The Weaning

Spencer and the dolphin

THE WEANING

I notice you
Noticing me
We walk as women now
In tandem
But hours and towns separate us
Birth was  yesterday
It appears to me
I weep
Even at the thought of your leaving
Tomorrow shrouds my soul
Today
Hope is your middle name
And I am left
Mine is Grief
Stay young my child
Simply
Stay young at heart
My feathered nest
Plucked  from my breast
Internal ticking
Tells  me it is nearly time
For you to  find
Places you’ll call home
I bind up
Prepare
So to wean an aching heart
Good bye my child
It is nearly time for you to go
You who started in my womb
Too soon you said hello

To places outside of me.

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Today is Day 10. Joining Emily at Emily Wierenga dot com for Imperfect Prose

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The Turning: In Which Around Every Corner Is A Discovery

shrimp boats on at night

Often they are small. And then other times they are wonderful and large, looming truths about life. They hover like ebony rain-packed  summer clouds in the afternoon. Or they float by like seeds blown from a spent dandelion. They are coming and going. A constant force to be reckoned with. They are hatchlings and seedlings and fledglings of this life.

Birthed in unexpected places and moments, they appear. And I am called to be vigilant and at peace. A combination of human emotion that allows tender and tough to co-exist. Tender enough to capture the magnificence. And tough enough to know that in the netting, there will be objects that must be released. It is not all glory and it is not all beauty. But seeking the lovely, the grace-filled and the glorious requires casting the net into the life seas.

In a state of watchful child-like wonder I can live this season of my life in a state of re-born newness. Like a bivalve cracks open and lets the water flow in and out, receiving and releasing. Keeping the nutrients, releasing the sediments. I am called to continually take in the discoveries of my life. I would starve on a diet of bland, if I never crack open the door to wonder. I would miss the shades of blue on the hydranga that go to purple, lavender and aqua. And  the hidden greens waiting to decide which color to be.

We would never know the way rain feels, dropping from a summer storm on warm tanned flesh if we remain cocooned in dry places. One more day reveals one more smell or taste, never before experienced.

And words of an eighteen year old child who want to tell their story get tangled in my net. I can choose.  I choose to  listen and realize there is more than the words unfurling from the man/child lips. There is a heart of curiosity and trust. There is his own discovery needing a place to land and light.

In a moment or two, a child will awake from her warm quilted bed in an air-conditioned room and tell me of her ten day mission trip. She has gone away and seen poverty and a world outside of her own. She and her passport are back. And there are stories to gently receive.

A parent lives a layered life of discovery. Because she holds the key to seeing through a child’s glistening eyes. Her own, the ones who look to her and call her momma. And it magnifies the wonder. For at once she is receiving discovery  through her own glassy portals  and stooping down to see through the eyes of those she is raising.

If I see with open wonder and a seeking heart, will I show my children how even in my fifty-fourth year of life, the beauty never ends. The unveiling never stops. And his Kingdom is filled with marvelous intricate designs. That art is living, breathing, waiting, hoping, pulsing all around.

And I am in this middle place. I see through the eyes of my aging mother too. The joys rebounding in her life. The strange and child-like discovery that is hers as she moves through her days. She forgets and then she remembers. And if I can learn to refine a listening heart,  I will hear the most intricate details of a woman, a mother and another poet’s life.

Around every corner is a discovery.  I will raise my net.

And bend into a low and listening stance, ever vigilant, ever watchful. Filled with the ready knowing that something is waiting. And that something is beautiful.

I will round the corner at a slow and steady gait. One that expects to not miss a single fleck floating in the sun-soaked or moon-drenched air.

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Joining Jennifer and Emily

On Vulnerability and Brene Brown: The Road To Joy, Part One


hat on the boatWe are little communities of me’s, I’s and selves.

And sticking our feet into the water of vulnerbility or diving straight in and swimming freely around can be a lonely act. Or a cleansing act.

(Please join me for the rest of my words on vulnerability over at Emily Wierenga’s where I am hosting Emily’s Imperfect Prose on Thursday, Join me and other writers as we explore redemption, in words, in life and in community.) And would you consider returning tomorrow for Part Two of my post “Vulnerability: The  Road to Joy”.

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Joining dear Jennifer for #tellhisstory at Jennifer Dukes Lee dot com

See Red Over Malaria. Bite Back

brookgreen tulips See Red over Malaria

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Ah, they are seeing red over Malaria and coming after me. They are waking up and fighting back.

They hear and read and their hearts are broken; now that they know the pain I cause. I am a deliverer of death. And they are waking up to the heavy toll I take on this world.

I am flying scared.

The souls are waking up and they are fighting mad.

And my favorite weapon is poverty. Because with poverty I can make sure a child is unable to stay protected from disease. And with poverty, I can keep the medicine out of the reach of impoverished children.

And with poverty as my agent of death  I am delivering  Malaria,  killing 655,000 people a year. A heavy heavy toll  every  365 days.

There are 3.3 billion people in the world. And because of my lethal weapon I keep half of those at risk of contracting the disease.

But I hear the tide is turing. And I hear they are seeing red. And I see the tears they weep. And I know they are coming after me. And it is a war.
When lovers of the souls in poverty, and tender generous hearts who weep at the effects of poverty wake up,  I  will have warriors of hope coming after me.

And they are fighting mad. And they are biting back.

I, the mosquito and they the lovers of Jesus, who can fight poverty, Malaria and suffering, we’re at war.

We are in a battle. And it is life or death.

I wish they would all go back to sleep.

(As told through the eyes of the mosquito)
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Compassion is fighting hard against Malaria. Donations from us, the people of hope, the light bearers and the poverty haters, we can donate a little and help a lot.

Donations provide households with treated mosquito nets. And they educate and treat those who are vulnerable, those who are in the cross-hairs of mosquito borne Malaria.

Visit Compassion’s website here to learn more and to hear about ways to give. Click here to go there.
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Consider Pinning or adding this visual to your facebook page today, World Malaria Day. Bring awareness to this deadly disease. It is small but it what I have.
brookgreen tulips See Red over Malaria

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Joining Emily and my team of writers over at Imperfect Prose where we write about redemption. Let’s  help redeem the suffering Malaria causes.

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