When You’re Not Done With January

Photo by Plush Design Studio on Pexels.com

When You’re Not Done With January

Photo by Gabriela Palai on Pexels.com

It might just be the tortoise in me. That preference to move slowly—to process slowly, to act and re-act at the pace of sub-normal. January appears to be trying her best to leave me in the dust. She is plowing ahead and building up steam, finding steam in the gray matter she makes her hallmark. Her trademark color of sky and air. Moving forward with the confidence of a triathlete on steroids. While I haven’t chosen my 2019 leather day-planner calendar thing yet. (Decision fatigue has followed me into the new year.) She delights in clean slates and fresh starts and new beginnings which she parades in front of me like a braggadocios half marathoner with a proclamation sticker adhered boldly and proudly on her mini-van bumper.

And. yet for all of this January this and January that — I have grown to love her. And for the first time in my nearly 60 years I am begging her to stay, to linger here awhile.

I find her enthusiasm contagious. Let’s go she says, into the fog of the unknown. Let’s run, she says, it’s all downhill from here. Let’s start again, she promises, she flirts, she calls me to the land of new mercies.

And then she leaves.

She disappears into the month that ends with a thump on the 28th day. She leaves me alone just as I believe I may have found my stride. She disappears into the fog of snow and ice, a thaw and even a hint of spring. It’s as if she finds the whole month a game of hide and seek. Of go and stop.

But she is my muse. I find her inspiring and a companion on the days that darken in a snap. I find her filled with promise that is usually attributed to springtime.

But whether or not I am ready to say goodbye, like many things I have grown to love, slowly, over time, on the back end of the curve — I must say goodbye to January in a matter of days.

Yet I will fold her promises of new beginnings, press them into my flesh.
I will hold her contagious enthusiasm for the blank page which says “what if,” written in January’s magic disappearing ink.

And I will say, not “goodbye” but “see you soon.”

Because though I have not allowed her to be the pace setter she has tried to be, I have learned to make my way. Like a January storm that muffles the world, she has both quieted me and energized me. She has brought me the gift of a new day again and again.

And she has mercifully shown me that the way to go is forward, always, into the fog of uncertainty. Into the haze of gray waiting for the clouds to pass. Into the day after and the day after that—with a January hopefulness that is nestled into the crunchy crust of frozen ground and muted skies.

Because just as I will not say goodbye to January, January will not speak goodbye to me. And we will silently go into the month that says, 28 days is enough for anyone who learns to love a day well.
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I hope you’ll join me every Wednesday for new episodes of my podcast, Peabiddies Podcast- Pursue the Art of Noticing. It is available on a dozen or more listening platforms. Click the tab on the home page here to listen in or click here to listen inhttps://elizabethwmarshall.com/peabiddies-podcast-pursue-the-art-of-noticing/

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One Beautiful Mistake

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One Beautiful Mistake

Perhaps redemption looks a lot like this. Or a little like this. Or something like this. I’d like to hope that there is a splash of brilliant transformation on the mistakes that we have made. Brushstroke by brushstroke. Wet with the tears of remorse and cries for forgiveness and new starts.

Forgiveness and new mercies sent to Earth on the wings of His amazing grace. And I whisper the prayer, give me the eyes to see Your loving arms around each one of my own, Beautiful Mistakes. Made beautiful by Your grace. Washed clean. Changed into holy beauty, by Your unfathomable, unbelievable, unending, and unmerited grace.

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One Beautiful Mistake

Red bleeds pink from the sky
one night
Writing cryptic messages

Heaven’s hieroglyphics
I run to it
I run away

Catch what is lost
My breath

I see the beauty
In one beautiful mistake

Redemption
Written by The
Sky-writer
Lover of my soul

I nod a billion times
Each a nod of gratitude
They number,
Mirror every unseen star

Feel
You dry my leaking eyes
And hear
You whisper
At the start of night

There was a fire in the sky last night
Before the earth
Was wrapped
In skies of frigid cold
Remember long, the beautiful
Remember long, the warmth
Hold loosely to each gift
And wait for the Beautiful’s return

Red bleeds pink from the sky
One night
Writing holy messages

Just One More

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Just One More

Is there room for one more

In a world of crowded words and broken hearts

Why tell another story of the fiery nighttime light

Am I right

Or am I wrong to write another

Poem about the moon
Many will not remain to hear

Captivated
by his winsome wooing,
he carried me from the warmth that was my night

In the quiet of our home
in the quiet of my heart, I heard him speak in muted tones

Many married, many longer, many sit
hip to hip
shouldered
by the night

And we
belie our age with our posture
Heads of every shade of grey
more akin to two
retiring into

Their final moonlit night

Of life

We

Seek nothing loftier
Than the
Fullness of our moon

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And so if I fail
To write this poem, to which the world may not respond

One more word gift, packaged by a poet’s bow
that the world
may not want, nor read nor need

About the moon and me

And you

Then it is I who die a little as I live

Let fizzle out
the gift

That was your whispered words

Let them fall into a world, cold and dark

Burn out like every other love that lost its fire

Flame extinguished  by
cruel ignorance
of the simple needs of love

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Just one more
maybe just for me

A poem about the moon and you

And how you spoke
gently

Into our love
on one bliss-filled winter’s night

The poets cannot stay away

From subjects on the moon and love

But neither can the moon

Good company, I am in

When I am held so sweetly
by both the moon

and you

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I may never know

If I was right or I was wrong

But I will know
that I was

Simply, loved by you
In the winter
Of our love

Once more

Cleaning My Brush

Curled tucked
Fetal position
Rolled
Warm
Like a hot cross bun
Baking in the white down
Oven of my bed
Rest warms me
As I clean my brush, swipe the bristles
To remove the residue
Folded into a two am pose
Snug as a bug in a rug
Soul rest cleans
The brush
So I can wake anew
Mercy
Full
Of grace
To create
White canvas waits
And the uncurling of knees to chest
Legs at rest
Pretzel twists of arms and legs
Springs from the layered nest
Re-creation begins anew.

 

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