Patience

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Day Twenty-Eight

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In spring flowers are to bloom,
buds to burst with life,
sun to warm ground
awakening that which slumbers.

Here snow aligns itself along
reaching limbs, arcing to ground
in acceptance of something that
cannot be controlled, bending in
accommodation, knowing softness
is cardinal and warmth retraces
its steps.

I pause for season to shift, for
sun or snow to answer. I bow
to you, and rest avowed
in transformation.

 

 

Author’s Note:

A spring snow and Beltane in our lovely and mischievious Colorado is my prompt today.

Shards

Our writing group meets occasionally. It’s not nearly enough. Today we met to eat and catch up and laugh and revel in one another’s company surrounded by Christmas cheer. And we wrote. It was a joy. Thank you, Diane, Sandy, Dorothea, and Crystal. And always in our hearts, if not present – Niki, Sheila, and Annette.

Today we grabbed some chapter titles out of several books on the shelves surrounding us for our story starters. Five words trickled off the pages to be used as we wrote. You can see them following my story.

 

 

Shards

“Never keep the fork in the left hand while drinking water.”

“Excuse me?”

Looking down through her wing-tipped glasses, past her long pointed nose, and across the table, she bullseyed onto my left hand and repeated, “Never keep the fork in the left hand while drinking water.”

Then she returned to pick up her fork with a dainty bit of Christmas pudding placed every so politely at the tip and raised it up to her pursed lips, only to pause as they unlocked to allow the sweet to disappear.

I felt a sharp jab at my knee under the table as Connery whispered into my ear, “Stop staring.” The jab hit just right to cause enough pain to startle me. I dropped my fork and water glass onto the white dessert plate rimmed in gold and trimmed with playful green holly leaves and three teeny tiny pricks of red.

The quiet was deafening as everyone froze to stare at me. Again. Shards flew everywhere. There was a gasp out of the old lady’s locked lips, a sigh, a roll of the eyes ending with an excruciating “Humph!” while her boney long fingers settled not so delicately into her lap.

I stood. Short curtsied. And excused myself before the tears in my eyes sealed off my exit.

Instead of running upstairs and barricading myself into my room for the rest of Christmas Day, like I always do, because “God only knows what she will do next!” had become the expectation, I turned right instead of left. My quick step turned into a full out run as I made my way down the long hallway past the ornate mirrors and around the center table with lion’s claw feet balancing a Christmas tree that reached higher than my apartment ceiling. I continued across the Persian runners to the door hung heavy with evergreen boughs and chartreuse bows and gold and silver balls larger than my head. It was her kingdom. She ran it well.

Charles was not there to open the doors for me. It didn’t matter. With all my might I pulled the double doors open and ran down the icy steps across the newly snow covered drive and into the woods that lined the road into my grandmother’s estate.

I wouldn’t be missed. Everyone could now relax without me there to cause more damage. Peace would quickly descend with my exit leaving only the whistling breathing of the grand dame rising above the stilted tea sipping and gazing out the window into the crystal white jungle where freedom called everyone, most too afraid to answer. Inheritances have power, even more than howl of the wolf or the glow of the full moon or the sea blown wind as they beckoned to the souls encased behind glass and bricks and wrapped in velvet. Some ignored it completely. Others wished. I answered.

Once hidden within the trees, I stopped to look back. I touched the necklace that hung around my neck to be sure it was safe. It was a habit I formed when I first received this lucky charm. Ignoring the cold and wet snow seeping into my required lace covered slippers, my first thought was to wonder how much it cost the old woman to pay the window washers to keep all those windows clean.

They were always spotless, clear and crystalline. One of my earliest memories of summer visits at the estate were of window washers arriving early morning as the sun rose after an evening storm. It didn’t matter that an afternoon squall would again throw its tears against those rectangular eyes hoping someone would notice. No, the window washers would just stop where they were to return the next day. Not to pick up from where they left off, but at the beginning, the windows the old woman used.

I enjoyed watching them. They would laugh and joke and sing. Something seldom heard in this house. I looked forward to the thunderstorms, not only because I liked to stand on the veranda and let the rain pour over me. But I knew I would soon be in the presence of joy.

Once a window broke accidentally as they were going about their regular post-rain duty and glass shattered into the library where the old lady and I were reading.

The window washers were immediately dismissed and told to never return. She had some cruel words for them. They had put up with so much from her for so long I wondered why they ever returned at all.

I stood back holding my breath as the old lady scolded them. One of them noticed and winked as if it was all in a days work. I think he was glad to be released from the prison.

I slipped away as they were packing up their tools. She would never miss me. I was never missed, only tolerated when I was noticed. So I needn’t worry about being caught talking to the freed criminals.

“I am sorry I won’t see you again.”

The one who winked at me smiled, and held out his hand. “Open your hand and promise me to always be yourself?”

His words confused me, but I obliged.

I extended my hand, palm open, “I promise.”

He dropped a small crystal into my hand.

“It’s a glass goose. I wash windows for my father. But at night I spin glass for me.”

“Hurry up!!!” called his partner now in the drivers seat gunning the engine. “Let’s get out of here. Good-by and good riddance.”

“Promise?” He winked again and I noticed that he had one green eye and one blue eye.

“Promise.” I smiled and closed my fingers around the goose and brought it to my heart. My other grandma always told me that when I got something I loved to place it next to my heart and breath in deeply so our heartbeats would become one.

As I looked through the boughs draped with snow into the lighted windows, I reached to my heart where the crystal goose hung on a silver chair around my neck.

 

 

Our prompts:
Opening line chosen at random:
1. Oysters and other shellfish
2. Your mustache attracts baby goats
3. Backbone pie
4. Her new perfume attracts circus folk
5. Never keep the fork in the left hand while drinking water
6. Don’t let your elbows stick out like buttresses
7. A Key to Good Digestion
Words to be incorporated:
kingdom     lucky charm   window washer   jungle   knees   chartreuse

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Winter Geese, the Solstice

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If I hadn’t lifted up to see,
taken my eyes from my path,
you would have passed from sight
without a hint of your glory.

I was breaking new ground,
a new snow, new for me,
my feet to hold me firm,
but you startled me.

A path was there, other
imprints to follow, guide,
iced but sure, not my size but
there to lead.

I stepped abreast,
aside the clough and rents,
into fresh snow
where no road could be discerned,
and then your call.

I understand, fear no more to
stay me within rimy fissures. I feel
your soft earth beneath powdered
snow, my eyes above to see your sun.

.
.
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Author’s Note:

We finally had a good snowfall. Good for how snow now comes. Not as much as it use to. Dryer winters. Less cold. Weather has changed.

Yet, there is much that doesn’t change. Winter Solstice comes again and new Light re-enters. But if I am too connected to the path, the path is all I see.

I must remember to look up, especially when I am called.

My doggie, Benny, gets me outside, a lot. He now has a coat and boots and we walk in all but the coldest weather. It’s good for me, not only physically but for my soul.

I look up more. I’m less afraid to step off the beaten path. I hear our Holy One’s voice that I once ignored, or maybe, couldn’t hear…

 

May you find Light within, and release yourself to allow it to shine out.
May you give Compassion as your gift in this holy season and beyond.
May you walk the new year softly upon this Earth honoring All…
creatures, plants, rocks and stars…
for we truly are One.

Happy Solstice.

Amen. Munay. Aho.
Lexanne

Water and Seeds

Water and Seeds
An Easter Blessing

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Deep within
I enter my garden,
winter passed,
snow melt prepares
for new life.

Barefoot I linger,
loam filters through
my fingers,
heady rich earth
to be seeded.

That which sprouted,
flowered, faded and
browned, now feeds
ground to offer new life.

I am grateful for
all that came forth
to bear my soul,
weed as well as
blossom.

My winter job to
winnow the finished,
resolved.

I hold seeds of reverence
for our Holy One.

I hold seeds of gratitude
for our Gift.

I hold seeds of joy
that I am beloved.

I hold seeds unknown
that will surprise.

I hold seeds of heirloom knowledge
to remember what once nourished.

And I hold seeds of all,
each a universe that
we may grow as One.

I inearth with all seeds
this day of beginnings.

I sing and dance with them
my delight and joy.

.

.

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Author’s Note:

Easter. Spring Equinox. Full Moon.

Our Holy One gifts us many paths to transformation.

Some of us have walked this Holy Week to Easter Sunday in the shoes of those who watched and were unable to stop the horrors. We can only feel the despair and pain through our eyes of experience. We wonder what can we do? How can we transform the world into a place where compassion and acceptance and love prevail? But we know the answer, the root command – love one another. It is the way to resurrecting that which has been lost or forgotten.

Some of us have watched the Moon. Light that is full, then fades. And cycles once more as it did for the ancients and now does for us, and will do for those who come after us.

Some of us welcomed a new year of growth as snow buried us deep into itself making us wonder how life can survive. Even still, we understand the need for the water it will become. And we also know that deep within where our loving God resides, we will thrive because we are beloved and abundance is always present.

All of us walk the path of resurrection, from seed to bloom to something dying in us or away from us, only to be given another chance. The Holy Wheel never ceases turning, will never abandon us.

We will plant again, hopefully transformed by what has passed. We will grow to endless possibilities of being Love and Life and Laughter.

Enjoy. Easter day is ours to revel in and to share. It is our transformation to celebrate.

Happy Easter. Joyous Spring. Stand in the glory of the Moon that lights our darkness. We are blessed.

Amen. Amen. Amen.
Lexanne

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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.

.

.

.

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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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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.

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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

 

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