Monthly Archives: March 2014

For The Protection of Our Children

<Ask a child’s silence to speak
And you will learn truths you’ve never wanted to know.
When will it be time to raise our voices from the dead,
When will it be time to break our silence?

Victims are defined by spaces, behind closed doors.
I survived—formed bubbles under my skin
To trap the pain.

But one day they burst,
And when they did, acid rain
Poured over whole villages,
Turning their sands red.

There is no scissor-curled rainbow for our stories—only blackness,
When will it be time—boom, boom, boom,
Black echoes in an empty room.

We seal up the places where we’ve been marked
By hands like barnacles, wounded<
Against the tide’s rushing out like breath.

So I try to understand how I could have been
Shaken by a nanny who left me blind
An infant no stranger to death.
Aching to be found.

We lock pieces of ourselves in the past
Afraid of our own shadows,
When it's the adults that hurt us
Who are the monsters of their own closets.

When will we shatter the hourglass of secret time?
How do we mend those childhoods broken
By parents who are themselves approaching darkness 
Encroaching on long dreamless nights?

No wonder many do not speak out
Almost killed for our crying
Those who should protect and care for us
Cut us off from ourselves with the skill of a surgeon.

Rise up out of ash, left by the light we were born with
The tears shed then.
Our only hope for oasis
In the desert of the deserted.

Sound is red and raw, who counts the wounded?
The house of intelligible action
Lies, in shambles.

Truth keens across the chasms that remain
Truth keens, keys bleed,
Screams listen,

Silence shrieks in opened doorways.
How do gods determine when justice has been paid?
The bean sidhe will not rest tonight,
Nor will lurking shape-shifters with the beady eyes that glisten.

How dare anyone break a child.
Who among us dare speak a name?
None in this world or the next will claim you:
To harm a child is to will yourself a slave.

You who use and abuse the least of us,
You sign the warrant of your own exile.
Trapped inside your skin, no kin or kind,
Separate beyond ken, your prison is self made.

The time has come to break the silence,
The time has come to raise our voices from the dead,
To seek to put an end to this unconscionable violence,
Until our seventh generation knows nothing of such pain.

The Call to Dancing

Dance wherever you may be
For I am the moonlight licking your face
And the wind, humming a lullaby, all-is-well
Across your sand blown life with waxing waves.

Dance, under the stars, my eyes
My purple fog will clear in the twilight
When our worlds become one:
I breathe, through sky and earth, I am.

Dance the day spun into night
Death of suns and light renewed
Come and join the ring of fire
As our voices climb in spiral song.

Your urgency, your steps and falls, I feel.
Your hands, how many you reach out to touch, I feel.
Come, taste the life dust on your skin and recall why you were born
Remain a child, forever in my arms
And I will rock you, not so gently, until you grow and become like fallen leaves,
Unafraid of scattering.

When you have nothing to say, dance
For I will hear your cries with every stomp and bruise.
When you have nothing to love, dance
For then you will fall in love with motion
Lie on its properties and sleep soundly.

Don’t you remember how entropy sifted through time into your hair?
How you reverberated with light beams and were consoled by gravity?
So dance, feel my heart beat surround you
Here in the rustling trees, the roar of oceans.

Dance the rhythm of your own heart song
Beating in time, the whispers in your blood
Murmuring the memories of ages.
Weave yourself into the dance,

Stitched into the landscape of all,
Until now, you’ve only dreamed
And know that you have never left my love behind.

Last Words of a Wild One (For Oscar)

No more our four, I am going to die
Tonight, the Stars shine brilliantly
Must I so watch the twilight of my day?
A triumphant fight, from earth I fly.

Now as fragile as a feather falling,
I who once was hard as rock,
Chose to stand beneath the sun
And sought to shine with all my heart.

If only I could know for sure
The promise of my yesterday’s fulfilled
Before I fade into a thought,
Before I join the voices on the wind.

Already, grey winds whisper
Of what I would and am
O’er the field on which I linger
They sing of bones that built this land.

So softly now I’ll go,
Few trees remain
For rare the water flows,
But for the blood that falls like rain.

Don’t let this end with nothing to convey
Dare you essay to explain,
Repay me with some thoughtful things I’d say
Had I but seen old age, learned life’s refrain.

Would I had time to say goodbye, to long
Bring back these things, my love, my name,
And put no end on my life’s song
For surely we will meet again.

Leaping into Growing: In Defense of Imperfection Part 3

Stumps are beautiful. Maybe humans, like stumps, can shine even if they are cut down. Maybe we can thrive even while life allows us the contradiction of growing and dying simultaneously. But that paradox befalls anything willing, wishing, to become, to participate in the experience of living whether prepared or unprepared.

So we come from things that are wild and untamed, and grow reason, and grow feelings, and still we are fundamentally wild and untamed.

What sound does grass make when it grows? What sound do humans make when they pass out of childhood into maturity, or realize they’re maturity has not replaced the child, but exists only because of the child. What is it to come into your own?

The thing is, leaping into it to find out is the only course to take, and it is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. That is, it is easy since it is your only choice besides standing still, and it is excruciating because never again will you be able to say as Dar Williams expressed in one of her amazing songs, “The world’s not falling apart because of me.” You will be scarily powerful.

Sometimes I think being born is akin to giving a five-year-old a chainsaw, and then sending them on their way, telling them to go off and do something unique and wonderful and life-altering with it. Perhaps it’s a little less risky than that, but not much!

Networks and policies, and laws and ideas and projects that may not even exist yet will be fundamentally altered in some large or small way because of you. Relationships, children, random human and animal beings, environmental changes for good or ill, businesses, attitudes toward minorities, disability, poverty, spirituality, dreams, cats, baseball teams, and swamp coolers will change, will thrive or suffer because of you. Are you so prepared to be a survivor, a healer, a casualty of life, and the reason for, the cause of, other casualties of life?

Growth doesn’t give you time to prepare. It forces you to act and learn how to act at the same time. No wonder we are beautiful, terrible, amazing, disappointing, insecure, inconsistent, persevering, triumphant, wise and ignorant, calm while battling tempests inside ourselves, proud and sometimes shamed, and, if you’re like me, all the while trying to do these things honorably, honestly, with love.

So how do you measure if you have done well? From one perspective, it only matters that you have started to do something. Not until your life is over, can you know the impact of all you have done, and sometimes you will not even know then.

I prefer the suggestion in one of Philip Pullman’s novels. His fictional land of the dead is full of harpies who will fly at your face and tear you apart if you don’t arrive with a story. The harpies like a good story, so the better, more interesting, and original it is, the better your reception in the land of the dead will be.

I’m fairly certain there are no actual harpies awaiting us: but even so, perhaps it’s wise if we arrive with a fantastic incredible story. Then we will know we have lived well, and anyway, our friends and ancestors will be proud of us then. They tend to care more about our life stories than whether we were perfect. So maybe we should, too.

For One of the Shining Ones

And it’s leaping into light,
The song wrapped in shadow,
A day unfurling out of night.
Will you meet me there?

Shrouded mist, just beyond the horizon,
On the way to at-the-center,
I re-place myself,
Turning and returning.

Breaking through the surface from within,
I will throw myself into every messy corner,
I will not ask:
Will you come for me, when its time?

Not knowing when and how, or where,
No longer stopping to catch my breath,
Content with now, I look my own way.
I stand strong on the ground where others stood,
And cease my yearning for you.

Let me stay here for awhile
Falling like rain through mountains
Onto every flower glowing with your smile,
For your laughter echoes water tumbling over.

I struggle to bring a thought child into this world
So take me in your arms while I begin
To try to recover your truth,
For I am not what I feel myself to be,
And I hover here, on these two first steps.

The sparse landscapes plead silently:
We do not share our ideas,
Nor do the cacti share their water.

Leafy hands reach out, open,
The ones I wish I held
Let the rain fall.

What would they call me
Letting your flames leap behind my eyes,
For within the carefully hidden bone,
Beneath my pale face,
Blazes a fire whose shape I’ve never dared to dance.

Oh shining one,
The same winds caress and toss aside,
And stones  sink into cold fresh streams,
And no day comes
When I do not call your name.

For you hold me
Out of reach of the gnarled brambles,
Away from the haggard stumps,
No need to wait, now I am in it.

Paths cross once more along the running sands,
Re-found foundation, home again,
Here I am beyond my wildest hope
With you once more, longing no longer.

Forget-Me-Nots

Dear broken little boy
We’re sorry you’ve been molested and abused
Your priest said he did nothing wrong
But nobody should ever have to be used

We hope that you don’t mind
That he’s now preaching down the street
All of his acquaintances
Swear he’s really nice to meet.

Dear shaken little girl
We’re sorry someone caused you to go blind
You didn’t see long anyway,
I’m sure that you’ll adjust just fine

Your nanny’s gone to work with other kids,
We Hope you have no problem with it
The very minimum of charges against her have been filed
We prayed for her soul, she didn’t mean to be unkind.

Dear battered woman, dear shattered man
Dear victims of slavery, misogyny,
Those estranged from their homeland
Your government and social worker’s done all they can

We’ve issued an apology
But don’t think sorry
Means we understand.

We’re glad that nothing like this ever happened to us,
We hope that you can cope
And act like nothing is amiss
Whoever did the things they did to you
Might be tried and caught, but probably not.

There are not enough resources,
Or people who care
If while you grew up,
Love was just not there,

We hope it won’t affect
The way you do your job.
You’re an inspiration,

Here’s a get well card
From the corporate mob:
Your reparation,A bundle of roses
But no forget-me-nots.

Dear grieving teenage mom who could not have her child
We hope that this experience turned you off from living wild
And your endless sorrow has convinced you that abortion’s always  wrong
You should have been strong and kept your baby alive.

We’re the ones who warned you with our “educational” signs
Depicting four dismembered infants above the slogan “right to life,”
We’re just looking out for unborn children we don’t want them to die
Just don’t ask us to protect them, that’s all done on your time.

And while we cause a scene and tell you how to live your life,
We cut funds for schools and childcare and we still sleep through the night.
Once the children are born, we’ve won our fight,
Especially when they’re disabled or poor—remember, working is their right.

We’re glad that nothing like this ever happened to us,
We hope that you can cope, come home to the god in whom we trust
Whatever the circumstances
A man just never was at fault, absolutely not.

There are not enough resources
Or people who care.
With nothing growing inside you,
How could love still be there?

We hope it won’t affect the way you feel about God’s Word
You’re an inspiration,
Here’s a get well card from the evangelical herd:
Your reparation, a bundle of roses
But no forget-me-nots.

No forget-me-nots,
Because it’s safer to forget,
But what’s remembered lives,
And I cannot forget you.

No forget-me-nots,
Because then we could not forget
That what’s remembered lives–
And I could not forget you.

Go out and smell the roses but don’t grab fistfuls of thorns
Whatever we ignore leaves its red stains,
Its sharp pains,
Its stark remains upon our hands.

I will take your hand,
Wipe the tears from your eyes,
Forget you not.

Dear child of this universe
A lifetime in every cell,
The world shines with your radiance
Though you’re just here to be yourself.

And all that you’ve been through,
A testament to strength
While you lived or you died fighting,
It never was in vain.

Love is not a thing
That you can win
Or force or gain.

Dear tentative night traveler
Who’s never felt at home,
Hope is not outdated,
Nor is empathy outgrown,

And there will still be wonder
Long after you make your life your own.
You let the feared wolf hunger
And the loving wolf has won.

There’s no need to run for cover,
You’re safe here,
And you are not alone.

We know being human happens to every one of us
Through the pain and darkness, hope shines everywhere we touch.
Whatever your circumstances,
It won’t always be easy, absolutely not.

It’s hard to find the resources but most of us do care,
Dreams will grow inside you and love is always there.
You will find yourself again along a spiral stair,
And realize there’s so much laughter, and joy, and tears to share.

You’re an inspiration just because you dare
To breathe your spirit of life into everything you are,
No matter when or where.

Don’t bother with the reparations:
What could they be for?
When you’re already whole and forgiveness won’t keep score,
Half-baked gestures of apologies just won’t fool you anymore.

Life’s not just a bed of roses–
A door that opens often closes,
But if you find yourself outside,
Don’t just stand there looking in.
What’s remembered lives, I’ll forget you not.

Truth In Present Tense

The naked truth
It wears no clothes,
Turns wild what is tamed.

It follows you
Where’re  you go
It calls you out by name.

And some people fear
The sight of it
And some have felt ashamed

Of what, revealed,
Is brought to light by it,
But it shines through all the same.

For what most people think is true
Is wishful thinking
In disguise,

A wanting-to-be-true,
That aches, that breaks, and cannot heal
An ever-present compromise.

You grasp at your wish
With outstretched hands,
Until you realize:

It’s not the sunrise
Or the dream
That’s keeping you alive.

And the moment you let go
Of what was never so,
It’s then you will be free.

You ask me, child,
How do I know?
It’s happening to me.

On Origins

ImageImageI skip stones, sleeping in gaps between landings,
Losing her to the cold, quoting her in the sea.
Our long afternoon drones and buzzes with bees–

Be or not be, be here or there,
Believe, be loved, belong, become–
But I am none of these things.

Sheltered under her precipice,
I fear ground might slip from under me.
Tar tarnishes her smock, she creeps

Out of cracks in sidewalks, checking up on us,
Noting how far from her we move away.
She forms stones that soften into sand,
Measuring time with each expanse of her mouth,

An eon when she yawns.  How can it be so?
I walked by the piers, singing the grief of trees–
I am none of these things.

I saw myself in shards of her looking glass,
Scaled her knees, curled in her lap,  still a child.
She says hush, hush, the roar of her tears cascading

Waterfalls crashing in her eyes, hollows of cliffs– comfort me.
We are broken in places where wounds recede
Back from rims of caves, her eyebrows.  We stumble
On the peaks of eggshells and crack

Under the weight of wounds that do not heal.
She erupts in the north, for it takes time to hatch,
Longer than we give it time.
And so we wither like a thousand winters,

Our names waving in the air like flags–
Human beings, we denote ourselves everywhere
To conquer who we are.

On the ground where I am weeping,
She wipes my eyes when I  turn away, and tells me
About the day I was born.  My eyes open

And the green clears, and no longer numb, I feel her
Pain.  One door locks when another opens.
I choose like that butterfly chose that flower,

And she is out there, an acorn away.
I gather her eyelashes in my arms like baby’s breath,
I say, someday we will remember the songs we sang

As fireflies, there is only so much light to shine,
But I live like a flame, waxing and waning,
Shifting in and out of the particularities of things.

And how does change come?
Through turning here– or there?
In a shell, the propper names?

But, I am none of these things.
And so she says.  I hear her whisper
A distant melody, an echoing that lingers within silences.

Extraordinary House Guests _ When Two Worlds Meet: Part 6

It was after five when I came home. Like usual, I fed the dog, put on a pot to boil water for dinner, and checked my email all without turning on a single light switch. (Its a great way to conserve energy for anyone interested– at least I think so.) I put on the Clannad Pandora station and sat down for a quiet dinner alone. Allegro had just come from snoring on his fleecy mat to wander pensively into the living room. I turned my head. And that was when I realized I was not alone after all.

I blinked. Two otherworld people were sitting on my couch, slightly in awe of the plush furniture, pretending they were not staring. I noticed anyway. I can never feign indifference on them, but fortunately it works in the other direction as well. To this day I do not know their names. My dinner was on the table, so I returned to a decisively manifest world activity which I had already realized I would have to enjoy while I could. Otherworld people can’t eat, and sometimes they glance longingly at whatever I’m happily consuming, unable to relive the experience themselves.

After dinner I ran around the living room with Allegro, throwing his hedgehog for him to fetch. His nails clacked and skidded along the hard flooring as he repeatedly failed to get traction. Fur flying, tail wagging, he ran around and around in a seemingly tireless frenzy and I mused that perhaps he was in the mood to see who would tire first, and that he bet it would be me. Fifteen minutes into it, however, he suddenly stopped moving so quickly. By this point, I was letting the loud music drown out the increasing amount of noise being made by all.

Besides the hedgehog squeaker “with its original grunter sound” per the apt description from the manufacturers, nails clicking, and the occasional bark, I was taking full advantage of my opportunity to run like a maimed leap frog and holler and yell for purely legitimate and nondestructive reasons. I mean, if I wanted to change careers and do something excellent for the blind, I’d devise an accessible adapted version of caber tossing or Hurley. The psychology of the human need to be inexplicably and spontaneously loud is poorly underdeveloped. (The interplay of Hurley and the human urge to holler and throw things in a perfectly acceptable manner would be a great thesis topic. It would even lend itself to a horribly punny title such as “The Interplay of Personality and Play: The Role of Hollering Loudly in Both Hurley and the Expression of Human Nature,” but I digress.)

So, Allegro slowed down, and then stopped chasing the hedgehog altogether. I, however, only partially paid attention to him and so continued to run… right into an otherworld person. The only plus side to this kind of collision is that it doesn’t hurt anyone involved. It still requires a great deal of awkward extrication and apologies especially as it’s possible to partially run through, rather than hit and bounce off of, a being made of energy: and I still felt the need to not let on about just how startled I was while offering muttered sheepish explanations as to why on earth I was leaping around like an idiot and loudly stating incoherent noises like “eishtay!” which means nothing at all (Allegro doesn’t care if it makes sense, right?) This otherworld person was already vanishing when I finally got to look at him, and I can’t blame him for that. I only got to see his shadow, and nothing more.

When I made it into the kitchen to retrieve the hedgehog, I saw yet another otherworld person. His presence so close to the hedgehog explained why Allegro hadn’t gone to fetch it. I added this to my list of reasons why my guide dog is wiser than I am.

I managed to avoid a collision and was ready with a bit more politeness this time. “Hello,” I said, “Nice to meet you.” Then I thought for a moment about what, exactly, might be needed regarding otherworld hospitality. Was this person going to stay here, or not? Showing him around, giving him a cup of water, asking him to sit, getting some blankets and fixing a meal if he had traveled a long way and was hungry… these are things that otherworld people simply do not need. Finally I asked the only polite question I could think of, “Do you like this style of music? Is it too loud? I can turn it down if you want.” At least he could hear and enjoy the music, I thought.

The person, whose name I still don’t know, would have laughed with me if he could. He sent me a picture which indicated, “I spent my whole life listening to Celtic music. Of course I like it. You should play it as loud as you want to, it doesn’t bother me either way.”

Satisfied that I had made this person as comfortable as possible, I tried asking his name, but like most people I would meet he had either forgotten his name or tried sending it to me spelled out in Irish which failed miserably. So I shrugged apologetically and indicated that I needed to clean up the kitchen and start winding down for the night. He stuck around, but visibly vanished so that I no longer saw him. Otherworld people have that ability, I’d come to understand. It takes quite a bit of energy for me, and them, to project and see images and so often they are in their more natural invisible state, though still present.

When I turned off the music and was preparing for bed, I had yet another quandary to consider. There were at least four people hanging around my place. I couldn’t tell if they were the same as before, or another group of four passing through. Although I was sure I’d see a few women, it was statistically more likely I’d see men instead, and so far that was the case. I had realized, slowly, somewhere in the midst of the evening, that I was seeing fianna members who were passing through on their way to wherever they were headed, which I told Caoilte would be fine with me. However, there was a person hanging out in my room, and I needed to change into some pajamas. Ah, details and the minutia of everyday living.

“Um, hey,” I asked wondering when I’d stop feeling awkward, “This is my room and I need it to myself. Could you go hang out in the living room over there instead?” I pointed right, out the door, mulling over whether I had insulted his intelligence by pointing or whether I ought to assume that a person who lived in Ireland 1800 years ago wouldn’t know English, or whether it mattered in the slightest. I’d forgotten he wasn’t embodied and voiced the request aloud.

He was saying in sign, “That’s fine, I understand,” and disappeared. I sighed with relief.

But now, I wondered, should I close the door? If I’d had five or so physically embodied people over, I would have certainly closed the door as well as kindly kicked them out of my room. But this was my space, and I lived here alone… did I really? I thought so, two days ago. I thought about how I had to keep the bathroom door open for years, even when I was occupying it, because whenever I closed the door my cat would meow with ear-piercing angst and scratch off paint on the wood with her perfectly positioned predator’s claws. Darn it all if I was going to start closing the door and acting like I had roommates when I’d chosen to live by myself for a reason, and anyway these weren’t the sort of roommates anyone else would notice. It was around this time that I flashed on the memory that, while they were alive, the fianna were quite used to living with and around large numbers of people. Privacy, especially in the individually-boxed-and-packaged way we’re used to experiencing it now, was a luxury they may have never known. They’d already know how to meticulously respect people’s boundaries and occupy themselves elsewhere if anyone needed time alone.

First and foremost, I decided that as a flesh and blood person of this century, I had a right to have priority over what boundaries we’d set. Unlike the others, I was decidedly not used to living with cohorts of five people, especially if their members were constantly changing, and even if they were consciously showing up in groups that were much smaller than the nine to twelve who usually stayed together. I was, admittedly, very grateful for their thoughtfulness on that point. Second, I’d take the opportunity to see how my house companions handled the situation. As a rule I don’t tend to trust people simply on the basis of affiliation, though with Oisín and Caoilte as their friends I already trusted them more than most. Even so, it was imperative to me to be sure they would respect the boundaries I had. As it happened, I very peacefully spent the night without any visitors venturing into my room, though there were a few more groups who came through the other room unseen during the night. They didn’t bother me.

The next day was quite similar to the first as far as sharing it with my otherworld companions was concerned. To be honest, after a week or so, I lost count of how many people I saw and I stopped feeling like I had to somehow entertain them all. But, on day 2, I was still constantly looking around to see if anyone else had arrived. Whenever I came home from an appointment or from an outing with my seed group, I opened my front door more slowly than usual to make sure it wouldn’t hit anyone and peered around to see whether or not the place was empty.

That night, after bringing home my take out order of fish and chips, an otherworld person sat across from me at the table. He was one of the ones who couldn’t help staring wistfully at my meal. I felt bad that he wouldn’t be able to eat it, and that I couldn’t offer to share it. I attempted to let him in on how it tasted by sending a picture of what it tasted like. Just in case you want to try it, it’s nearly impossible to turn taste into a visual image, but especially when you can’t see.

I’d changed up the music on Pandora and was now listening to country (don’t hate me.) I hadn’t listened to country music in a long time, and it was making me want to get up and dance. I hadn’t moved much that day, and I often feel like a day without much movement is a day in which I’m slowly dying.

My dinner guest had vanished, and I looked around self-consciously at the room for signs of life. Other than Allegro’s ever-present, easy-going, joyful spirit that always fills my surroundings, I was surprised to see no one. I ran over to the sliding glass door and closed the blinds. Now, if I look like a fool trying to run, I look like an even greater fool trying to dance. I either bob around aimlessly (but in rhythm!) or move so fast against the beat that I’d fall over if I stopped unexpectedly. I wasn’t sure whether I could control whether an otherworld person saw me dance, but I wasn’t about to take the risk of some actual world person having a glimpse at me through the window. I wondered briefly what people who lived in the second century would think about country music. Should I only play music they like while they are here? How long would they be here? How many are they anyway? Would I ever meet a woman among them? These were the questions that flitted through my mind as I stood in front of the stereo, unsure how to proceed, once again a bit overwhelmed and baffled by all I was experiencing.

Then, I deliberately forgot about otherworld goings-on altogether, and threw myself into enjoying the moment, in this time, in this world. I reveled in still being able to take up space in the most uncoordinated of fashions, able to mercilessly sing along (loudly) with the songs whose words I knew, able to stomp and clap my hands and turn my head and grab a very excited Allegro’s two front paws and whirl around with my surprised canine dance partner. Grateful that I was still able to laugh at myself and listen to the simplistic lyrical babble about love and staying out too late and blue jeans and motorbikes and teenagers sneaking out together, and homes that families owned for generations, and hot sticky summer afternoons, and katydids, and honeysuckles, and learning what it takes to grow up, and the sorrow of having to say goodbye, and the exquisite unconditional outpouring of joy on holding your newborn child for the first time. In a nut shell, what it is to be and live human.

We all have our place and time in the world, but this is the time and the world that is mine. I danced, my hands forming the meanings of the words, unconsciously weaving the words of energy and motion into the descriptions of the here and now. If others danced with me, I never knew, but by the end of it I would have welcomed them to join in in whatever their way might be.

Enough For Me

Quietly, we sit so quietly,
Listening without a sound
To words that no one speaks aloud.

Silently, the world surrounds us silently,
The stars above us brilliantly
Shining through a tapestry

Shadows outline subtly,
Glowing fog against the green
Trees in mist, amidst the dark.

And suddenly her words become so clear to me
She says change, it comes so quietly
It happens
And only then will you realize you’re not the same.

For moments when nothing moves
Are moments when the greatest things occur
You go from thinking you know why
To not being all that sure

And if all that stumbling through the dark
Helps you remember who you are
Will you recall at all

The journey or the fall
The person who you were before?
When will it be enough?

Peacefully, I stand here waiting patiently,
The sun is rising joyfully,
And I sense night turn to day
Without the aid of sight

Gradually, the warmth comes softly back to me,
Lives are waking, motioning,
So immediate and wild.

Don’t you wish that you were like a child,
And still held wonder in your hands?
Live with earnest
Never worrying about the end.

If it comes down to letting go,
Relinquish all the pain you know,
Surrendering, you start to grow

Scrape up all the trust you left back then,
Start again.
How do you know you have enough?

Quietly, change, it comes so quietly
And suddenly, I’m no longer who I was,
But who I’ll be

Inside of me, I look for her inside of me,
For she is me,
And she is everything that changes,
And all that’s taking place.

Amazingly, the grays I saw so frequently,
Are gone, and now there are only blues and greens
Stitched across the many things I do.

Life shimmering, splashed water-colored in the rain
She’s crying for the world that’s hers by name
The truth she always knew.

So I turn
Just as spring is now returning
And we will still remain
And that’s enough, enough for me.