9.27.16

I wasn’t always afraid, you know.

When I was young, I would climb up the “big rock,”
My wide feet perched atop lichen and moss, concentrating,
Inhaling and - fear and all - taking the leap
Until I was laughing beside my father.

I bounced in my airplane seat, giddy with excitement
At the chance to feel turbulence. And I held wooden oars
In my hands, building callouses, strong and steady
As I helped row across the lake.

I climbed trees, scraped knees, felt alive as plum juice
Trickled down my chin. Balanced on logs, sprinted as fast as I could,
Constantly stretching my boundaries so that I could,
Once again, feel the blood pumping through my legs.

And even now, I’m not always afraid.

Getting knee-deep stuck in mud, rain boots making
A suck-sucking sound as I laugh wildly, trying to reach solid ground.
Inter-tubing down Rio Suerte, playing soccer against Costa Rican boys,
Feeling confident in my womanly body.

A summer filled with biking across gravel roads,
Skinny-dipping underneath a flock of herons, laying on my back
On the Caribbean sea, walking barefoot while trying to sidestep
Leaf-cutting ants; this time, mango juice dripping down my chin.

And smaller moments: skating on a frozen river, laughing
With nervousness and glee as ice begins to crack beneath us;
Dunking myself into the Puget Sound; swimming alone
As I will myself to smile at strangers.

And I know this to be true, that this is my authentic home:

A place where courage and heart join hands, so that I may feel alive,

Over and over again.

9.3.16

Chickadee-dee-dee,
Chickadee-dee-dee.

The apples are growing fat, fertile, red and ripe,
Any fallen ones decaying on grass that is still rough
And dry, scratching the skin of the fruit
And of my bare legs.

The leaves from the birch tree are blowing in the wind -
I want to use the word tinkling, although I hear no sound.
A crow perches on top, guarding, following the self-preserving
Pull of its black body.

Chickadee-dee-dee,
Chickadee-dee-dee.

I can almost smell the lake in the wind, the sweet scent
Of willows and freshwater. The light, already dimming -
Over two months past summer solstice - brings
A bittersweet ache to my chest.

And isn’t that the way with autumn? The nostalgia
It somehow drags out from deep within us? The way
I begin to hear in the key of A major,
Seeing red, like the apples.

9.2.16

The beginning of September, and autumn
Has come quickly. This morning, darkness
Lingers in rooms, comforting and sleepy,
And indigo clouds move briskly
Against the not-quite-sunrise sky.

—

A tropical storm has landed in Florida,
And we sip coffee while telling stories
Of typhoons in the Philippines. Meanwhile,
Here, in this temperate rainforest,
It barely descends as more than a drizzle,
The ground in a constant state
Of mist and morning dew.

—

It rains hard for a few minutes -
The fast and heavy kind, as if in Iowa, the kind
That floods the rivers and soaks the cornfields.
Child in my arms, we open the door to watch,
To listen, the earth inside of our bodies
Thirsting for more.

—

Having lived in the Midwest for so long,
The man I love reminds me of our fortune -
That here, in this temperate rainforest,
Life flourishes in the wintertime:
Verdant moss drapes the trees,
Moisture exposes the scents of soil,
Evergreens loom tall and protecting.

—

And we may see the signs of life,
Should we only choose to open our eyes.