On New Birth

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On New Birth

I remember. Forgetting is not an option. And if it was, I would choose to recall every fragment of the story. Remembering and forgetting sit with mystery and paint the canvas of today. The brushstrokes of tomorrow hold wet paint of waiting. And the fragments’ fragments, I would recall each one.

We are marked as mother’s by the ways we bring life into the world. The ways. There are many.  Laboring for years of a life changes perspective. Like tears on a page, the lines blur after being soaked by saline droplets racing down rivulets over cheekbones and around earlobes. Salt enhances flavor. Every memory is tinged with vivid recollection. The tear catchers can tell of what they witnessed. They held hope and joy and pain in equal measure.

And seeing life through the lens of infertility becomes a lens for seeing the world. Because the waits and pauses and hold on’s feel again like that. Pregnant pauses weigh us heavy with wonder. The question that shouts from the heart is why. Why slow down or shackle? Why hold back on life and gift and art and the birthing of new. Wrestling and wrangling possibility, I remember what I forgot. Perfect timing demands time. It is the wellspring, the life source, the fountain of new birth.

This thing about new birth and creation and creative birthing?  It is constant. It comes. It walks in the door, it comes through the womb, it bursts forth from the soil and it erupts from the limbs of the pecan tree. And this other thing, its Irish twin is the mystery of when. In waiting on the birth of a creative project, I feel mystery in the infertility of now. Now feels pressed with wait. Now is held by the weight of wait. When is held by mystery.

So I adopt a posture of certainty. It comes in part from the trail of fat bread crumbs on the path of before. I am sure of the sureness. I am at peace with the pause. I am attending the beauty of the mysteries of but when. Because faith and hope and love are in the soil. And that is all I know. They are in the soil of the tree, the soil of the garden and the soul of me.

And when I forget, I come back to this. I am certain of the certainty of new birth. And I am certain of the power of a tear.

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peace and grace to you,

elizabeth

The Day Spring Almost Tied The Knot

wpid-IMG_20130814_190058.jpgThe Day Spring Almost Tied The Knot

The Earth just opened her new box, waxy smells wafting out, tips sharpened
Virgin points, aiming toward heaven
Like instruments of praise
Whittled odes of rejoicing
Wrapped in slick paper

Names like that of the new season’s OPI
Nail polish
So perfectly given
One cannot tell if the name made the color
Or the color birthed the name
And which, do tell came first
In any event
It is a birthing of new
And to her surprise
As she opened the box
With the ity bity black hole in the back
Low and centered
Round and welcoming
For sharpening, when tools become dull and spent

The whole box was 64 shades
Of green
And creams
Dual monochromatic offerings
For coloring the Earth in her
New garb
For shading the world
In new birth

The world was once again
Awash
In the hues of greeney new birth
Of shoots and leaves
Grasses and stems
Trumpets of new flora and fauna
Vines pressed through the layer
Of dark and dank

She closed the box
Hoarded and saved
This school-bus-yellow
New box of crayons
Perhaps it would be needed
On another day, Winter the tyrant
Has never played fair
Deliverer of death and dark
Cold and fear
Lights off
Lights back on
Mysteriously, again

Unsure, uncertain
And truly afraid
That this was a prelude, precursor
Preamble, only
To Spring

Her box of creams and greens
It may be needed again
To color the world
Brightly resplendent indeed
One day soon

But of one thing she was certain
With no doubt at all
The Earth was her loveliest
When dressed as a bride

Approaching the altar
Both timid and brave
Head bowed in her virginal
Expectant state, behind a thin veil
Of cream lace

She wore a gown of 1950’s Virginal White
And carried a bouquet of  The Grinch Stole Christmas Greens
Loose greens, free and just garden picked

Closing  the box this March Monday
She determined to
Wait patiently for
The Real “true” Spring
Spring Green to arrive
Followed by Pea Soup Green
And Grass Through Your Toes Green
And her favorite, Pistachio Ice Cream Green
Or was it Thin Mint Green

So she closed the lid
And placed her new box of Crayola’s
On the tippy top shelf

And waited patiently
For the bride of Spring

While painting her toenails
Moss At The Base Of The Pine Tree
Green
For the big event