How would it be to know the future,

to know the path

to see the words before I choke on them

to make a plan most perfect

to have a life without trial

How it would be to side step the sorrow,

to never dry dampened eyes

to avoid the sting

to make a happy life

to have a life without grief

How it would be to hold the details

to all the tomorrows

to see the swell of change unfold

to make the decisive move

to have a premonition of bloom.

How will I work and pray into existence a tomorrow to behold?

by gratitude for the days unfolding

by seeing through the love that has been given even through the grief

by making peace and kindness my banner

by having silence befriend my anxious thoughts.


via Daily Prompt: Premonition

by the way of the sea

via Daily Prompt: Imagination

I am given the choice she says to follow a path to the sea or a path to the wood.

Oh Alexa if only I could!

Leave dreary winter days and bask near the water.

I shade my eyes from the sun

but my arms are bare

I hear the sound of gulls

the fragrance of salt in the air

I dig my toes into warm layers of sand

break through to the cool dampness below

the wind whips my hair around

draws tracks on my nape

a kind hand is held while skipping the waves

warm conversations while ice spins in the glass

sun setting slow with colors deepening

stars coming out while sleepiness creeps in

my day dream is ending as the moon is rising

What a dream, what a day in my imagination.


Prayers for the Wondering

Previously published October 1, 2015 on my now defunct blog The Thing to do with Hearts

Before me is a hundred options to be and to try–at lease it feels like that was true a decade ago;

now the options trickle in two by two if any by any at all.

Do I find myself in the wilderness of my own wonderings?

Have I avoided entering a land that I already hold residency?

Should I unpack the dishes or sell all my possessions?

Should I lay foundations or stay the stranger–the stranded–the out-of-placer?

I know you have called me beloved, but what does a beloved do?

beloved-sit-still-er or beloved-never-settled?

shhhhh…….quiet now. When you step to right or the left there will be a voice behind you saying,

“this is the way to go.”

Catalan Forge

My soul has been pricked

and my heart has been pushed

Blue, beautiful fire

Blue-Green, the hottest places in my soul’s furnace

Demands for justice in hot tears role out from that bloomery

the malleus drops

and the spark flies

igniting the willing furnaces around.

Who will be the Stoker, who will light the fires?

My inactivity is not a possibility

any shallow existence not tolerated

the flames lick up against the edges of my form

burning away the nonsense and fear

In my eyes the fire back lights

and glow narrow and steadied

my voice picks up among the others

instead of the cacophony of a 1000 hammers falling at random

we rise

we drop

we rise

we drop

together our voices



amplify the others

what begins in the furnace of the one

is now the fire of the people




For the Love

it cannot be that intimacy should find me

in places where I have carefully buried myself

behind clothes

and jokes

and degrees.

it cannot be that joy should rap on my soul

and roll under its door

dance through its halls

and pour over its walls like morning rays.

it cannot be that kindness should find form

with hands

and smile

and hearty laugh

breaking all that is left of my silly attempts at melancholy.

it cannot be that Love should find me

render me exposed

draw me in

warm me

for the Love.



a cradlesong

swept along

rocking back

and forth

cooed from the Mother’s breast

a rhythmic breath

inviting me to close my eyes to rest

I AM here, loving you in the non-doing

I AM here, singing softly over you, beloved child

I AM here, in the midst of the anxious unknowing


a cradlesong

soft and strong

breathing in

breathing out

hummed through a Parent-proud smile

a wordless song

calling me, “open for Grace”

I AM here, watching excitedly your exploring

I AM here, whispering blessing over you, beloved child

I AM here, your discoveries are my delight


a cradlesong

fierce among

the constant

and the changeable

restored through the Son’s bright best

a succor adoration

I am here, gratitude spills from my lips

I am here, dancing in your song, free in your embrace

I am here. I AM here.


I think I have hurt you

the infraction barely noticed

the weight of the matter can’t even be measured in grams,

but here I am with tears rolling.

and then they fall faster as I try to reign them in.

Don’t you cry!

You know better!

Are you so insecure?

Are you so infantile?

you hold me close

shhhh….Baby, that Voice is a liar.

tell me what the voice says…

The Voice says that you won’t be able to stay

that I will drive you away

that the me with scars is too much to love for long.

you cover my lips with yours and let me borrow your breath

I realize I have been holding my own

terrified that I will exhale a torrent.

do you know that I won’t leave?

Your oxygen and compassion enter my cells,

I begin to warm


my mind and my heart are moving to align and then,

then I will feel what I know.


What a weird word: Identity.

In my past, I have seen it like Plato’s Forms,

suggesting a truest self–something so fully unique and completely me that informs the self I am in the world,

this form is outside,

disconnected from the day-to-day

and by virtue carries no layers of

societal b.s.,

middle school wounds or

pseudoreligious shame

instead it transcending my experiences and social location;

This form is the most foundational me.

It is a comfort to think, “oh that is not me-me–

that is a distortion caused by external circumstance.”

As if I want you to believe that my actions are just a fun house mirror, not


If I could get back to the me-me then…

But this sense of me can feel like there are so many layers between me and me and most importantly between me and you.

It leaves insulation between our intimacy

as you cannot reach my self and I likely cannot reach yours.

How can you see anything but the shadows cast on the cave walls of my sense of true self and operating self?

You can’t.

The only me that you can know is the me with story.

I have grown

my sense of me is not so disjointed within

me is the me before you

I grow in knowledge and wisdom


the shape of my identity have changed or been shed like skin cells,

once me but now dust.

I do not fear so much this sense of me as much,

this one has the freedom to morph and change

it is not static

its validity is not based in its ability to be unchanged.

I change, but I am known and I can know you.