On Pulling Carrots

A

20170525_071801-1

On Pulling Carrots 

Some simple acts cry out to just be
Left alone, not friendly to or befitting of another poetic metaphor
Unembellished and resolute in their ordinariness
Not made to be made
To fit into an overstretched metaphor, placed strategically into the lines of
A poem, Lord please no
But raising a carrot from the ground
Is not such an act, it is artful and begs, no wails and weeps
Please place me in your bad poetry
It is replete with metaphorical monstrosities of language
And given artistic license, I could take the carrot
On a wild and winsome ride
On the wings of metaphor, allegory, simile, and mirth
A rising up from the soil is like raising Lazarus from the dead,  or the fast asleep from
Their garden bed, a grave
It is a spotting of an iceberg tip,  moss green carrot tops waving in the salt-laden Lowcountry air
Singing their siren’s song of hide and seek
Come dive down into the wet dark dirt, find me hidden here
In the shadows of the Earth
It is teeming with imagery of mystery
What lies below, we do not know
We are only given a glimpse of what lies ahead
What we are shown, a small portion of what we know
In faith, exists
Frayed green carrot tops waving from the Black Cow soil
Come and catch me if you can
It is a study in anthropology, and Psyche 101
Each one unique
No two alike
The root has ample time to develop into a carrot like no one has seen before, each one
A brilliant masterpiece
Hidden from the predators and garden thieves
Roots twist and turn, formed like sculptor, crafted art
In clay or bronze or wood
Have you pulled the orange beauties up one by one
Or even by clumps of threes and fours
Before
Some simple acts cry out to just be
Left alone
Outside the confines of a poem
Pulled carrots from my garden
May choose their rooty fate
Of death by poetic metaphor
Or roasted with olive oil and a bit of sea salt
Becoming dinner on my plate

 

 

 

What Am I Missing?

wp-1487612401910.jpg

What Am I Missing?

If you asked me if I was on a mission,
Had a mantra, a rallying cry
(I might hesitate in feigned humility and feigned surprise)
And then I might say, well yes
It covers the world and the world is covered by it

If you must know
Even if you don’t
Care to ask
Don’t care to listen
Didn’t even ever wonder
That’s okay, ’cause I am still talking
One day I woke up to the wondering of this
And the next day I woke up again to the intense unsettling of this
Days went by and I heard a trembling in my veins and in my sinew and bone
And my insides and my outsides and in time
All the parts of me were singing in unison
And the choir of me was loud
When I listened closely from the outside in and the inside out
It was like the milkyway was an orchestra, each star an instrument
And they played loudly in me, all horns and strings and keyboards, in sweet harmony
I heard a song like a psalm though the Pslams are already written
I heard praise and shouts of blessed remembering
And hymns to no more forgetting to abide awhile in Him and in my days
The verses sang a halelluia chorus of “right now is glory”
Holy is humming in the sacred now
And you are a fool, though a loved fool, to refuse to see
To listen
To behold
To dance in the music of these days
And even though the lasso was ’round the stories of now
And we were tethered, we two
Together at last
And though the harp and the electric guitar played a duet,
A hymn of holy matrimony’s first dance
Paired, partners in listening out for the songs from the milky way chorus of wonder
I with my bucket for catching it all
Slipped and fell
And the stories came shooting out, as if the heavens released the stars like rockets headed toward Earth
So I must go gathering again
And dream some more
Of the places and people I forgot to remember, but first to go see

and go behold

And go love

Because in all the joy I thought I had
My neighbor I had forgotten

On New Birth

wpid-20150801_114121.jpg

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.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Join me at Grace Table

Join me at A Quiet Place For Words

Join me on Instagram and on Twitter

Join me on Facebook

Thank you for joining me.

peace and grace to you,

elizabeth