What if when we die

our hearts unroll

like scrolls

with detailed lists of everyone

and everything

we ever loved?

 

What if our minds

start spinning like records

blaring the symphonies

of our deepest thoughts

and ideas?

 

What if our bodies

stretch into miles of film

projecting onto a blank screen

each ecstatic

and painful moment

the flesh felt?

 

What if our souls

bloom into bouquets

releasing each fragrant encounter

with wonder

and truth?

Sadness circles, surrounds,
settling into slow song,
sinking into sudden, slippery silence.

The whole world

is one giant cornucopia

spilling everything we need.

If only we will open

eyes

*

hands

*

hearts

The fourth graders

in their 10-year-old exuberance

are doing a unit on poetry.

Their poems,

markered on bright construction paper,

line the hall outside their classroom.

 

Eager words and passionate phrases

leap,

hiss,

and beckon,

with those “strong” verbs

the teacher insists that they use.

 

Some, polished and proper,

some, witty and warm,

some, raw and real,

the author’s young heart pulsing through the paper.

 

Ice cream, puppies, horses, soccer…

subjects they know inside and out.

One boy, a shy dreamer,

questions in his slanted block letters

“When do seeds know to become trees?”

    W  O  W.

 

Thank you, poetry,

for your ocean of expression,

your glowing presence inside us all.

Bless these fourth grade souls

with your magic.

Keep your flame burning inside them

long after they finish this unit.

Melting into a puddle of peace,

with sunlight to hurry the process,

thoughts tiptoe toward stillness.

 

Surrendering to this moment,

without regard to before or after,

awareness floods the afternoon.

 

Expanding into the essence of everything,

with stars for eyes and shells for ears,

spirit embraces its source.

like a sunflower in a manicured park,

sprouting satellite blooms each time they try to chop it down.

Underneath fancy soils and fertilizers lies the seed, the roots,

screaming, “Grow! Become your sunflower destiny”

even if the plant is trimmed or transplanted.

My seed, my wild kernel, screams to write, to sing, to laugh

until I start blooming again,

start growing with a stubborn rebellion those flowers

that nobody wants to ruin the perfect landscapes

they’ve envisioned for my life.

And it feels so good to grow, to stretch,

to reach toward the sun,

to dance with the wild wind,

and to store that ecstasy deep within

that simple seed, those thirsty roots,

retaining my essence even when

they storm the field with machetes.

I open to the day, a cup waiting to fill and be filled.

I pray for kindness and light, with keen eyes to recognize them.

I open to teaching, in any form, and I promise to absorb each lesson.

I pray for awareness and awakening, with able hands to fulfill their commands.

I open to life and I pray for the courage to live it.

“…our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves…”  T.S. Eliot

 

Sometimes I wash my dog’s collar

and leave it in the sun to dry.

He mopes and slumps,

worries, whimpers,

unsettled by this freedom.

Only after I click it back around his neck

will he wag and prance,

identity returned,

comfort restored.

 

I wear work as my collar,

restrictive, confining,

yet comfortable, predictable,

a container protecting me

from days surrendered to creative abandon,

from reckless pursuit of passion,

from the instinct to run into the wilderness

and never look back.

If you step out of your thoughts for a moment

and look closely as the darkness yawns

and stretches into morning,

its pink whisper growing into an orange roar,

you will see another world.

Clouds become sturdy canyon walls

and rugged mountains,

surrounding sky-colored rivers and lakes.

*

Envy the birds who cross back and forth

between landscapes

with each flap of their wings,

and wonder

who

you would be in that other world,

how it would feel

to swim in the sky and climb around clouds,

what

would make you want to come back.

to this world you know now.

A wry smile sneaks onto my somber face

when I identify the cashier at the end of this long, long line.

Her nametag reads BRENDA

and she’s started wearing barrettes in her hair.

 

It does not fail—

if I am tired

or prickly

or hurried,

if nothing has gone right all day long,

if my sanity clings to the edge with two flimsy fingernails,

BRENDA

will be my cashier,

like this is just another question on life’s big test,

the one I can’t quite seem to pass.

 

BRENDA gets overwhelmed easily

and she’s not the brightest crayon in the box.

She usually has to call for help

and I watch my express line halt

while lines of overflowing carts race past.

 

I could switch lines,

but you know how that goes—

the cashier in the new line would run out of dollar bills

and need to do a price check

or call a manager for approval…

 

So I stay put,

trying hard to be grateful

for this lesson in patience,

for the opportunity to steal a few deep breaths,

for BRENDA,

my teacher.