June Hymn

I live in words. Anyone that’s known me for more than five minutes knows this. I swim in them, I breathe them in and vomit them out. I float in a sea of words, both well-thought-out and spontaneous; accidental and purposeful. They come with ease, and difficulty, borne on wave of prattle, profundity…anxiety…hubris.

I share words on paper, on the screen, aurally and unspoken. I shared them here, off and on for a while, at least. Shared them with you, reading this here (Maybe for the first time, maybe for the 30th).

And then I stopped. I ran out of words. Or rather, I…I…

Perhaps I had too much to say–too much, too deep, too raw, too incoherent, too much feeling, too much, too much, too much…too little skill to say all the things, to use my words to heal myself, help myself, hurt myself, bring myself peace, comfort, quietus…anything.

I just…stopped. None more words.

Somewhere, in that respite of verbiage, so much changed, so very fast, so may things that I had no more words to give, none that really mattered, it sometimes seems. Somewhere in all of that change, the seasons changed. The leaves turned from green to orange, yellow and brown–suddenly, I find that I’m in the Fall of my life, the long, tumultuous Summer passed with little ceremony, and less fanfare.

I was reminded recently that I used to have words, and that I could use them to capture this…this grief. Used them like some sort of balm–a soul salve that I could pour over my core to reach the grief, the anger, the sorrow, the joy, the empty scarred hollows that sometimes sit behind my eyes and deep inside my chest, reaching up around my shoulders and squeezing like an angry giant, determined to get the most out of a me-shaped lemon.

So, here I am, attempting to sup on words, so that I can find a way to describe the beautiful colors of now, of my life’s Fall. I want to celebrate this season that I now find myself in, to collect these greens, and oranges, and yellows, and browns and gold. I need to discover new words to find all the gold, bind it to memory, because, as the poet wrote “nothing gold can stay.”

The gold can’t stay, and I want to embrace it before it’s time to grieve again. Before I run out of words again.

Before I just stop.

Here, I bear words. Here I celebrate my Autumnal Nativity. Here I stand among the falling leaves, in this moment, here and now. But first, let me say goodbye to my Summer; not with a dirge, but with a hymn, sweet and solemn. A song of thanks, and sorrow; a hymn of love and blessings for that sweet June child that grew into September’s Wayfarer.

Wild Is The Wind (2)(.2)

[This poem was originally posted as part of the Prescribing Joy series on the former The Monster In Your Closet blog on October 10, 2016 as Wild Is The Wind (2).]

We all spend so much time
trying to find happiness in the world
that we are blinded to it
sitting there
like so much dross on a dusty shelf,
when there is gold to be found
in the everyday,
in the mundane,
in life:

The smell of fresh cut grass on a summer day
The smell of the dust, just as it starts to rain;
The laughter brought on a truly terrible,
ill timed fart;

The satisfaction of rescuing
that one piece of meat that’s
been stuck between two back molars
for the better part of the day,
after Sunday Brunch,
having only used the dexterity of your tongue,
and creative suction;

Home improvement shows;

Finishing the final brush stroke,
on a set of miniature fantasy soldiers
just as the movie you had playing in the background
resolves its audible crisis, rolls credits,
and plays music to exit a theater by;

Your dog coming over to you,
unbidden
on your lowest day,
and putting his head on your knee;

A kiss on your cheek in the middle of the night
from your love,
followed by a half murmured comment to
someone in a dream,
followed by stolen covers and soft snores;

A half naked child waking you up at 3:41 am
on a Tuesday morning,
to find solace in the warmth
that is buried somewhere
deep within the cavity of your nose–
so deep that only a child’s foot can free it;

Twenty-Five undisturbed minutes in the bathroom;

Handwritten correspondence in the mail,
your name scrawled across the front;
Clearing off a long littered desk;
A good cup of coffee;

Driving home in loud silence
after an overwhelmingly
Not Quiet day;

An Ice cold glass of water on a fall morning;

The moment of removing
sock, then shoe,
sock, then shoe,
and then flexing your feet;

Putting on a clean pair of jeans
that you’ve not worn for weeks,
putting your hand in the pocket
and finding a five dollar bill;

Hugs, and smiles, and laughs,
and memories of baby teeth;
tiny toes on children;

Music, played too loud,
from car speakers,
with the windows rolled up,
so no one hears your singing along badly to
Counting Crows,
Tony! Toni! Tone!
The Clash
L.L. Cool J
La Traviata;

Going to bed tired,
laying your head down on a cool pillow
and letting sleep devour you,
one molecule at a time,
only to have that one moment,
that singularity
of knowing the answer is–

Crying, sometimes;
Laughter;
Stillness;

Sitting on the porch,
on any given afternoon,
watching people going about their day,
their ordinary day.

Eyes looking at you with love;
and watching them close,
and flutter to sleep;

So many little things,
lying around our world
like so many wild horses
waiting to carry us off,
(holding on for dear life,)
cackling like school children
overflowing with tiny
triumphant
joy.