Peg

I lost her the first time long ago

sweet sister of mine

losing her for good just recently,

The Grim Reaper doing his dastardly best

to pull her to the bottom of darkness

down the hole of the terrible unknown

But The Reaper didn’t know my Mother.

She wouldn’t have allowed it.

She likely walked right up to him,

meeting him at the crossroads of the Great Beyond,

her Irish up, grabbing the sickle 

and using it to chase him away

with her own brand of scary shit.

No, not her daughter

whom she surely would have found deaf - the stubbornness covering her ears,

and mute - the truth too frightening to be spoken,

and blind - refusing to see the impending.

Not such an end for her daughter would there be.

Not for her Peg.

She would carry her like a baby to her new home, 

a home of light and windows,

open to the sea in the harbor of her arms,

knowing she was hers once again,

belonging to each other,

fitting into the circle of the other souls,

once lost, but finally found,

once blind, but finally seeing,

once mute, but now singing,

and hearing the sounds that ease a troubled heart

that would lift her troubled soul,

up and up

and up

to wherever she wanted to go

The Universe now hers.

Flight

I wasn’t standing on a cliff

Or perched on a branch

I wasn’t posed on a diving board

Waiting for the courage to push off

I was simply brave enough to close my eyes one morning 

Alone 

Sitting on a bench

along a sunny footpath In Carpinteria

joined by a light breeze 

making it’s way up from the seashore

swirling just a bit

in this safe place for all creatures

where white Ibis gather

and mountains slope to the water,

all purple canyons and crevices, 

exposing the good old earth in all it’s glory

holding my mind and spirit in that moment

as in a deep cleft

when suddenly

I was pulled upward, back arched, arms out

beckoned to unfurl my wings

feeling my heart open

by virtue, by grace, by a miracle

as the sea air had enough draft

to meet the white winged calliope,

circling the cove,

sounding out to me,

“Begin again, my dear,”

“Continue…”

Dredging

The dredger is in the river today

Moving sand around

Making a better way for the boats that are

Bejeweled and bedecked

as floating participants in the never ending parade

on this well-healed part of an inlet from the sea,

bordered by my fellow audience members of

retired gawkers, seated along the bank

in the cheap seats

passing snacks and cool drinks around,

taking in the show.

It’s said that gem stones and gold

are stuck in the muck on the bottom of the Jupiter River

having settled there long ago

once carried by ships bound for the wealthy up north 

And the bounty waits still

for modern day plunderers to make their claims

from beach chairs,

wrecked by daydreaming, heat and sun,

pirates, one and all

A Talk with God

I’ve tried to out-think you, you All-Knowing You,

seeking one true theory of how things work in the Universe,

but how can I out-think your quantum ways?

I’ve tried to out-do you, you All-Powerful You,

working overtime, double-time in all my endeavors  

but how can I out-do your amazing unified field?

I’ve tried to out-perfect my friends, oh, Wiley One,

trying to figure out what it was that made me worthy of their attention

but how can I out-perfect your Big Dipper?

I can’t.

Ever.

In fact, I can’t even know the real you or how you really work.

I saw the pictures from Hubble today and you win. 

Hands down. Dukes down. 

You surely win.

But…

even though some say that

I may not eat the fruit from the tree of that knowledge

that passes all understanding

and that I have to accept that You know more than me

and really run the entire show for the entire Universe,

I think that I heard you say just the other morning

through the sunrise on the ocean

through my son’s music

through the poetry of Karr and Oliver

through the stories of Fitzgerald and Tan

through all of these and more,

I heard you say that the understanding I seek is mine for the asking,

the listening, the feeling

in any moment, on any day, right now

and that is more than enough 

to call you Creator

So...

I flew by your sunrise today

on the wings of a seagull

free from worry

knowing the truth

that an all powerful rascal like you 

can be beautifully humble, too, and subtle

like your sky streaked with orange, yellow and,

wait,

Is that green?

How did you come up with that, I ask you?

You teach me humility 

as I fumble to find my place in this world today

and I marvel at the ways you work my soul

to see you and know that I am forever invited

to talk with you any way I need or want to

and that forgiveness is mine 

again and again

found in the new day

fust because I’m breathing

You are the new day...

Thanks for the talk.

Tomorrow then...

For Margot

So as your short life unfolded

to reveal the saddest of all endings,

we did not get to meet,

you and I,

my dear sweet girl,

my granddaughter

not in this plain

not in this time

but the good that lives and breathes over and around the good universe

shows me who you might have been

in moments so sweet and so tender

they take my breath away

stopping time and all other movement

calling me to notice the scenes before me

through my longing, searching eyes

In those moments of pure grace

I imagine what might have been for you

this time around 

I see you

in the faces of other children

in your father

your mother

your family

To be honest

those connections are fleeting and few,

heart warming and sad at the same time

held and released in a deep breath

the exhale calling me back to here and now

But in some of those moments

where I get to know you from the inner world of my soul

I am changed

I am enlightened with the knowledge that

Your spirit is bigger than my full heart for you

than my body

than my memory

it’s bigger than the mountains

the oceans

all the land

it’s bigger than the planet

the moon

the stars

bigger than the Universe itself 

the Universe that holds the energy that you are, that we all are,

using yours for the remarkable purpose 

of renewing a commitment to life

for the grieving woman I am this day

helping me tolerate a world I do not understand

giving meaning to my years without you

helping me find compassion for myself

and hopefully today

for other people I may find in the scenes and moments of my life 

where miraculously I may also once more

find the spark of you again

the spark of the divine

Mother Grief

I hear it in the voices of mothers I come across

in the circles I inhabit

in churches

online

in the store

on the street

wherever it may be. 

I hear the tone of disregard, of minimizing or ignoring

their child

and I want to say

you’ll regret that someday.

Someday

you will miss that child beyond measure.

You will grieve for the chances to love them again when they were small.

You will have so much love for them and no where to put it,

and you’ll cry the most bitter tears,

surprising yourself with those tears,

that is, If you can,

the ball of them feeling so tight in your chest sometimes

that it can’t break apart, held up in that place of the heart 

that has it’s own entrance with no discernible exit...

Your child will age,

and the chance to do things differently will be gone, 

and you’ll notice too late,

never knowing what to do with the images and the messages that the terrorist within you reminds you of.

“You should have stopped whatever the hell you were doing and listened to him,

played the puzzle with him,

sat with him for a while before bedtime.

He asked you to.

He asked…”

I never knew what to do with such regret and pain

until the Universe told me one day to express it -

to push it out of myself in song or in writing -

like this poem or maybe in a painting

to see what would become of it.

And I did and I felt free,

maybe for the first time,

and I continued,

And I came to understand from the depths of my soul that

I must connect it to the Universe of other mothers,

in history and beyond

before recorded time even.

I needed to connect it to the other forever loves lost

that float on a cloud,

coming in steady from the west,

circling the earth,

picking up the swirling, churning pain of all mothers

in their songs, their writings, their paintings,

holding the pain until ready for a rain release when full,

a steady, warm rain

that lifts the leaves of the tree of knowledge 

and washes away all sin and sorrow,

the fresh air opening a mother’s heart

soothing her soul like a balm,

like the one that surely soothed a mother in Gilead,

awakening her mother wisdom 

to ease her sad self that day, that moment 

now,

to learn anew that 

the winds of sorrow will build again

and again the clouds will come,

catching the misery that some 

have carried too long

their hearts broken with troubles unbearable

finally ready to be offered up

hands up 

on their knees.

The cloudy mist will grab it

moving on 

to the next county

passing overhead

smooth

on a breeze,

ready for the next batch of

misunderstood and confusing mother grief to rise up

readying her once more to be washed clean,

calming her -

the mother hero angel protector warrior fighter lover,

surprisingly stronger,

ready for another chance 

Forgiving

healing

returning her to her own mother wisdom

knowing she is not alone

I Wasn’t Fearless Yet

For Elizabeth

I wasn’t fearless yet

when I was doing those things,

staying just within the bounds of what was acceptable,

corralled mostly by guilt.

Something GOT me fearless, though, 

changed me and

woke me up to my own power.

I think it was the alcohol and drugs,

but not because they actually gave me some kind of super strength or insight

to follow my dreams.

No.

It was because they were a dead weight around my neck

slowly drowning me

just below the surface of my murky past

until in one fearless moment 

I broke for the surface,

not just to survive

but to live the wild life I always wanted

betraying my willful, cynical self,

With every breath, every lesson and loss,

braver

the fear falling away

like scales from my eyes

sometimes quickly

sometimes slowly,

To find myself

suited up and ready for the high dive,

the high note,

the high road,

And learning to keep the high watch from my lighthouse

for that rascal Fear to show it’s ugly mug agian

like it tried to do today,

unbidden and unwelcome,

with it’s stormy seas, danger and drama,

until I released it back to the rough waters

where it was miraculously calmed once again

by Experience, by Wisdom,

feeling myself once again whole, courage in tact.

Wrinkles, Age 45

When I woke this morning

much to my surprise

I found some little wrinkles

right around my eyes.

Looking in the mirror

it fast occurred to me

no matter what the ad says

you can’t live wrinkle-free.

Some call them laugh lines 

and some say they’re crows feet

but I’ll just call them wrinkles

and back away three feet!

Wrinkles, Age 65

When I woke this morning

no longer with surprise

I found more lines and wrinkles

around my mouth and eyes.

Looking in the mirror

magnified by ten

I could tell that collagen

had not done one darn thing.

So call them what you will

cover them how you might.

I’ll adjust my bi-focals

and see whatever I like.

Good Grief

I miss you in the early morning of the day, 

once I’ve settled back into my covers and pillows

once my heart has calmed down

after being startled awake by random, frightening thoughts

and finding my arms lifted out in the air

reaching to catch you when you were a baby,

sometimes saying your name aloud.

Sometimes

this reaching I do goes on throughout the day,

breaking into a daydream or when I’m writing

and I am pulled up short once again by the longing to see you,

reminding me of the hole that is still in my life,

this space that was meant for you.

And so I move among the memories…

I’m practicing “good grief” these days,

the goal being, I am told, to keep moving forward,

the point being, I am told, to keep learning from the loss

And so I go through the motions,

Moving from this place to that, this day to that

with the longing and aching still there,

yet singing a new rhythm with each inhale, each exhale

pulling me up and out to meet the beckoning sun 

waiting outside my door.

I hope

I hope for myself

at the end of my days

to feel my soul integrated,

fulfilled from years of adventure

and discovery of who I am,

leaving a long road behind

and heading west to my sanctuary by the sea,

my home on the shore

of blues and greens, sand and sky

to myself, to peace in a place of beauty, wonder, and ripeness

with someone interesting waiting for me

ready to listen to all I unpack, be it small or large

be it shocking or sane

all of it welcomed, fodder for long talks,

the talks, fodder for long silences,

listening to the waves.

I will finally be home,

among my own,

understood and accepted

with my people

and the flow of eternity,

the power that has always been with me,

palpable, pulsing

truly known to be mine at last.

Tuck and Roll

Enjoying a long good bye in the yard with our son and his girlfriend one afternoon,

I realized I’d forgotten to give them something before they left,

so I went back in the house to get it.

Trying to be quick about it as I returned to their car,

I misjudged the slope in the yard and started to fall.

That would have been surprise enough, but what was really astonishing

was that my childhood gymnastics chops suddenly kicked in

and I ended up doing a tuck and roll and landed a perfect somersault

to a standing position,

legs apart, hands on my hips, glee in my heart.

Not a scrape, not a bruise, not an ache.

Once the kids and my husband were past the shock that I hadn’t been hurt

came the truth that no one could deny -

that at age 65, a slip and fall

doesn’t mean you’re ready for the home,

but can be the chance for another floor routine.

If you’ve still got some tucks and rolls left in you

and the old instincts kick in,

a perfect ’10’ can still be yours…

and the looks on the faces of the lucky

who are there to see it?

Worth a million.

Redemption

Every now and then

I get a glimmer of redemption,

a brief opening in the landscape of my day,

that invites me to be kind to myself and to

give myself a break from the judging I do,

seemingly a default mode during these anxious times,

when I constantly wager what’s the right or wrong thing

to do

to say

to feel

to think.

The joyful discovery of release from too much “self”

renews me

reminds me that I fit into humanity and

for a brief time

I know what it is to be at peace

to be redeemed.

And

if this redemption only comes in the size of a glimmer,

a spark,

an “oh, I get it; I see,”

I’ll take it

gladly

knowing that it’s from the Higher Power,

the Power of Good in the Universe

that gets passed around and between my fellow travelers,

words of hope

landing on my heavy heart,

the colors in a painting

soothing my troubled mind,

the beauty of movement

easing the tension in my body,

changing me in that moment

as my breathing slows,

as the joyful re-discovery of my humanity

is welcomed into my awareness,

like an old friend saying,

“It’s so good to see you!

Let’s just sit a while,

however long it lasts.”

The God Question

“God is everything,” some people claim with certainty.

“God only knows why,” they say with the same conviction when they’re without answers

for their child’s cancer

for their mother’s illness

their father’s sudden death

their company folding

their house foreclosing

and all the other calamities that beg for answers every day.

So, I must ask,

if it’s true that, “God only knows why,” then why does he keep the answers from people so willing to say that He is everything?

This can’t be right.

The Bravest Thing I Ever Did

The Bravest thing I ever did,

braver than giving birth to my boys,

or marrying for a second time

or moving across the country

or asking for a raise I knew I was worth but likely wouldn’t get

or starting my own practice

or starting a women’s treatment center

or retiring

braver than any of that

was to break the chains of my mother’s

guilt and fears and leave her home -

Sometimes I can’t believe I escaped, but I did.

All that had been unspoken in that house finally

came to a head not long after I left, the story goes,

and the lies, betrayal, denial and manipulation

came pouring out in the violence of an inevitable explosion

causing the bravest of us all, my younger brother,

to say enough was enough to the adults

who were sick with loss and the past and drink,

fueled by years of smaller skirmishes and volleys of shame,

clueless about how to end it themselves…

I recently saw a little girl in Syria being interviewed while the bombs of their uncivil war

were dropped in the distance,

but close enough for her to tell the name and type of bomb being used

to destroy the pieces of daily life that still remained in tact, but only barely.

Her sweet face was so tired and care-worn, her little body so thin and tense…

I’ll never forget her because I can’t -

I know the fears of captivity and the unpredictable nature of terrorism -

certainly not on that scale, of course - I’m sure of that,

but I know the seed of it

planted in my childhood home -

I’m aware of that moment when you don’t know what the adults are going to do,

trying to decipher what brand of craziness will show up that day

and where the safest place to hide may be,

deciding that some days it’s safer to fight back,

especially when you’re a little older and tired of the helplessness…

Oh, the webs that life weaves are so complicated sometimes.

I don’t know if I’m on the right road half the time, it seems,

but I do know that often these days, at age 68, and as a survivor of

the brands of war that come with alcoholism,

I am still called on to be brave

and to do things I don’t want to in order to be safe from the bombs

that are triggered once again from the past…

Yes, the bravest thing I ever did was to leave the ridiculous war raging in

my mother’s life by realizing that I didn’t have to have a dog in that fight anymore,

and finding that the world has plenty of skirmishes in one day

that sometimes call for a hero to show up,

and because I was one for myself,

I know what one looks like -

a small beauty from Syria

a warrior

making sense of the battle and

planning her next move

Long Time Love

For Jeff, my love

We have a “long time love,”

you and me,

and that means that love has always found a way,

through the long journey of life,

to bring us together again

after crossed signals

cross words or

crossed swords

divide us for a time.

We meet again on the bridge between

our two sides of the canal

that flows deeply

with memories

of our children

our homes

our travels

And this year

in the flow

is the adventure of travel

to a new place -

New York -

with new stories awaiting us,

Adding to the long time love

we’ve held so well.

I love you, honey -

Happy Valentine’s Day

a.

Lost and Found

“I don’t think anyone would be interested in reading about my family,”

said the seasoned poet in an interview. “Well,” I thought to myself,

I’m screwed because that’s all I write about.”

But wanting to be like him, I began writing about “topics” and “subjects,”

only to get lost in the weeds with my well-worn opinions and ideas.

I thought to myself, “Well, who wants to read THIS.” Not many, I figured.

Then I read a memoir by a successful writer I admired, which she told my story.

Down to the alcoholic father. I couldn’t tell it any better than that.

“What a story!” I said. Drat!!

Then one day I heard a famous author give a talk about creativity, and she said,

“Screw all that chatter in your head. Write because you enjoy writing.

Just start, and what you’ll end up doing with it will come in time.

Just start and don’t stop.”

She said the same thing goes for singing, too.

“Just create art for the sake of it,” she said,

“for the enjoyment of it, and the new vision of the world it affords you.”

And that changed everything.

I got out of my own way and put pen to paper again,

and I kept it there until I was done that day.

Then I did it the next, and the next, and the next…

I found my voice coming through, too,

past the doubt,

past the worry of acceptance,

past the fear of sharing myself,

and I thanked the seasoned poet and the successful memoirist,

and then asked them to move along, stage left,

and leave me to my writing. I had work to do.

And a song to sing.