Lucy Grace

I’ve become accustomed to this ever deepening, ever tender movement.

And yet I’m always astounded (all over again) that there’s more. Which is ridiculous because I teach that existence is limitless. Further evidence we are only ever students teaching ourselves.

a pilgrim
walks her prayers

she walks the answer

somewhere within the despair
and sweet longing
of being human

the meaning of life
is a rhetorical question

When someone we love dies, we are allowed to grieve.

People understand this process, it makes sense to them. They wouldn’t dream of asking us not to feel.
And yet each of us endures many deaths, over and over throughout these magical – and sometimes deeply tender or outrightly shocking – lives.

I’ve become interested lately in how our idea of healing is often a subtle form of self-hatred. The orientation of transformation being to finally become enough. OK- in the eyes of myself, other, God. Whatever our particular yard stick is, today.

Love is often far more terrifying to receive for humans, than criticism or rage. We can only ever accept the love we think we deserve.

She is the breath
of the divine,
moving as it’s chest
it’s limbs, it’s heart.

What else could I be?

The body of God
is everything.

We were warriors.
We mined
all the parts
of our lives

we deemed inadequate
for excavating.

Cutting and pasting
ourselves.

About how they might find a sense of aliveness, potency, joy, connection. I understand this longing completely – it’s tender, honest. We all share it.

Move me.
Return me, to the borders
of my body

That you may take me,
where you want me.

Work
through me

The lines of a lifetime
gather like water

In you, I saw a billion lives
merging, melting

tumbling together.

No cathedral
no temple
no church

but my own heart.

Wherever I go,
I carry that.
Heaven is here
in hip-sway

I walked
a thousand blocks

with bleeding feet

for you to teach me
how to unlearn everything.

And in all those moments
when I was a refugee
from myself

Unclench
your fisted heart
and let it break.

Just let it.

Open
every door of yourself

give over deeply,
grant entry to the pain

I bathe in cicada hum.
When I need ministry
I let the grass lavish
it’s deep devotion
upon me
and the dew
drip its sermons
right into my heart.

I try to be
as unbusy

as I can be.

Business,
hurts me.

Leaves
no time
for receiving

There is a flow to life
that we must follow

a place where the mystical
meets the mundane

the profound collides
with the profane

where every butterflies wing
points the same way.

We don’t need
to dress up our spirituality
in fancy language

Sanskrit might as well be
cicada hum

church is apple blossom
and watermelon

choir is a chorus
from a bank of summer flowers
worshiping sky

I open my full hands
before Kairos

Say that holy name
and
trust

I lived my whole life
on a whim and a dime
– on Gods time

I lay awake for hours last night watching my daughter sleep – the night before Easter chocolates, she’s so excited. I found myself asking God (call it consciousness, great spirit, Alah – whatever) “how can I ever possibly love her enough? You’ve set humans an impossible task.”

I’ve had many conversations lately about how and why we choose to give. Or choose not to. Most of us are good hearted people, doing our best to be of service to our families, communities, friends. But many are worn out and not sure when it is “ok” to say no or give to ourselves.