Thanksgiving

As the last of fall leaves the trees,
As rain soaks into every pore of every inch of bark,
As the moss renews its strength and the wind turns southward,
I say a silent "thank you" to the walls of my home that hold in the warmth of the people within them.

Meow

Push, pull, the heels dig in, pushing back

The hands push forward and down

Pushing through fields of words

Through fields of who I think I am and who I am not. 

Treading waves of time

An attempt at an immortal "Ungh." 

A soft plop that is a child of mine

Slipping from between me

For you

Some creation of mine

That is also me

That can be yours

But I need to keep it safe, 

Keep it locked between the folds of 

Who I am

Who I want to be

That's not me

That's between us

Secrets that are intimately yours, mine, ours

That they validate

They stamp with approval

That we don't need 

And that we do need. 

A labor of my guts, my womb, 

My hands and my intellect. 

A child that cries into your arms

That leaps from me

While clawing it's way through me

Into me

From me

Exquisitely me

Delicious and bile

And ephemerally heavy

Without form

Without function

Without your approval

With your approval please

I yearn for you to embrace it

To embrace me. 

To share with you is to understand

Myself. 

To show you the dreams of a child

Alone in her closet

With her fears

Her mistrust

To block out the noise

To find that place within that feels solid

That doesn't exist

But has a voice

That asks for you to hear 

What you can't hear

What you can't see

What you can't feel

But leaves its impression on your hands

Heavy with guilt, love, the ecstasy of finding that inner place. 

Late

Night
Late
Sleep just ahead of me,
Ever ahead of me,
On the horizon
Out of reach
Out of step with me.

Trying to catch up keeps me awake,
keeps me up, reaching forward.

If I could just stop to let it catch up.

Give Me Pause

So often in my day at work I scramble from one issue to the next. I find myself being pulled from a tough negotiation with a vendor to the next second (literally) talking to a family about their child's prognosis. This emotional gymnastics often leaves me wishing for a pause. A moment to breathe. A break. A long vacation to restore my energy, my drive, and most of all my patience and caring. Today I received a moment that gave me pause, but not in the form I had expected.

Most days I am a beacon of hope, always with a smile and talking about how so many of our kids leave here getting better. Today a photo album of past guests was placed in front of me. As I looked through the first few pages, my eyes stopped on a young man that I had met. (Often I only get to meet parents and siblings.) I wondered to myself when he was going to return as they had made frequent visits. Then I remembered that he unexpectedly died last year. He wouldn't be back. I had to stop looking through the album.

This could be depressing, this could leave me numb for the rest of the day. Instead, it gave me pause. Made me stop for a moment and remember what we mean to each other and how much each little act of kindness can mean. It's easier to stop, slow down, remember "what's important" when a moment like this comes your way.

I could still cry though. Inside I say a little thank you to this young man, a little, you are missed and your short life made a difference in the fabric of the universe. Your absence is noticed.

Water For Tea

Steep
Endurance
Water

My collage tells you this. Tells you there are many layers; stories behind people, behind mountains.
Simple things, simple times, complex relationships.
Long journeys.
Water

Pulling colors, smells, essences
From little pieces of who we are.

You are the water.

Levied

Pregnant rivers
waiting to breach
earthen mounds.

Hope and Humor

Waiting for tea water to boil in the early morning, I hear stories of an 8 year old who just lost a third of her lung to cancer. The doctor said she wouldn't be running any marathons soon. Dad laughs that he didn't say "ever." He shares that a coworker is running a marathon for her. Dad tells me they were told she has two years to live at one point. He was devastated when she asked if she could work here when she grows up. Then he sighs with relief as he says, "Now let's get her an application." He believes she will be fine, she has a future and she is one tough cookie.

This is what I have learned here in six and a half years. If I can have learned only one thing it is the most important. You can get through anything with hope and humor. Anything.