Opening.

The sadness enveloped me
just as the cold brisk water
when I dove.

Welling up from my heart
momentarily holding
tight and constricted
in my throat.

Rolling salty and full down my cheeks
Water contouring to my body.
Shocking my every cell awake.

My breath caught deep in my chest,
I gasp at the surface.
Awake.
Alive.
Full of sensation.

Cold ankles. Water. Rippling between my legs. Nipples hard. Skin reaching. Searching.
Heart breaking open.

Lake water drips from the tips of my hair. I pull myself out.

Exposed to the chilly morning air.
Sun barely touching the sky.

Fish jump. Deer watch. Know me.

How do I express this gratitude?
For allowing me to come to home in this place. To lower my shroud of disconnection. to feel.

I offer my tears.
my sobs.
My shaking body.
and know that I am enough.

old glass bottle

My father was rebuilding the old civil war road. It crossed through my town, over my hill, my farm. By the time I came around it had all grown over. It began with small weeds-what most people consider a nuisance. But to the land...it brings it back. That old road, which had been cleared and built by soldiers and volunteers, filled itself in with weeds-then brush and undergrowth, then trees. And my Dad was clearing them again. I'm not exactly sure why. So we could access more of the family land. maybe.

Whatever the reason, I loved it. I loved trekking into the hills with him. He'd spend the day sweating. I'd spend it exploring and grinning ear to ear the whole time. Every inch of my exposed skin dusty and dirty.

We most often took the old farm-all down. It had an old wooden platform hooked to the back- where you'd connect the wagons. All the tools were on it. Sometimes I'd sit there- watching the world fad into the distance as we made our way deeper into the woods.

Most often, I'd ride up with Dad. That's where he'd tell the stories from. Yelling over the loud engine. Occasionally ducking out of the way of branches as they whipped back toward us after getting caught on the exhaust pipes. He'd point out old cellar holes and tell me who had lived there. Or he'd help me puzzle piece the layout- barn here, house there, pump house, water well.
I think he'd stop the tractor and begin working next to those once-lived-in-homes just for me. He knew I loved to touch and feel the stones, remembering a story in a different way. He knew that sometimes I'd find a spoon or a bottle packed with dirt, in the dirt and it'd be like I found a buried treasure.

Peanut Butter

i don't like the stuff.
lots of people like it. some love it.
many purchase it, and are particular to the brand.
some grind their own.

some like it with sugar, some salt.
some like it naked.
smooth, crunchy... or on celery.

Actually, I take the celery part back. Most people I know say the celery is a vehicle for it. but not for me. I scrape it off and just eat the celery.

I cringe thinking about the people who eat it by the spoonful. gobs at a time.
not me.

I don't like the way it smells. tastes. the oily residue it leaves behind. the way it sticks to the roof of my mouth....or how I have to dig my finger in the far corner of my mouth to free my teeth of it.

My cousin choked on it. Aunt Bonnie stuck her finger down his throat. It saved him, but you're damn straight he never ate it from a spoon again.

with jelly, not even.
cookies or crackers. no.
with apples- it ruins them, so no.

I just don't like peanut butter.

blessing.

May I always be surrounded by an abundance of dirt.
May my feet find sweet relief nestled in its coolness.
May the creases of my fingers be filled with it.
May it dust my cheeks and mingle with my sweat.

May it ground me....
and remind me that I am home

when I am there.