A Moment’s Kiss

I watch flakes so precious73959b73-0249-402d-9e6b-854ceb28f7a6
cavort with breeze so light,
if not for dark hewn bark as backdrop
instead of grey-white clouded sky,
or thin limbs peppered with vestige
leaves who tremble in air unseen,
I would hardly notice the fall
of this snow at all.

It began that way.
Yesterday, I was amused,
predictions of a blizzard coming,
a day of snow to cover all.
It seemed an impossibility.
As night wore on these simple flakes
began to leave their mark.
Most melted on earth-warmed ground,
but tiny crystals persisted.
In night they came to party large
while sleep kept my attention.

Here I sit with mounds of white
still growing large in dance.
No flake big enough to lay
for more than a moment’s kiss
on blood-warmed palms.
Yet, this little nothing
heaped upon one another,
once taken hold,
is a powerful force
to discern.

Little hurts and words
and wounds and deeds
sneak into cracks of one’s own heart,
barely noticeable at first,
until mounded steep and wide.

May the Fire of your soul
burn hot and bright.
May Light melt away your hurt.
May you know you are beloved,
always, and in return,
be love and flame to all.

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Author’s Note:

Our snowstorm this week, at least in my part of the woods, never appeared to be more than small, almost imperceptible, flakes. A burst of wind here and there. I had to look hard to see the storm. If I looked into the backlit sky, there was nothing. However, against the trees or fence, or noticing the tree limbs’ small movements, I realized the cause of our snow day. When I went to sleep there was snow on the grass. When I woke up, my husband was shoveling eight inches deep as this featherlight snow continued.

Tenacious.

I realize that can happen in one’s life. When I don’t honor myself or others, all beloveds of our Holy One, I allow small wounds and hurts to become a part of me. Before I realize it, I am frozen under a mound of little things.

I am learning to listen to the Divine voice inside of me. It isn’t ego pushing me forward, demanding I listen. No. That voice is being silenced. The voice I am learning to hear is coming through stillness, clearing space within, and un-attaching myself from ego.

It is not easy.

In meditation, spiritual reading, and, most especially, a circle of friends, I am learning to hear the voice of the Beloved. I’m learning to let the Light melt away all that isn’t me and not allow it to build up again.

My heartfelt prayer for you today:

May the Fire of your soul
burn hot and bright.
May Light melt away your hurt.
May you know we are beloved,
always, and in return,
be love and flame to all.

Munay. Namaste. Mitakuye Oyasin.

Lexanne

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Holy Heretic

IMG_6076.jpg

Photo by Niko Pekonen

 

It is a leap of faith, not a loss of one.

A leaf deepens into rich shades,
a gift of time and experience.
Audaciously, it releases from what was,
a liberation away from nourishment
no longer adequate,
loosening into the fall.

Crashing to awakening.

It crumbles and molds into earth,
itself now food for roots to overwinter.
Then returns once more, ready
to re-bud, to burst open,
not of its own accord,
but that of Oneness.

It is the way of a holy heretic.
I un-label myself,
open to the Holy One,
an ordination of new birth.

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Author’s Note:
Something happens inside of me when I watch the extraordinary creativity of The Piano Guys. It’s not just their musicality, but their masterful technical and production value as well.

Or when I see a spellbinding performance such as Hamlet that was shown live from the Barbicon last year. I was touched, weakened, heart-wrenched by Ophelia’s mad scene in a way I never before experienced.

Or the dance from my favorite reality show, So You Think You Can Dance, when That Leap happened, I gasped. We had it recorded and played it again, and again, and again. It still takes my breath away.

Or when a photograph captures the essence of an animal as in the wolf above by Niko Pekonen.

When I experience stunning art…

…there is something in my soul that jumps and screams, “I want to create like that!”

Inside of me I am a Creator. I know that. That is my blessing. It is my biggest joy and darkest heartbreak. When I experience great art, deep within my solar plexus I feel such profound acknowledgement of the Divine it’s hard to breathe. I know that I, too, am meant to create in some way. Not like those above, but in my own way.

I struggle to find that way.

When I try to make a plan, forge a road, grasp tight to make it work, it doesn’t. It’s been an eyeopening journey to realize that it’s not my plan. I wasn’t listening, or maybe not allowing myself to hear the Voice. I am now. It’s not for me to make it happen. It’s not for me to corral others into my web to help me attain it. When I do, I fall crashing to awakening.

It hurts. It should. Sometimes it takes pain to get my attention, especially when I’m holding the noose.

I’ve come to realize it’s not the extraordinary that I need to reach out to and try to be. I must simply be who I am. But finding that was the rub. I am getting there. I also understand that there will be more pain in release, followed by more time of quiet and listening. It is the Divine road I yearn to discover. I need to liberate myself and allow it to open before me in its own magnificence and time.

I am in a much bigger place than I was a few years ago when I began to let loose of old traditions, habits, and thoughts. I set out and tried to navigate on my limited knowledge of who I was and what I do.

I understand more now…

…and I’ve changed.

I am ready to pack up my tent once more…and listen to the Heartbeat, our Holy One within. The berth is so much wider and more wondrous than I ever imagined. I will never be one to camp in permanence. I realize now that this is okay. All will be well.

It is a leap of faith, not a loss of one.

Lexanne

 

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Inked

During the blue hour before sunriseebfb7717b473789c37482ed2001b7635.jpg
when endings come, it’s easy at first

to explain them away – he really didn’t
love me, it was time to move on. Easier

than acknowledgement, a needle
inked with black, a road forged in

memories, cleansed in tears.
Each prick joined to the next creating

an indelible canvas ready for pigment,
deeply etched into tender soft skin,

first a wound, then a healing, finally
a brilliant map to somewhere fair,

all designed from an end point.
When death holds out her hand, I draw

her near to me for balance and plunge
into untried genesis with the rising sun.

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Author’s Note:

I grabbed death’s hand much too often these past few weeks. From the passing of a child in my school, to the loss of a husband of a dear friend. The one-year anniversary of my father’s journey through the veil and several more, I am a bit numb.

And it is not just physical deaths that bit me. Loss this month in many other ways has, strangely enough, kept me balanced. I am learning that there will always be an end. An end I probably won’t see coming. But when the night fades into daylight, as it always will, just as the moon waxes and wanes, I can move ahead knowing the cycle will repeat itself and all will be well.

Surrender, release, being present in the moment, have been themes here for a while now. It must be the winter, the dark, a time for solitude, reflection, and rest so when spring comes, there will be clarity.

Namaste, my friends, you are the Light in this world. Shine.

Lexanne

P.S.

I’m turning sixty in May. The above image is of a tattoo found on a Serbian ice maiden who was found fairly well preserved. It is a powerful image for me. My Slavic genes find it stunning. I’ll let you know if I take the plunge into a new genesis.

If you would like to receive a bit of my poetry and reflections each week, please sign up for my newsletter JOURNEY/lex. I would love to share with you.

Sunrise by Brian Crain

Siggie

Might we not say that every child at play behaves like a creative writer,
in that he creates a world of his own, or, rather,
rearranges the things of his world in a new way which pleases him?”
Sigmund Freud

SIGGIE

Siggie created the world in new way, which pleased her. Every day.

In the summer she would get up before the sun. She wouldn’t take the scissors with her. She felt scissors were too cruel, snipping stems with lethal blades. Bending and snapping was much more humane. Her gentle touch and gracious thank you to each stem was more kind. Siggie knew flowers would be pickable only if they were ready. Mrs. Parson’s flowers were generous and no one would know that Siggie took them. She would never take more than needed, just a small bouquet that would fit perfectly into her slender hand.

In the dark she could never really tell what color the flowers were unless the moon was full, so Siggie’s bouquet was always a rainbow. Except once when all the colors were blue. That was a sign. The blue flowers were gathered the morning after the night Alfred left without telling her.

Siggie allowed the bouquet to dry out completely with no water in the vase because there was nothing left to water between Alfred and herself. Once they were dry and faded to a light yellow ocher with a hint of baby blue, she took the bouquet to the park on top of Smoky Hill and let the wind blow away each petal, one by one. And with each loss of a petal she remembered and then thanked Alfred for what he had given her. It was her way of saying good-by.

Every day Siggie would play. Today she sat in her chair by the window overlooking the alley. She was on a corner of the building and could see both the street and the alley, if she crooked her head out the window. Today she chose not the street with people emerging from their morning routines, but it was the alley she looked down.

Opening the window she felt the icy bite of wintered air. Early morning light didn’t shine all the way down to the end. Not just yet. It would take a few more minutes before the sun was high enough to make its crossing to illuminate the entire alley. Siggie knew this. She liked to watch the sun’s path over hers. Today it wasn’t the sun she wanted to play with though, it was the shadows that pulled her interest.

Darkness, shadows, black holes, fascinated Siggie. She always wanted to step into them to see where they would lead. She knew that they were just regular parts of the world veiled in black. But somehow, somewhere she knew deep down that there was more to shadow.

Siggie re-arranged her chair for a better look. A flash caught her eye. It wasn’t big. It was almost as if someone was lighting a match and then blowing it out immediately. Siggie didn’t move. She held her breath. Just as she was about to exhale, it happened again. This time it was more defined. It was a bigger flame. And just as soon as she realized it, again it was swallowed by the blackness.

Siggie decided three was the lucky number, the sign that she needed to investigate further. It took only another moment and there it was. The flame was bright blue, about the shape of a hand, fingers closed, palm flat facing her. It burned and flared. When it went out, it didn’t just vanish. It was as if it had been pulled away, sucked into the deep dark, black hole.

She had to hurry if she was going to find out what it was. She didn’t worry about shoes. Siggie knew she had to get down three flights of stairs, out the door, and through the alley before more sun threw its light to dissipate the secret.

It was cold, but that didn’t matter. She was in her pjs. That didn’t matter. Something inside Siggie told her that this was important. Something would be re-arranged when she found out what the light was.

“Good morning, Siggie.” Old Mrs. Crane peeked out of her door, always nosy as to what was happening in the building.

“Morning.” Siggie flew down the stairs.

“Ouch!” She slid in her socks and hit the front door too fast not getting it opened quickly enough. She bumped her elbow and forehead against it. Siggie never considered herself graceful.

As Siggie headed down the front steps, the sun was getting higher. She had to hurry.

A quick right turn and she bumped into a man with a backpack looking at his phone.

“Sorry.” Siggie spun him around. He paused and watched her disappear down the alley.

All she could think of was the sun. She could feel starting to cross the back of her head. And it was getting higher.

Just as Siggie’s feet came to edge of the darkness, the sun positioned itself just right to extinguish the last bit of shadow. Everything that was once in blackness shined as if it was taking a curtain call. Laying at her feet were three spent matches. The number three was a lucky number, a sign.

Siggie picked up the burnt sticks and walked back to her apartment.

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Author’s Note:

Today I was lucky to offer a Creative Arts Gathering at my church. At A Church of the Holy Family, ECC, I am honored to be their Artist-In-Residence this year. I am grateful to have not only the space to create and write, but the people who love doing it alongside me.

The format is open to all, not just for writers. All forms of creators are welcome. I offer a prompt from which we can write, draw, or meditate. Or not. Artists may work on any project of their choice. We do this for a half hour without talking. Then we share, also optional.

I chose our prompt from a site that continually offers me inspiration – Tweetspeak. Take a look at what they do. It is tremendous. Today we used Tweespeak’s current Poetry Prompt – Daydreaming.

For my story, Siggie, I used words from the quote by Sigmund Freud.

Undone

When ghostlike fog wrapsDoro3
itself around your arms,
be wary if you stay.
There is temptation
to welcome softness, allow
a mantling about and through
palms outstretched,
fingers sans raiment.
But its demands are fierce.

There is impregnable beauty
if you do pause as cold
descends stilling fog’s path.
Majesty in each mounded
crystal cling, appendages
knitted one to another,
a new glove and cloak.
Astonishment in delicacy,
an artistry in lethal cold.

I reach to you,
as trees on winter mornings,
undone. My once summer
facade laid bare,
a deathly inevitability.
No longer hiding my array,
I am yours to draw,
an artist’s form
for you to mold and pattern me,
a remarkable fragment of
your bewildering eternity.

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It’s not always easy to see grace.

It is in letting go of what we think we are that we become what we must be.

You see, sometimes the Divine is not warm and fuzzy. Sometimes our Holy One comes through cold and harsh demands that make it difficult to realize the beauty unless we still ourselves and take the time to acknowledge it and experience it for what it is.

Nature is a threshold into the Divine. The snow crystals on tree limbs in early January were astounding. Fog hung thick as the bitter cold arrived. The fog, no longer able to stay afloat, settled on trees and turned into new forms of winter wonder. Many photos of this found their way into my life. My friend, Dorothea Madry, graciously allowed me to use her photo to pair with today’s poem.

Enjoy the cold. The barren trees. The icy mounds. You never know what gifts they bring.

Lexanne

 

Click here if you would like to receive this as a weekly newsletter, Journey/lex.  It arrives either Friday or Saturday each week. I would love to have you join me along my journey.

Invitation

Dear friends and followers,

I want to thank you for following me, reading my work, and remembering to smile. I am very excited to share with you  a few things that I have added recently.

New Web Page – I am very happy to finally be able to put all of my work together. At this website you can find my books of poetry and monologues. Also, there is information about my Women of The New Testament performances. And, of course, there are links to this blog and to my Artist-In-Resident page on the Church of The Holy Family website. Finally, there is a place to sign up for my weekly reflection that comes to your in-box each Saturday.

JOURNEY/lex – This is my weekly reflection/newsletter where I share my poetry. I write about what is happening in the world, in the scripture, and in my heart. I would love for you to sign up. You can do it here or from the link on my new website.

Again, thank you for being a part of my journey. It feels so good to grow. Please stop by for a visit and contact me if you have any questions!

Thank you,

Lexanne

Music

 

 

 

“music despite everything”

 

when she died they showed
us her photo, just in case
we didn’t remember

crooked pigtails atop her head
not quite even, and never bows

a scratchy voice through a crooked smile
shouted down the hall

feet tromped crashing
her entrance into quiet study rooms

her laugh, oh, her boisterous belly laugh
that only sings in memory

 

“music despite everything”

 

the batter’s up
the crack and soar
the roar
no longer plays through our house

an empty chair
two ball caps side by side
one for yard work, one for dress
no longer a head to wear them

Girlie, don’t forget to…
I always was, will always be his girlie

 

“music despite everything”

 

silent snownight
coyote chortle
morning bird song
seasons pass as I rise,
my God and my all

“music despite everything”

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Author’s Note:

Today was a deep breath in a week that needed a cleansing.

Stephanie Dunlap led a group of us at A Church of the Holy Family,  in a safe and powerful writing retreat. Thank you so very much, Stephanie.

Through quick writes and sharing we grew through the morning, freeing our voices, and sharing our stories.

The prompt that spoke to me – music despite everything –  was from a line in A Brief for the Defense, a poem by Jack Gilbert.

I am continually grateful to have opportunities that gently lead me to explore my life through writing. And today I found a place to include my mantram from St. Francis of Assisi’s prayer – My God and my all.

With much heartfelt peace for this day of wonder,

Lexanne

 

P.S.

We ended with another prompt that caught my heart. Write a letter to God.

Holy One,

I give to you all I am
that which has always
been Yours

I surrender
to the dark unknown
and open my
heart

I place my hand
in Your open palm,
I need no other

With reverence for all,
beings who talk and sing,
crawlers and fliers,
swimmers and those
who simply are

I trust,
no longer forging my way,
in gratitude
I rest, I rest, I rest in You