seeking light

liz :: viv

This girl, she 
stands inside delectable ripening plums
leaps toward illuminating bittersweet blossoms
marinates between subtle hints of coconut milk and opulent purple silk
crawls beneath windows with views of wayside hope and stoppered truths

this girl, she
emerges as the essence of yes

*****

Vivienne McMaster and I are collaborating on a few fabulous in-person and online workshops, retreats, and other goodies (yet to be announced) that we are excited to share with you. As we work together on these projects, we are delighted to share a series of "Seeking" posts on both of our blogs. In each post, we will create a diptych of images, share what we are seeking, and perhaps share information about one of our collaborations! 

Today, we both used the prompt "seeking light" for the photos in our diptych and then paired our photos with a poem note/journal writing. Visit Viv's blog to read her written response to our photos.

On July 16^th and 17^th, we will be teaching a workshop together at Teahouse Studio in Berkeley, California. This workshop is packed full of the creative wonder we are both so passionate about. Woven through the 2-day experience will be some juicy writing prompts and guided meditations led by me and playful and wonder-filled photography prompts led by Vivienne. We’ll also be diving into making a mixed-media journal inspired by my book Inner Excavation. 

Registration for this event closes very soon (June 24), so we encourage you to jump into this experience and join us! We’d so love to meet you.

musings on spring {2}

front-yard crocus . march 2011

today,

as i sit inside the missing

spring brings with her each year,

i pretend all of who you are

has arrived by chickadee wing

and your chosen path

is to slowly blow open

each petal of the crocus

november 17

carolina wren turns her back to me
tail feather straight up
wiggles
you better really live it
she seems to say
you better really live it
you said
when i moved into my first apartment after college
you better do all that i didn't do
i hear you
in the rustling of the wren
who looks at me
just before she whisks off
to live

*****

i hear her saying those words. i hear her in the chirping of the hummingbird wondering where the feeder is. i hear her when i close my eyes and breathe deeply. i hear her. i tell myself this when it feels like i am forgetting, when i want to hear her voice say the right thing. though, truth is, she simply didn't always have the right words. but i pretend, at least on this day. and then, when i admit i know the truth of not being able to hear her, not in the ways i want to, and admit that she might not have the words i need to here in this place right now, i remember my mother's voice earlier today. i hear my mother's voice and i hear love. and it is good. and i am blessed. and i breathe in and out and keep moving forward.

november 11

squam lake pause . september, 2009

a poem, written april 18, 2009

stitch by stitch 

i closed the fracture 

along the southern 

half of my heart 

until the realization 

i cannot

dam

life

today

i let living 

fill the cracks

november 9

 

olympic peninsula forest . april, 2009 

i wonder about the moment
when the fern
dug in,
insisting it had found
its true home
50 feet from the earth,
rooted in the oak.
did the moss feel surprise
or just sigh,
knowing the quiet
was too good to be true?

home

The return

You are
the sliver of blue behind the grey
the yellow stripe on the crocus
the pungent plum tree blossoms
the insistent call of the plump chickadee
the arching green tulip leaves

Today,
I whisper prayers of gratitude
to Spring
as she awakens
and brings
you

a poetry thursday favorite poem

The Sunday before the Wednesday I was to see you
the conversation played
on a stage in my mind.
Knowing you would pretend to be irritated that
I had flown across the country unannounced
because you did not
want me to see you like this,
I would pull the chair next to your bed,
see your emaciated body,
and my hand would brush
away the hair around your face
like I did twenty-five years ago
right before I would smear Pond’s cold cream
across your nose, cheeks, and forehead.
I would tell you that I finally understood.

But then you died on Tuesday.

In their need for reason,
people said you chose to die
the Tuesday before the Wednesday I was to see you
because you knew I was coming and
you wouldn’t have
wanted me to see you like that.
Infuriated, I turned my back
on the words that meant nothing
to the open wound you left behind
that people saw as me, and
I sat in the darkness,
my throat choked with silence,
my fingertips filled with regret that I
did not brush your hair
away from your face
when I saw you on
the morning of the Thursday after the Wednesday I was to see you,
when I heard your voice say,
It isn’t me.

****

I originally shared this poem in the summer of 2006 and again here as part of Poetry Thursday, which was an online community I co-hosted. It poured out of me one day when I was processing the grief surrounding my grandmother's death and my anger at the platitudes people say. Of all the poems I wrote during my experience of Poetry Thursday, this was my favorite.

a midnight poem

I unclenched
my fisted
grasp on hope

until the day I sat before you
and asked

a shift

galloping, hope arrives

I steady myself
then spin
inside it

a new word

my eyes are so heavy and i can honestly not believe that i am not in bed. here is the reason why: i simply had to write a poem.

i took susan wooldridge's poemcrazy class on thursday and i have an energy around writing that is filling me up to a near-bursting level of joy (though, i assure you that if you were sitting here with me you might question that as i have been a bit grumpy all afternoon).

this draft of a poem was inspired by a necklace i bought from nina bagley at vendor night (i can't wait to show you a picture of the necklace soon). in susan's class, she gave us the prompt of "the ______ says." so tonight, i played with that prompt and wrote this:

the bird says

this morning
I awoke to an open door

as I pondered its purpose
stagnate years
whirled
around me
until
with ginger steps
and breath
I unfurled and
grasped the space

this evening
I am uncaged