it –

in time
in space

– but if you want to hold it,
you’ll have to freeze, too,

 

‘cause your pulse, the blood in your hand, the charge of your heart
would melt it, over time –

and not much time.

 

It leaks from our eyes,
from our brows,
from our chests,
and the backs of our knees.

In strings of silk glass flowing

we drip

and trace wet trails
along the curves of our skin.

it can’t be held in.

it can’t be held in.

---

 

said the water to the lovers:

In me you can bathe,
in me you can swim,
in me you can drown,
or barely surface skim.

I give you my deep,
I give you my wide,
and break your locked horizons,
and hold you in my tides,

but do not think I’ll be held still
for my nature is to move.
Though you may want eternal soak,
in rapids’ fall, I oft reprove.

---

The things I didn’t say are a lot.

 

Things like, “Thank you.”

for bearing my weight.
for keeping step with my gait
when the stride was distant and wide.

for wanting more,

for waiting longer,

thank you.

Things like, “I see.”

how lovely you are.
how fast time moves
when it’s standing still
and we’re still standing

out there

in the dark

and together.

I see.

Things like, “I hope.”

That there will be a time
when all the words that are hidden
behind teeth and tissue
flesh and fear
pause and speculation

will be said.

will be spoken.

will be sung.

that embrace will come again.

that a smile can be spread without sorrow too soon to follow.

I hope.

 

These things I didn’t say
and so many millions more
that books are written on my heart
and locked by lips’ sealed door.

In every second fleeting
the courage in me builds
to speak the truths held back by fear
but in the air fulfilled.

 

Thank You.

I See You.

I Hope.

---

 

 

I did not plant this here.
I did not set the seed.
Though concrete inhospitable,
it grows, as you can see.

A thing that wants to rise
sets root down with intent;
though challenge irrefutable,
it’s seedling seeks ascent.

It even had to wait
through winter’s cold reprieve.
An annual. One year, they said:
one life, and then bereaved.

 

But do you see the color there?
And the bud, beside it, growing?

 

Does the grey and stone confine you?
Or fill you with gritty knowing,

 

We do not pick our soil,
we do not choose our sun,
but force forth green and vibrant hue
and yield our bloom to none.

---

You can only be what you’re not for so long

before the who that you are

sneaks up on you

creeps up on you

and demands to be known by you

once again

and for good.

 

it’s a funny thing,

 

when people say, “you’ve changed.”

 

changed?
or changed back?

changed?
or revealed?

is growth good if you grow in “right” directions for wrong reasons?
is growth bad
if you grow mad
at someone else’s moral treason?

 

who is the who that you are?
are you true to that you?
am I?

am I?

---

Admittedly, there have been a few times in my life wherein something I watched was a catalyst for change in how I lived my life or thought about my own potential.

That is, after all, what makes storytelling so powerful, isn’t it?
How it motivates change?

For example:

After seeing Star Wars (in the theater, yes, I’m that old), I was quite certain that if I tried hard enough, I could use the force and move stuff. I think my caregivers were concerned by the length of time I spent starting at tables.

The Little Mermaid convinced me to tie my feet together while swimming so I could “mer-swim” more authentically. Yep. Nearly drowned.

When I saw Braveheart, I converted to Catholicism ‘cause I totally wanted to play bagpipes in the highlands, get secretly married in rebellion of English authority, and paint my face blue. (No kidding, I started embroidering handkerchiefs for my betrothed even though I wasn’t betrothed.)

It was an episode of BayWatch that inspired me to buy my first motorcycle (embarrassing, but true.)

It’s possible the Matrix inspired me to buy my second.

Well….

 

I just saw Wonder Woman.

I’m only saying, IF I happen to show up somewhere donning a leather girdle, quiver, shield, and forearm cuffs (with thumbies), please don’t judge. I’m working something out…

It’ll be over soon.

 

#DisplacedAmazon
#ThemysciraOrBust

---

---

I will no longer wait for a certain love.

I will no longer wait to be better understood.

I will no longer wait for someone else’s
assistance,
attendance,
or enthusiasm.

I will not wait for a thumb’s up or pat on the back.

I will not wait for a “you should” or a “go for it.”

 

All of those things would be nice to have,
but I’ll no longer hold
future memory or present opportunity
in bated breath and pause.

 

I’ve been too long

like a little kid

staring at the sidewalk

waiting for melting ice cream

to jump back

into the cone.

I am grown now.
I’m buying a new cone.

Triple scoop.

 

I think I’ll get one for each my kids, too.

---