(To confront writers block, she) Mixed metaphors.
Now I understand
it was never about the others. Not their timeline, their values. Not the scripts we were fed about how to be and behave in this world. All came down to this—we are each right on time. Here to understand our fullness, sure. But then we must empty ourselves.
As I see it, there’s the work. We discover—after twenty years or sixty— that which Spirit seeded within us. And once we recognize those wee beginnings, they must be nurtured. They must.
Now I understand
we are not meant to read the comments, count the likes, compare the thickness of our stems, the breadth of our leaves to others. We mustn’t prune the plants before the buds can open. Who are we to decide we are made of the sorrows and furies of other bodies rather than the godly glitter in th
e winds? What vines from our hands, mouths, what flows from our pens is a panning in the stream. There will be flecks of gold, however minute. There will be.
We are designed to sprout, to lower roots into the soil we stand on right now. Right here. Our way is to leaf and allow whatever flowers, whether we call it weed or beauty.
Today may I may you may we
mother the garden inside. Keep the dandelions that bring so much joy. Make tea from them, serve it up hot with honey. Grind the weed-seeds into flour and make scones. Slather them with butter. You can have some. I’ll eat the rest, chase them with poems grown wild in my own peculiar loam.
Photo by Anita Austvika on Unsplash
“Unbroken” by Melinda Coppola