apples and words.

Food, poem

I once wrote a poem about pots and pans,

and how they lined my wall.

I spoke about their scorched bottoms. (Some more than others.)

How they fed my marriage;

deep dark sauces, sometimes too salty — too little — not enough,

and I would wipe my sweaty forehead.

Now those pots and pans are on shelves.

Organized and wobbly. Still scorched. Familiar.

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I also remember carrying a half pig a half mile.

It was for a friend, and it was for her birthday.

I filled their kitchen with smoke from too much

butter in biscuits.

We laughed, and drank more wine.

Proud of my pots and pans.

oh,

It was a beautiful roast!

for the solstice,

for my friend.

I was half paid in apples and words,

but I was in love with this thing,

and the truth is —

I really love apples and words.

heaven and ivy

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I think about ruin.

Some form of hell, my frame leaning against the walls.

A depth of hell, I imagined.
In church they told me it was separation from God.

Though hell feels more like separation from Love.
Maybe there’s truth in that.

I think about ruin.

War. Metal piercing through flesh.
Swords are bullets now.

Echoing in the halls of ruin.

Then there grows ivy,
almost as though it had no idea of that wall’s previous
function.

That wall, hiding from an enemy.
The next day’s light,
Or the way my face looks now.

The ivy is climbing. More so, every day.
Sometimes I remember my frame,
sitting in that depth of hell
gnashing my own teeth.

How can heaven and hell exist in the same place?

I suppose it always has.
That is being human, after all.

I think about ruin.

Instead I see life.
Imagination.
Birth.
Big ocean.

I see ivy.
Slowly climbing. Twisting around knots and
threading itself through holes like wounds.

Tighter, it grabs.
Reclaiming.
Without a single care,
only that it is in its nature to climb and grow.

Like us.

I think about ruin.

And my hell has turned into my salvation.
I run my hands down the walls.
I feel the cracks.
The pain.
Remnants of hell on earth.

And then I see green.
Green ivy, pulsing. Thriving.

Because it is in its nature to climb and grow.

Like us.

Ruins.
Filled with dark and light.

Pulsing, thriving.

Onward
and upward.

wrapping ourselves through our wounds,
as though we had no idea of our wall’s previous function.

I think about ruin.

And all I can see is heaven,
and ivy.

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beginnings.

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Days like today, I feel like I’m rummaging through my glove compartment looking for the manual.
Ideally, it would be called,

You Are Here Now. This Is What You Do:

But it’s not.

Well, shit.
All I can find is a VW manual, a screwdriver and a bag of sunflower seeds.
This is hardly enough to make it through.

I find myself scratching my head a lot, throwing in a couple of well-deserved sighs and owning up the fact that I am wandering around in the scary and exciting and confusing part of this transition.

I must admit that today I’ve had the weepies.

Not that I ever gave into this weird urge to let it all out, but more so would have lost it at the drop of a dime. And maybe I saw a video of a new mom kissing her baby and it almost happened. I blame it on the equinox, I tells ya.

This is my season of new beginnings.

It’s always been that for me. Not because I am divorced and moving on and living in a newly imagined life, but Fall has always brought me deeper into myself. I recognize the life in its metamorphosis. The fact that all things change in season. Not only do they change in this season, but they begin to also transform inward. It’s as though the things around us submit to the changing of times. There is no struggle, only the transfer of water and light and energy from the fruit, to their roots. There is a digging in.

Deep in, closer to where the Earth is warm. Them branches will see the worst of it, but deep down, there is that strong and fierce network of anchors. Quiet, but life giving. Holding fast, through the winds and cold of our new time here.

The weather, though. The taste of nutmeg and warming spices on my tongue. Seeing beautiful apples and pears replace the cherries and strawberries and tomatoes of summertime. This is the season of cinnamon and caramel and bourbon.

Brown. Yellow. And orange.

The brisk evenings that make my heart flutter.
(and I feel I am in good company.)

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In the midst of this great force, I still on occasion find myself in the mess of that glove compartment. Skimming pages. Checking indexes saying, “It has to be here somewhere! Surely there is an answer and it will be clear and it will solve my problem.”

I think maybe it got the best of me today. I felt thankful but sad and felt a break in my heart. Not so much pain, but release. There is a sadness in moving on. Ultimately, I am filled to the brim with the goodness and lightness it brings. But every now and then, it sideswipes and I’m left a bit teary eyed knowing that I’m moving on and on and on.

None of this stuff ever stops, really.

Sort of like this world knows what it’s doing as it spins and tilts.

‘Here, now. It’s time for you to settle into yourself a little more. Watch how this sun sets early and how the cold forces some things to draw inside. Notice yourself in these changes.’

I think that maybe I hear that from Her.

whisper-like,

when the branches move,

barely touching,

noticing each others movement,

sacred energy, and that sweet, sweet spirit

moving inside of me.

washed away

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I can feel the tug of the cosmos.
Gravity and proximity.
Tides and blood moons.

The water in my body, expands and contracts, like them tides. It often leaves me feeling high and dry or submerged for a season.

I certainly feel swallowed up sometimes.

And then it retreats, just like it came, washing away but also leaving behind little treasures. A few shells. Jetsam and flotsam.

I imagine the sands all smooth-like from the constant back and forth of the water, adding and taking away. I sink my feet deep into the cool wet sand. I let them disappear, feeling consumed by the elements. Eating me alive, watching me slowly incorporate into the rhythm of forever.

These are trying times.

There’s a lot of me, staring out into the sky, and feeling as though I’m dissolving into the air. Sometimes I rise like smoke out of a chimney, able to be seen from far away.

But not usually.

I used to say I wanted to disappear.
When the pain was too much, I wanted to dissolve into the earth and lay barely awake for centuries, until maybe I could figure out what to do next.

I felt a great need to reconnect. To give thanks to the things that were keeping my feet on the earth. Things like gravity and speed and mass. I looked at myself in the grandeur that is eternity, both before and after.

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I am tiny.

But like the sands, I shift and move and absorb. I wait for the tides to move over me and wonder at all the things it leaves behind. Those special bits that I can say I was a part of when no one was looking.

A hermit crab changing its shell.

Jellyfish glowing like the moon itself.

God I am thankful for it all. That I get to be a part of it all.

The high and the low, and the messes of men and creation of something new. Like a baby or an idea, that is challenged and allowed to grow into something that is endless.

Because from what I know, the cosmos are endless. As are we.

We are all floating and falling. All the time.

Sometimes it’s too much. Other times, we are bone dry, praying to be made into something bigger than ourselves.

It’s not hard to see though,
when you look up (or down)

All of this star stuff and we aren’t dazzled by it anymore.
I am glad I’m part of something bigger. Something that has seasons and room to change.

I am eternal in this mass of things bigger than I could ever see.

It won’t stop me from letting the tides pull me deeper,

and deeper,

until I am washed away into the Great Mystery.