Breathing and thinking and writing-

After Luci was admitted to the ICU for the second time in two weeks, I ran outside to get some air, to figure out what is going on, to just let myself be. Here are some thoughts:


I know when she needs to cough, needs to burp, needs to turn, when she wants to see something, when she doesn't want to see something, when she needs to sit up, spit up, or sleep. I know when she needs to swallow, wants her paci, when she just wants to snuggle and read books. I know she will cry when I do some very mundane but unfamiliar action, and that she will laugh when I dance, blow my nose, grind the coffee or watch Jimmy Fallon.

I'm paying attention and buying her life's knowledge. I'm spending my time on her and gaining the richest bond in the world. I'm investing my heart, soul and body in this little girl, and the return yields love, trust and wisdom over time.

And at any given moment, this knowledge, this strong bond, the love, trust and wisdom -- they become all that there is. They become bigger than myself or Luci, and that is both a miracle and a terrible epiphany. They guide me and sustain me in the capacities they are meant to, yet they do not need me, do not depend on our continuing physicality. At any given moment, our breaths cease, and these things are all that remain.

I watched you catch a feather
rushing past in a gust of wind
when summer was handing the days over to autumn

in your workworn hands
lay the contrast of delicate softness
and rugged callouses

in your eyes
rested a calm knowing beneath
the surprise of hope.

Grace

A heavy mist hung overhead the night

you told me you were dying.

You were high and I was tired,

but our words buzzed and the stars

shone through fog and darkness to

show us the truth about living.

The beauty above us first shimmered

then flickered with the realization

of humanity's hurt - our deepest pains-

and I couldn't tell if pain of death or truth

was worse:

You sobbed the tears of regret

and I cried of incomprehension or denial.

Rain fell on us both

and I remembered the time

we both ran from a storm,

falling once in the mud,

huddling scared in our bunkbed

before dinner-

I wonder what you remembered,

what the heavens tell you tonight...

the fog is lifting

and taking you with it.

a snapshot

There are moments that take place, moments that emerge, that seem to remain fixed in eternity. Maybe not fixed in time, because these moments come to be from beyond time and find their place here. Right now, I'm in Savannah, it's summer, 2010, and I'm counting my last five dollars and eighty seven cents. I looked up, and a bolt of lightning struck the power line pole next to the take-away diner I was hoping to get my fourth meal of the week from. I dropped a few nickels and you turned around, as though I and my nickels had caused the clap of lightning/thunder/approaching storm. I nodded awkwardly, trying to decide whether or not to pick up my change, and you turned back to the counter in front of you. The power had only gone for a few seconds, and no one inside seemed too concerned about the oncoming weather. I realized that I was concerned about rain drops falling onto your cascading red hair and wondered if I should say something. You took a deep sigh.

Hello Aalto Lounge Writers

The welcome sign hangs in the corner,

and that is how I feel about this group.

Welcome to the corner, but not welcome really-

the sign is just there to let you know we're here.

You can join if you want to or

just admire our sliding knuckles on

white paper as they glow red in the dark neon light.

You're welcome to watch, long for, to enjoy.

Marty in July

A car pulls up. And another one. A third. The cat sits on the porch and watches the action. Four more cars arrive, the last two fighting to fit between the oak tree and the driveway in the muddy grass. They all sit there, silently, as if no one had driven them there and no one was waiting to get out. But no, these weren't magical cars; there were drivers and passengers inside, and they were most definitely waiting. Even the cat knew that no one would move until that dingy green door opened, and Marty put down her can of beer to wave them in. The silence lingers, and then a breeze blows it away, rustling the leaves of the tree and causing the cat to stretch out a bit further. Finally Marty's shadow moves past old peach-colored curtains, and the door opens matter-of-factly. Blue eyes, dark grey hair, and a faded red dress color her 5'5" frame. She looks at the cat, nods as it decides to go inside, and collects her mail from the box next to her door. She glances slightly at her bills and slightly at her guests, takes a sip of her beer, and waves at the small gang of autos converged on her front lawn.

When there are no words

to describe the sunset,

a baby's laugh,

a funeral,

a broken heart,

we listen to the hum of love

that courses through leaves and people and mountains and birds.

We listen and try to remember

the time that we knew the words,

and we let the fullness of love's sound

carry us forward to new places.