SHE WILL NOT BE MEASURED
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THIS GARDEN, LIVING AND DYING
Seeds germinate. Roots push into the muck. They draw sustenance from this muck, and push that up and into stalks and buds. Here, in this garden, my family blossoms. My love blossoms. My beloved blossoms. My life is shaped. And here, too, all of it withers, dies.
PRACTICE, TO BE THE MAN I AM
And, coming up for air, coming through practice, feeling held, I am so grateful for this practice!
TENDERLY, I HOLD IT ALL
Alders, kissed by a moment of April sun, and only for as long it takes me to do a short meditation, opening red buds into a green haze of fresh leaves high in the forest. I sit and see it all, and am on the edge of tears. My heart breaking for joy.
REMEMBERING THE CROOKED WAYS
...my history with women –and especially the women I've loved– is a history of avoiding the wisdom that comes from this surrender. Avoiding. Or, as I am realizing, actively resisting.