there’s a life chosen boldly and forthrightly on these mountains and these cliffs and these bluffs, walking their sparse trees that from here aren’t more than pale green dots — every evening setting life aside a moment to slow and breathe and watch the sun blaze through the valleys and their trees that, from there, aren’t more than pale green dots. gentle and free, wild & so fierce in small but careful and the closest of company, walking those trees. fought for, sweat for, bled for, cried for — I won’t stop til that same sun sets blaze to my heart that sets blaze to the valleys and skies, I won’t stop til that same wild wind that weathers and wisens those sparse gnarled trees teaches me her wisdom too. we’ll sweat our days climbing and fighting our way upward, upward upward upward upward f**king upward always upward opening our chests raw to the deepest blue sky and sleeping wrapped warm in the arms of bitter nights more vibrant by starlight than the day at noon because we know the stifled air and greyed polluted skies here will not CANnot satisfy. we’ll keep climbing, boldly gentle and ruthlessly free, upward toward truth at all costs, upward always toward hope and mending and wholeness, upward always toward a no-half-ass forever aflame whole-soul life.
nothing but a whole-soul life.
anew /
every morning (sure as the sunrise) we’ll gently reorient our hearts, as best we know toward the best we know.
gossamer balance /
a strange beauty that dawn and dusk sometimes, for a moment, feel the same. an uncertain & quiet moment lost somewhere between light and dark— a place where, gently, gratitude for yesterday and hope for tomorrow are held in the same hand.
oceans /
your overcast days, do you see the earth is holding you wrapped in her arms? the moon through the night, stars when there is no moon, and the rain on your face in that cold cold night, most intimate of all when even the stars are lost— with every drop our Mother’s crying with you, every drop on your face saying she was never so far all along.
warm fires and hot soups are nothing til cold long northern nights, warm hearts hold us so much deeper when we’ve known the world’s bitterness, gentle arms to hold us become so much more grateful a home in our storms. your dark cold storms and bitter nights are bringing you home, dears, even when the stars can’t shine yet. even when you can’t see which way this ruthless storm blows your small boat that feels so frail in winds like this. we’re on our way home, we’re all on our way home, searching, finding home where we can, building and mending the best we know how, quietly praying.
there is warmth, there has always been warmth, dears, it has always been there for you and it always will be. warmth and home, home, warmth. we’ll chase those with all that we have, to find them to our hearts and to knit warm home for loved ones— loveds and dearly loveds and strangers, (friends we’ve never met,) friends on their way home too still out in storms and hurting for shelter. be kind to your heart please, dears. and hold it so gently to your heart when someone trusts you with theirs. people are so precious. this life is, so truly, precious.
nowhere to be but here /
I’ve wrestled so much to understand what really, really matters in this life of all the noisy things we’re told... and can’t understand what it is anymore if it isn’t that my heart aches from its bottom for nothing but to build a home, and to love quietly and honestly and deeply with feet planted gentle and firm, when the weather’s fair and just the same when it’s awful, and to give our all, in burning away our awful pride and selfishness, and to open always our door to strangers and the oldest of friends for warm dinner on cold nights, when the nights are cold, when the world is cold, and choose to live with feet here to stay, hobbit feet, patient and trusting and unhurried in our growth and our love with nowhere to be but here, and to live with those bare free feet in dirt and mud and sticks and laughter and grass, and to learn our whole lives to live in rest and quiet and slowness and forgiveness and goodness and gentleness and courage and let everything that follows flow from there, warmth of heart and coming home again amid such desperate cold. god, does my heart hurt for that.
and let us try, before we die,
to make some sense of life.
we’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
we’ll do the best we know
we’ll build our house and chop our wood
and make our garden grow...
and make our garden grow.
/bernstein’s candide