Overlooking a Cliff

Wonder by Alex Grey

I look into your fifteen-month eyes,
blue opals of swimming water.
In them my soul bathes herself.

Each day you bring countless
smiles to my lips.
Each day you push me to feel my edge.

Overlooking a cliff,
I have choices:
I can soar.
I can plummet.

In the first I find the sky. I face
life, enveloped in lightness. The blue air
tingles on my skin. I am present to each moment.

In the second I trudge in coarse gravel.
A weight pulls me down.
My patience is tried.
I feel sorry for myself.
I react impetuously.

Each day I witness the mystery
of your little body growing.
I see your uplifted hands,
the pink softness of your feet.

I secretly want to take small bites from you.
Maybe because you suck life, in milk
out of my body. Just nibbles.

I hear you forming new words. Each sound
a puzzle piece for the communication
forming between us.
Language, is another marvel.

I tend to you with tireless
limbs. I stay present
with all my strength.
Expanding waves ripple
from my heart.
A love so large it is
nameless.

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Sing into your light

 

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Sing into the deep December darkness.

Sing into your light.

Walk, one footstep at a time,

into your heart.

Feel the pulsing beat.

Know that you are alive.

Smile because it’s a gift.

Skip because deep down you

still are a child.

Look up, see the moon, the stars,

the forest, the mountains, and the ocean.

Thank them deeply: they are a part of you.

Embrace all of creation, every being,

every human, and animal.

Soothe your caustic tongue.

Walk deeper and past, out of anger.

Feel the love, the deep appreciation,

the belonging of one and all.

I think my heart and everything surrounding it has gotten bigger

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I cannot think of a day as a mother when I am not tired. When I don’t have some major overpowering worry or doubt that freezes me stiff, or seizes me in a bout of anxiety. Just yesterday, the baby came in on the babysitter’s back, her forehead leaning in, pressed into a wool coat. As she came up to look at me, I saw red and white clouds drifting across her countenance: a dance of splotchy spots. I assumed it was the pressure of raw wool on soft skin. Yet, four hours later, the marks were only redder, deeper, angrier. The baby looked flushed, and her innocence of what to me looked like some terrible disease, made her even more endearing. I fluttered into a chest paralyzing fear. What could this be? How could this have happened? All my questions had no good answers, except perhaps a reaction to kiwis. My mama soul ruffles into a protective swan, neck arching defiantly, wings outstretched.

I think my heart and everything surrounding it has gotten bigger. There is a fine-knit, and enhanced, cloud enveloping my being, my ears, my eyes, my sense of smell, and simply all my senses. They are all on their tiptoes alerting me of their surroundings while I pour myself into the role of mother and care for my young child.
Some days I wish I trusted my intuition more deeply though. For if I pay attention, it is there, within me all the time: an energy that only need be woken up carefully and paid heed to, like a special voodoo doll guiding me in my pocket.

I can hear through walls, and up stairwells, detecting even the faintest of sighs, cries, or sneezes. Through the stillness I am clued in to that particular silence that is foreboding of mischief or danger. Like the day I looked over while chopping carrots and saw the baby content sucking on the i-pad charger, with a look mixed of pride and innocence.

My heart is on high alert when an ambulance goes by, or someone raps loudly at the door, lest the baby be woken. I can see a wobbly foot leading to a fall, sense danger looming around the corner. I simply know when the baby is sick, or when she is in a good mood; when it’s time to go home and she has had too much of even a good thing.

Some days I pray to our angels to protect us. Some days I envision myself gently wrapped into the mantle of Mary. The indigo folds tucking me in warmly, while the golden leaf stars twinkle in the dome above my head. In her arms I rest like a lamb. Some days, I imagine —for lack of a better name—my mythological mother coming to me when I call upon her. I smile to her. She gives me strength. She knows how to support me. She listens me.

It is dream acts like these that allow me to move forward. Acknowledging the power of being alive, despite days on days of sleep deprivation. I move into the heart of being a mother. Each day a little deeper. It is the most important life lesson I have learned to date. It is a 24 hour-long meditation (just pause and press repeat each morning) involving patience, compassion, pure love.

Of course there are those moments when the thought of throwing in the towel lumbers across the screen of my mind. I see it coming like a freight train with no brakes. Then I hop off.
I see my baby trying, with every fiber of her being to stand up, holding on to our bookcase; the back of her downy head covered in fine blonde hair; her short arms flailing and waving, as her legs wobble, and she does a flamingo dance, aiming to hoist herself upward.

My thought abdicates. My heart, my widened mama’s soul, takes charge, sending all other sentinels to lunch. It fires me into a rosy love that extends to the outer posts of my existence.

The Secret Gift

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The foothills of the heart loom large
among shadows deep and purple.
I climb the winding path
through silver sage, and elderberries,
the song of the stream whispering in my ear.
From within a hermetic voice, a friend
I have not listened to in a long time:
timid, yet hoarse.
It speaks the truth, and flies on a winged arc,
glistening in the mystery of the folds.
Uncovering, discovering, recovering.
Flaming leaves rustle in the twilit breeze.
In the palm of my hand I hold a secret gift.
I will carry it to the mountaintop.
There I will bury it, release it, give it new life.

Three-part movement

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Heart.
Carnation rose –
unfurling being,
rings the bell of images,
beholding memory.

Dewdrops of saffron light
sing in the echo;
the rising source,
pure, subliminal, ever-present.

A wondering wish
of wild revelry.
The reckless dreamer
gazes into the blue beyond.

Rhythm.
Unlike the steadiness of beat.
Rather the varying harmony of waves
washing the shore,
from hushed brushes,
to crashing tides.

Or the sacred proportion within
a fern unfolding,
Spiraling in golden unity –
its green-apple transparency against the rays of sun.

A visual graph marking,
in progression,
the irregular order of the cosmos.

Trust.
A symphony in endless acts.
As long as life.
My work in progress.

Sleeves folding back repeatedly.
Breathing.
Allowing the process to happen.
Acknowledging the other.
Saying yes to being.
Knowing that I am enough.
Smiling when I get off balance.

With each turn, the core
opens, in contrast of light and shadow,
a little more, exposed.

I am your heart

I am your heart
and for years I have been wanting to speak to you
sometimes you don’t hear very well
other times you are so zoomed in
that my words are just booming sounds

if you take three steps back
and breathe in and out
you may hear my voice
which resounds in the rhythm of all

it is the threshold and miracle of creation
the ebb and flow of water and shore
wherein lies love and devotion

it is the hidden source of warmth
which sediments into friendship and memory…
the connection between flour and water
which allows us to bake and build

it is the smile of a child and the feeling that ensues
from which you know
that I am here and so are you