Note: Individual poems will be introduced by images. In simpler language, the words between images are individual writings, not a continuation of what came before.
The plates stop spinning
And fall to the cold, hard floor
Into a million tiny pieces
Unable to be repaired
To the Baby Crying in Church:
I hear your woeful cries of exhaustion and feelings you don’t understand.
Yours is the only audible voice alongside the pray-er proclaiming goodness and victory.
And yours is the voice I choose to hear.
Voice the hurt and confusion — the longing for something beyond this moment.
The longing for something more.
Today, sweet baby, you gave voice to my prayer. In your innocence and perfection and lack of understanding, you gave voice to the cry of my heart.
Not the silver tongued words of the pray-er. Not the fear of “out there.”
The honest, plaintive cries of a soul longing for something just out of reach.
To the baby crying in church:
Thank you. Me too.
When grief came knocking, it tried to destroy me
It crept in at night
Woke me from sleep
Stole my breath
Stole my balance
Stole my safe place
Her smile, her words, her wisdom
Since that night I’ve wondered …
Would she be proud?
Would she approve?
Would I have broken her heart?
The cruelty of grief is that it steals, but not completely
It removes, but doesn’t wash away
When grief came knocking, I was deadened to its entry
Mine but not mine
Born without life
Numbed — shut down — locked away
Not by my choice, but by the choice of others.
Yoga is balance
Not just poses on a mat
Love, peace, pain, joy, fear
Each is yoga
Each is life and real and true
Goal: stay on the mat
Love brings about change
But love does not require it
Love loves us as is