Lovers

I read the word:

Lovers

and think

there will never

be space for me

I have for children

and nothing to spare

there will be

no midnight trysts

except to calm nightmares

no aphrodisiac

except frozen food

that's all I've time

to make

so they can eat

They made sure of this

I made sure of this

Did I make sure of this?  I'm not sure.

Those pro lifers

created an organization

of living

hell

motherhood is not a calling

It is a sentence

and you may

not survive

Constantly admonished

to think of blessing

to offer sacrifice

to die

to care for all

but one self

So I've decided

not to be

a mother

or a lover

or a maid

or a cook

or a chef

or a warrior, volunteer, go-getter, doer, be present-er, organizer,

better or worse

I'll just be me.

They will be they.

And little child

all one two three four

of you

At one three six seven

will see

your me

and we'll learn

to love

our selves

Together

Parable for Sunday

This is a parable written by my husband, Nathan. It is a beautiful piece for reflection this Easter weekend. I'm honored to welcome him as my first guest post.

There was once path from a village to the marketplace. Along the path, in a small meadow, stood a young fig tree. As the fig tree grew, he watched the villagers travel along the path, and saw that they were often hungry and thirsty.

So he stretched out his young branches and produced figs to offer them.

The villagers soon discovered the figs and would take them as they passed by. As they walked on, the fig tree could hear them discussing his figs, whether they were too small or too large, too sweet or too bland, or just the way they thought a fig ought to be. Some would even take his figs and sell them at the market; the village leaders boasted in how their village grew the best figs.

One day, a man came along the path. He was not from the village. As he stopped to look at the fig tree, the fig tree saw that there was something very different about this man traveling alone. From near his trunk, he reached out a beautiful fig to the man. It was the best fig he had ever made.

But the man did not take his fig. Instead he reached in through the branches, and with his finger wrote the name Beautiful on his trunk.

And then he left. And never returned.

The fig tree wept. Fig after fig fell to ground. And then he died.

A few days later, a group of villagers came walking along the path. They stopped to look at the fig tree.

One of the men, an elder from the village, pointed at the ground and said,

"Do you see why this fig tree has died? It is because its figs were rotten."

The other men voiced their agreement and continued down the path.

The meadow soon filled with smell of death and rotting figs, and the villagers chose other paths to the marketplace. The fig tree stood alone, brittle and lifeless, as the seasons changed.

Winter came. And stayed. And then went. The tears of spring fell, and awoke the seeds of the fallen figs.

The meadow is gone now. In its place stands a grove of fig trees. The path has long since disappeared, broken and buried by strong supple roots. The village has forgotten the meadow and the fig tree that grew there. Only its children come, to climb in the branches and eat the beautiful figs that grow there.

Poem for Saturday

"In a hole in the ground..." -The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien

I'm at a picnic table instead of a church pew this Good Friday evening under an A-frame covering with a steeple faintly silhouetted against golden hour amidst budding limbs of spring.  The sky is not dark, rather, its pastel blue dissolves to faint rose warmth.  No one else at the house wanted to attend a service, which helped me realize I didn't either.  So I'll sit with the avian evensong until the mosquitoes discover my perch.  Today's the first taste of summer and again I didn't notice how happy I am to relinquish the cold.

Just a few weeks past I found myself in a tomb.  It's older than the pyramids, 5,200 years to be exact, and the inner chamber is cruciform.  The ancients who built it masterfully crafted a resting place for their deceased while living outside in thatched huts.  The roof has never leaked, a credit to the engineered grooves in the structure for the rain to pass through, and with river rocks and ocean stone they made a burial mound for their dead.  The door is open with a carved monolith at the entrance displaying trinitarian spirals, serpentine waves, and diamond patterns.  This particular grave opens to the winter sunrise.  The ground follows the natural slope of the hill underneath allowing horizons to cross paths with the rolling landscape to the east.  For 17 minutes one morning every year (if it's not cloudy) the sunlight shines straight back into the cave filling the innermost chamber with a persistent glow.  They let you inside with a guided tour and simulate the dawn of that singular day.  If you rest your face on the ground in the interior you can see out the front door.  This place, along with its summer twin, open to the zenith of their season.

I've written for several years now about burial, it's the third to be exact, and never anticipated I'd find myself in a real tomb.  

I bent down to touch the edge of the light as it shone in the back of the cave, then stood, crouching only briefly again to exit the hole in the ground.  

Outside there were birds and full sun (on an island that rarely sees any) a few old stones and just across the hedge, a small pasture with a flock of lambs.  

We left.  And I wrote this poem: "Faith"

Covered up
Rocks kept out fresh water
The door will let the light in
Uphill
In a straight line

These solstice fathers could not see
spring's daughter with a harvest love

They built a tomb
It's beautiful

and empty

"Already it is starting, the getting better." -A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, by Betty Smith