There you are

- For Polly


There were eight of us. Once.
Now as I count
I have to touch a finger and say each name
because the math never seems quite right.
(Yes, you notice that too?)
Seven.

Heading to a gathering of longtime friends
that begins with a solo road trip.
Driving in the rain toward a promise of sunshine,
following a familiar route
while completely lost in thought.

Launched by a hug from my youngest
and a kiss from my guy.
(The dogs only looked up -
knowing the suitcase meant they weren't invited.)

Singing like you do when there is
no one there to listen.
Suddenly "Karla B's" voice fills the car,
silencing me with a melancholy tune
that carries so many memories -
goodbye my friend.

Making me wish the hugs promised
at the end of the day were here,
with me, now.

Truth nudges its way into my thoughts,
blurring the line between what was and what is.
Realizing that they are with me here,
in the memories and also in this moment.
In the tears and the laughter.
Embraced by a hug that doesn't let go.
(You know the kind.
We have a special name for it, don't we.)

Now, home again,
I think back on the weekend.
The gift of friendship
shared around a large wooden table
with one empty chair.

There were eight of us once.
And, really, there always will be.

Cast the first stone

Here's what I picture.
A man, Middle Eastern descent
squatting on the ground
surrounded by angry confusion.
Eyes focused downward,
drawing in the dirt with his finger.

Listening, taking it all in,
standing out by not participating
in the accusations.

A woman, accused of her sins,
already pummeled by judgement
while awaiting her fate.
No recourse. Alone with her fear.
A tear makes its way down her cheek.

Angry, righteous people,
so ready to judge this woman for her sin.
(Is there no accused man to stand with her?)
A growing crowd waiting, in anger,
in hate, in judgement
to give this woman what she deserves.

Which ends up being what she receives.

Words are spoken.
The stones are dropped,
striking the earth with muffled thuds,
obscuring a heart drawn with a finger
in the dust.

Forgiveness.

As I turn to walk away, I realize
there is something in my hand.
Judgement changes into personal conviction.

He stands up finally,
and looks into my eyes,
seeing my soul.

Who am I in this story?
I release the stone I am holding
along with the sins I try to hide.

Forgiven.

The final pieces

Dumping the puzzle onto the table,
I watch her flip the pieces right side up
as I search for the edges.

We've done this before.

Trying one piece at a time,
her wedding ring slipping to the underside
of her finger as she works.

We try a conversation or two,
but there are so many words missing
that we choose a comfortable silence instead.

Why did I wait to ask the questions
until the answers had only beginnings?

Why did I work for so long
to maintain a distance when now
the middle of her hug
is right where I want to be?

Time changed both of us it seems.

...

On the drive home
the leaves swirl in front of me.
Bursts of color are now transitioning into
bare branches, chilling me to my bones.

Glancing in the rearview mirror
I catch the memory of her waving from the front door.

I wonder what this season feels like to her.

...

Fitting the last pieces into the puzzle.

A homeless man

I saw a homeless man,
clearly confused,
walking along the road
wearing a trash bag for a coat.

Watching from a safe distance.
A window between us.
Or maybe a world.
Wondering what he needs,
how I could help.

Fear trounced love,
as it so often does.
The most I could do was say a brief prayer
and then look away.
Again.

I am so very sorry.
Could you tell him please?

The moments in between

It's funny. Well sort of.
Hmmm... let me start again.

I was thinking.
About all the little, seemingly insignificant moments,
that take place between the mountain top experiences.

All the ways I am encouraged to grow,
to experience, to learn, to forgive, to love,
to become who I am.

Every day. Each moment.
At my desk at work.
On the phone with my mom during our evening calls.
Talking with the cashier, who I have known for a long time,
because I am rather old and this is a very small town.
Sitting beside my husband outside,
watching the chickens who make us laugh when they run.
Touching base with my kids through quick texts
so they know I think about them so many times each day.
Or hiking in the mountains with friends,
who become closer with each step.

I was thinking.
It's all sacred. It's all holy.
If we allow it to be.
If we see it that way.
If we keep our eyes, and our hearts, open.

Looking forward to the weekend adventures,
I need to be careful to not throw away
the moments in between.
The every day moments.

It is all a gift.
For that, I am grateful.

In my wildest dreams

Never could I have imagined
the last thirty years
before having experienced them for myself.
I would not have believed you
had you told me the story ahead of time.

When I look at photos of the unfinished,
one-room house, our first home
(our only home),
with an outhouse and outdoor shower,
I ask myself
what was I thinking?

I really wasn't.

I simply fell in love.
With a timber faller who came home
each day smelling of saw gas.
Who collected sawdust in his bellybutton.
Who built our home while we lived in it.
(That sounds kind of romantic,
but really, not so much.)
An artist with wood.

More than three decades ago
I fell in love with his beautiful daughters
who accompanied us on our first date
and came along for the honeymoon.
Who shared an unfinished loft,
memorizing the words on the Tyvek barrier,
climbing up a wooden ladder to their tight quarters
with few complaints.
Who welcomed me into this family
and then celebrated the arrival of two more sisters,
born under this very roof,
not long after, making the shared space
even smaller.
And making the family complete.

Of course there were bumps,
disagreements, growing pains, angry words
followed by long silences.
The dance of two imperfect humans
trying to share the same space.

But thirty years later
I listen to my sweetie whistling in the shop,
watch him playing the fiddle as if no one is watching,
feel his arms around me in the most perfect hug,
sit next to him in church sharing a faith
that looks unique to each of us,
laughing together over silly everyday things
and I am grateful.

Never in my wildest dreams
could I have imagined.

A good trade

Sometimes we refuse to see
what we are supposed to, or meant to,
until we are ready
or at least closer to ready.

Tonight I wrestled with god
to get the answer I desired.
Instead, I was given the answer
I needed to hear.

"It's time to trade in your canoe for a kayak."
Excuse me?
"It's time."

What exactly am I supposed to do with that?
I hold the answer in my hands
looking at it closely for meaning.

Here I am, in the season of my life
where my daughters are the ages
I still picture myself being.
(I see you're smiling, so you must understand.)

Now I find myself gently nudged and told
it is time to reinvent myself.
Move deliberately and reverently into this season.
Loosen my grip and perceived sense of control.
Notice what is truly important
and let the worries and regrets fall away.

Small shifts in perspective
move me toward who I am today.
Recalibrating relationships.
Allowing my children, who are grown,
to become who they are.
With or without me,
either way okay. Really.

Later, I try explaining this to my youngest
who has a gentle insightful soul
and she responds in a way that touches my heart.

Can I get one too so we can go together?

Suddenly, the trade doesn't sound so bad.
A kayak for a canoe.
A solo adventure. Sometimes together.

This will work.
Definitely. Yes, definitely.