dirty hands

 

breakfastolive ballhen and chicks

i feel the need to admit something to myself. to the handful of you that find your way here. i need to admit that, for the last month or so, i have let myself languish in discontent.  and although i’m not without moments of crippling gratitude i have been more often than not filled with anger. i don’t have a solution. there is no quick fix. this is a season to pass (trudge) through just like any other. but i like to think i’m getting better at it. the taking life as it comes. when it is easy and filled with wonder and when it is hard and breathtakingly “unfair.” some days are ugly. lost on a sea of my own making. others speak of healing if i choose to listen, look up, or put my hands in the dirt. and recently, right when i needed it, a dear friend sent a poem she wrote for me in the mail. she folded it intricately in the shape of a heart i can’t seem to replicate, but i’ve been carrying it around with me and reading it often..

 

i pray for rain

to wash the embers extinguished

to clean soot from my cracked, brittle branches

i pray for rain

thirsty for beginnings

exasperated by these false starts

and the cacophonic ticking

demanding attention to the stages

at which the hands on the Big Circle move.

i pray for reins

grateful for the anchor of a mate

when the strong tide of oblivion

pulls too often.

praying to let go

surrender & let you.

if i can let go

won’t it take me with it?

i pray for reign.

for sighs to come from contentment

not despair

patience from the all-listening ear

when?

why now?

for how long?

what may flowers bring?

they will bring color to the gray

we’ve grown far too accustomed to.

-p. cowell

 

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