Honesty

I never felt beautiful.
But in my eyes I see a fierce fire, deep burning,
Even while a curtain of timidity tries to hide it.
In my strong features and lines,
I see the blending of my Swedish and German ancestors
And the light of other lives before me.
Perhaps I am an echo of a Viking warrior-ess?
In my thin and strong frame,
I see generations of unknown women
Pulling through life with a tenacity I discover more each day.
I see a beauty that is different, not classic, perhaps not appealing,
But this body is like a tablet, carved upon by the ages,
And as I write my own story with it,
I find I am me,
Desperate to communicate love and acceptance, gentleness and compassion, with everything that is in me.

Song

The song of my soul

Whispers and hums and slows and stills

and listens.

Vibrations of life shiver and lift

The song to a place where words sit and tarry

and sometimes take flight.

My soul's song has different movements over my life,

But looking back, I see it

has a carefully threaded melody - 

A haunting sadness, a wistful yearning

But yet, there's hope in each note,

Always. 

Translation?

The words I say and the words I mean

A translation confused, never reaching

the deepest realm of true intent

A heart attuned to every layer

In silence, a thousand words

Rise to light the vast expanse, but fail to live

I wish there were a way to speak

Those elusive words, so strong in color and music

They remain untamed, unbreakable, coded deeply

To capture them, a puzzle

To feel them, a life

My mind holds them, though my heart owns them

My lips can only try to find the shape to pour them

A Question in the Depths

The sea is dark and still - 

a longing in the deep 

for light to pierce within and heal 

the silenced heart. 

Inky shadows

spread

and make the sun so cold and distant.

There is more terror still

in the empty quiet, the buried longing

of dreams.

Ocean

New colored pencils for Christmas = lots of drawings!

What do you see?

Questions

Sometimes I feel too me,

Too much.

An apology rises in me for this,

But words can never wrap

and clothe the haunting hurt

To understand why 

Who I am is wrong somehow.

What am I sorry for?

Why do I feel so deeply?

Does who I am matter?

I search for the answer,
To where I belong.

The pain is in the silence,

And the silence replies in kind,

Bringing a settling peace.

Without an answer,

I change the question...

How can I love better,

especially love me better,

and let go of the fear...and accept

I am enough as I am,

Despite weakness, fear, and longing.

I am enough to be loved,

Stripped down of all striving.

Love is peace, kindness, and free

As much as I love others, I should also love me.

This is my most vulnerable poem ever. I wrote it from a deep place of longing. Sometimes I feel like who I am isn't enough, or it is too much for anyone to love. Now I remind myself that even in my greatest moments of vulnerability, I am still worthy of good love and great love and kind love. Loving others with the right kind of love, and loving myself, is a lifelong journey of letting go and trusting and accepting. 

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails." - 1 Cor. 13:4-8

My Love Song

I hung my heart out on a limb

and waited for the bloom

a desolation came and proved

I hung it out too soon

Drenched in pain, tears, and sorrow

I wrung my heart to dry

Limp and torn, maybe tomorrow

my heart will beat again

Will a love come?

My hope is all I own

All the love I have to give is

a harvest to be sown

Hope

The storms, they come
and I'm rocked to the soul
But I hang on tight
and remain whole
though a crack may form
I will never sink
My foundation's strong
but my rigging's weak

Hope...I patch it all with hope.

Maybe

Blue Heron

Oh, blue heron

here on the boat

light around you

shows where you float

You sit still, yet your spirit's free

you journey far

on that boat in the sea

You seem so calm

in your world, nothing's wrong

what's your secret

to such peace?

you know

out here floating

all troubles cease

Oh, blue heron

here on the boat

no matter the waves

you continue to float

such peace I see

I wish it were me

out on the boat

so trouble-free

Happy puppy!

Beauty

I saw it in the mist, the haze of sky and sea. The thin, clear line should have cut the space in two. The ripples on the water, the movement of the earth - a slow dance to a slow end. Yet the fallen branches and scalped edges of the hills reminded me...beauty isn't always in wholeness, but in what once was, what could be, what is.

Pondering...

Life never turns out how we plan. The older I get, the more I see how it is all about letting go and loving what is - being open to things outside of what I imagine or hope for...and finding that happiness isn't where I once assumed. I guess that is the eternal unfolding of life - the rich, deep layers of purpose and meaning you can only see by looking back on a life well-lived.

Writing and memories

***

The softness woke me. Millions of wet petals falling from the sky. The soft down of winter's first snow. I snuggled under my comforter, a warm nest still sprinkled with the ends of a dream. The lowing, still gentle, would grow more insistent the longer I lingered.

Snow covered everything and the trees bowed toward the ground. Heavy under the weight of the snow, they seemed friendlier somehow. The thick wool in my blue boots would warm soon and I revelled in the thickness of the snow, the squeaky crunch as perfect prints followed me to the barn. The blue siding glistened in the pale pink dawn, the tangerine sun slipping over the hill, lighting up the pasture like diamonds.

I snapped the overhead light on and filled the old tin can with the sweet molasses grain. Rough, pink tongues pulled at the alfalfa hay in the trough. Tails twitched happily and soft contented moos warmed my ears. The heavy metal bucket rang with the first spurts of warm milk.

***

I spent one spring break back in 2006 backcountry kayaking on Lake Powell with four other girls from the UCLA Outdoor Adventures Club. Every day I would paddle forward into the unknown, so eager to see what was beyond each curve of the shoreline. One day, it started raining. March storms in Utah are amazing. The wind was so strong that it was difficult paddling to shore. Wind ripped white tips across the expanse of the lake and I felt thrilled by the power and danger of it all.

Lightning stabbed in the distance. There were patches of bright sunlight to my left, and hail coming down on my right. It was so odd, but beautiful. We set up a tent and huddled inside our sleeping bags, our bodies keeping the tent anchored. It was so cold outside, so we just stayed there for a few hours, talking and listening to the cry of the night storm.

At one point, I was finally so warm and drowsy that I fell asleep. In my dreams, something heavy was pressing against me, trying to squash me. I thought it was a cow trying to lay down on me. It kept pressing harder and harder until I woke up. It was the wind pressing the side of the tent against my sleeping bag.

Sometime after midnight that night, there was such a stillness, I unzipped the tent and peeked out. I’ll never forget what I saw. Millions, no, trillions of stars. I was in a bowl, 180 degrees of stars all around me. I could have been tipped into the sky, falling forever into those stars. It was like the wind called them from their hiding place.

***

We’ve all had moments of loss in our lives – the weight of sorrow immeasurable; a fabric of the universe that smothers light. Something vital has been scooped from us forever.

After facing some losses during my senior year at UCLA, I moved to a new country where I didn’t know the language or the culture. It was a hasty decision I made immediately after graduation to purge myself from all reminders of what I had lost. Death and loss is a part of life, everyone says, but...what can you say to someone who is grieving? You are never alone and you are loved. However, in my new environment, I didn’t understand anything I saw or anything that was spoken to me. The physical environment continually reminded me how disconnected I was to everything. Looking back, I can see how hard I tried to be brave. Instead of letting myself feel and navigate my sorrow, I kept busy adapting to something new. Throughout that year, I lost a big part of my heart and it took some time to find it again.

I’ve learned that grief is something to face; something to travel through. It takes time. It is exhausting. It is painful. Then things become clearer again. The heart sparks a new fire. Just like after every storm, the light you find is brilliant. Through the storm, you discover that you are never alone. You are stronger and deeper and softer than you know. You are made of a fabric stronger.

 We all suffer disappointments and losses, sometimes so staggering that you don’t think you’ll ever breathe quite the same again. Be gentle on yourself. You are loved.

***

 *** 

“The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.” - Bayard Taylor

A HOPE FOR A HOME

 

Your eyes sing a melody

and my heart strums along

your tender touch melts me

In your arms

I've found my home.

 

 

OCEAN-MOON

 

I am the undulating ocean

And you are the moon.

I will never reach you,

Yet I try.

 

 

PRISM

 

I feel you are a prism,

And before you,

My light breaks into color.

Pieces of me visible.

I thought I had "me" hidden,

But you see.

 

 

“All Joy reminds. It is never a possession, always a desire for something longer ago or further away or still 'about to be'.” - C.S. Lewis

***Some older poems***
 

 

TIME’S TIDE

 

Time has a rhythm,

Like the waves upon the shore,

Teasing the toes of memories

As they try to leave their mark.

Time.

It rubs everything down

Until the edges are gone.

Time.

Never stand still and lament

its song.

 

 

BLUE

 

Pale, tired blue.

Weariness untold in that nomadic gaze,

Searching for a future.

 

 

ECHOES

 

Wordless echoes rattle my frame

No sound escaping.

Grief rips asunder a heart full of loss.

A stiff upper lip denies an unspeakable loneliness.

My soul stretches to fill the void.

 

 

GRIEF

 

Grief is an ocean,

You cannot cross without getting thoroughly wet.

You must submit,

It tosses you and batters you.

The harder you fight, the more it

Destroys your stroke and pulls you under.

Float upon it.

You will reach a solid place again.

Hope

and

Wait.

 

 

 

ODE TO AN ICEBERG

 

So loney, an orphan in the sea,

Victim to time’s relentless caress.

 

 

 

 

 

  

“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.” - Augusten Burroughs

When I was ten, I had the misfortune of growing too tall too fast, which meant I was a clomping, stomping, klutz-o-matic machine. My mom put me in tap dancing classes, which played to those strengths. I soon learned that different stomps made different sounds when wearing tap shoes. A simple flap-ball-change-brush-heel-toe-heel was the threshold into a world where my klutziness became a power – I reveled in all of the delicious sound I could make with my feet. It was something I really enjoyed and was a competitive tap dancer until I turned 15 and discovered track.

Dancing went on the backburner until I moved to Melbourne, Australia, and worked part-time for a dance studio to cover rent while going to graduate school. As I sat at the front counter, I heard music from seven different studios, and saw people go in and then come out of class with the hugest smiles on their faces. During those 2 years in Melbourne, I was able to learn a little French Modern Jive, or Ceroc.

Dancing again went on the backburner until I joined the Ke Kai O’Uhane Outrigger Canoeing Club and took hula lessons. Hula is pretty much showing your heart and soul through the movement of your body. There is no shyness or hiding - as a late bloomer, it was the best thing I could have done. Then one of my friends told me about dance classes in Pacific Grove where you could learn Tango, Foxtrot, Waltz, Cha-Cha, Rumba, etc., for only $10 a class. This led to the discovery of a larger dance community and the $5 dance nights at Chautauqua Hall in Pacific Grove every Saturday night.
 

I am the youngest person there by at least 30 years (as someone who has always felt more comfortable around people older than I am, this is pretty much perfect). The Big Band music echoes around the old hall and it is especially nice when they open the barn doors and the cool, sea breeze fills my lungs. Dancing with strangers isn’t without its quirks - there are those who serenade their partners perfectly word for word all of the Frank Sinatra songs during the Foxtrot dances, and there are a handful who bypass the conventional lead methods; they are the wrist-clutchers with the death-grip of Colossus who steer their partners around the dance floor against the flow of traffic. Leading should be a proposal, not a demand (much like steering a canoe – demanding always brings out the worst stubbornness in any vessel, human or not).

But just to be able to dance and learn something new with the familiar music I grew up with - that is what I like most. And sometimes I can feel the young klutzy me smiling inside, because my feet feel as light as my heart as I fly across the floor in a spinning waltz.

“For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.” - Carl Sagan

Written Jan 1, 2016:

Today was the first time back on an OC1 since December 5 - the day I did the 4 mile surfski and 8 mile OC1 race in Oceanside. Those races tested everything in me, and I’ve been searching my heart for the lessons to be learned from the experience. In life, I've always pushed myself to go beyond what I thought I could do. In paddling, I wanted to push myself, too.

Paddling in conditions that I never faced before, I confronted fear that I never knew I had in me. When you are cold, alone, and not sure if you are even going in the right direction, it takes everything just to keep that fear reigned in. During the long course race, I realized that you can't stop from feeling fear. You can accept it and then it has no power to immobilize you. After that, you realize that all you can do is go forward...one stroke at a time. That race felt like my life. I knew the ocean was going to teach me something that I would carry with me beyond the 8 miles of the course: feeling fear is not weakness or defeat.

In those moments when nothing goes right, or you don't feel prepared for anything, or you don't think that you can possibly face what you must, that is when you find the deeper beauty of you - you dig deep into that well of strength. Everything goes on...you have to keep going on, too. Even if it isn't going in the way you want it to, life is scary and hard and good and wonderful. I guess it all comes down to how you face it all - the good and the bad - with an open heart.

So, today I paddled an OC1. A wave caught me, and I flipped into the cold water. I got back on the canoe and I kept paddling...because that is what I do.