hearing without listening

I've got a fixed, forward stare and
I don't miss anything behind me,
Including myself.

I'm slowly losing faith in the consistency of
what my senses can experience.
God's voice has become clearer in this loss.
Still, it is only a whisper.

The storm's white noise
Distorts His voice.

I transition into a sleepwalking state.

But my subconscious is aware
of the Intercessor's prayers.

He speaks
When I've lost the words,
So I can understand
What I haven't heard.

More Than 100 Reasons

Yesterday I came across something I really could not relate to.

I don't want to post the link here. I realize that people have a right to express themselves however they want, and I am thankful for that freedom. I also realize that there are some folks who really do not want children, and that is fine too. Because, honestly, there would be many more unhappy people in this world if more children were born to parents who didn't want them.

I'm not promoting anything (political) by saying that. In fact, if you check out my other blog posts, you'll understand my views on everything from family to children. But I still couldn't help but feel a bit put-off by the many claims made in that blog entry. How can anyone confidently make a list of 100 things that they like about never having a child, if they've never had one? They listed everything from having more money, to having a better marriage.

The irony of it all is this: I've found that my life and heart are both richer after having Mirabel. I've also fallen even more in love with Jose after having Mirabel. I've seen how he loves on her, and it just makes my heart melt. No, it certainly isn't always easy being a mom (or dad), but let me tell you, it is so worth it.

I could go through that list and literally offer a rebuttal for every claim. After reading it, I realized that I certainly have more than 100 reasons why I LOVE being a mother. There are definitely more than 100 things I love about Mirabel, too.

Instead of responding to that blog post, I chose to write a poem for Mirabel. True love of any kind can't be captured in a list, or even a poem. But this is just an outline, really. Kind of like what results when you attempt to trace a detailed painting. Anyway, here it is...

If I had to limit myself to 100 things or reasons,
I would take a lesson from God and run my fingers through the wispy strands of hair on your head, and try to count them
but then
I would miss the fine hairs on your ears
and the tiny creases on the soles of your feet, and their softness:
what walking around barefoot on the sand, or the dirt, or on uneven sidewalks will take away.

But I digress. 100 things...

I had to wait ten seconds for the test results, then I was certain you'd be mine. And in the split second following those ten, before you even had 10 fingers and 10 toes, I already had 100 reasons.

Time has always been the thief; memory its rival. But the minute you were born, I realized it was on my side, that only you could steal the better part of me (my heart), and that I'd formed a memory I'd never have to struggle to keep.

No, my freedom has not been taken from me. Instead, it was given to me after 40 long weeks, when I learned to put myself second. I gained a greater understanding of true beauty, then.

I have not lost myself. I have only lost what I never wanted anyway, the part of me that was afraid of loving this much.

As a result, I have far more than 100 reasons.

The Beggar

I'm usually the beggar instead of the giver; asking God for more with an ungrateful heart instead of offering what I already have, the little that can be used. I'm still learning that it's when I've given myself over to him, weaknesses and all, that I can receive the greatest blessing.

What good of me is there to give?
A failed attempt to change or
the change, in my pocket?
A few quarters and pennies?
I have more than that.

My head knows what it means to bow
but, truly, only in fear;
reverence is a place I have not arrived at.
Trust is weakened with my plans.

I
look up only to ask
and other times
I
forget WHO is there.
(I
don't always say thank you
because
I
Usually ask why?

...I, I, I instead of
You.)

You will give
When I have given
More than I have offered or sacrificed.

I've lived my life in alphabetical order:
Me comes before You.
But You ask me to break the rules of convention,
Open my heart to only you and
an intervention

where

holiness replaces all the holes
and fills me with
You,
Then I will have enough
because
It will be your
love
I'm
giving.

Freedom

They took away what should have been my eyes,

(But I remembered Milton's Paradise)
They took away what should have been my ears,
(Beethoven came and wiped away my tears)
They took away what should have been my tongue,
(But I had talked with God when I was young)
He would not let them take away my soul,
Possessing that, I still possess the whole.

Helen Keller

Haiku Festival

White melting to green

serenade to Earth--
Heaven, where we stand.

Though I've enjoyed writing poetry for a good portion of my life, I think I've only written about 3 haikus, so I thought it'd be fun to sign up for the Haiku Festival over at Pink Purl. This is a simple haiku about, you guessed it, spring!

National Poetry Month

The Snow Man
By Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

My simplified interpretation: Learning to observe things objectively, apart from your circumstances, so that you can see things as they are, without judging.

Oh oh! Gotta post this one too...

In a Dark Time
By Theodore Roethke

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

Quick commentary: I love the images and analogies; the definition of 'madness' (though I don't view it as a derogatory kind of madness here). A rollercoaster of intensity: thoughts, feelings and questions. In the end finding freedom while reflecting, admitting your weakness and coming to terms with God... all in the desperate but very natural process of self-discovery.

Happy National Poetry Month!

I'm going to try to post 1 or 2 poems a week this month. Here's a recent favorite of mine.

Photography by Nikki Giovanni

the eye we are told
is a camera
but the film is the heart
not the brain
and our hands joining
those that reach
develop the product

it's easy sitting in the sun
to forget that cold exists
let alone envelopes
the lives of people
it's easy sitting in the sun
to forget the ice and ravages
of winter yet
there are those who would have no other season
it's always easy when thinking
we have the best to assume
others covet it
yet surf or sea each has
its lovers and its meaning
for love

watching the red sun bleed
into the ocean
one thinks of the beauty that fire brings
if the eye is a camera and the film is the heart
then the photo assistant is god

because You're here.

There's something simmering on the stove every day
and
I'm thankful for the dirty dishes.


Against an old cold wall
there is a used couch,
with worn but inviting cushions.


There are crumbs sprinkled across the floor,
and paid bills in the drawer...
Snowfalls outside our window,
And books for books, in piles.


But there are no questions
Or
sealed boxes
in the
small closets
whose doors never close.


There are no flecks of insecurity
clinging like dust
to tired childhood belongings.


There is a peace
that comes with seeing
an unopened box of tissues...
next to my pillow
(next to you).


This is home:
With confidence and empty wallets
we can open the front door and smile,
even if and especially when
uncertainty rings like a desperate salesman.