What Love

Last night I dreamt of meeting a friend's new baby. 

She presented it to me - a boy- with all motherly

 love and conviction. 

She smiled, cooed, and 

doted over her little one. But the baby had

been born 

in 

pieces. 

While she held the limbless body 

tucked against her neck, 

the little one's head was on the carpet

next to an arm, a leg. 

In the dream she must have seen my worry for

she patiently explained how,

slowly,

the baby would become 

whole

and 

normal. 

She wasn't worried, she was happy, content, and beaming love.

I awoke sad and not a

little disturbed. I can still still remember

the blue eyes of her boy

and how I tried to make sure that no one

stepped on the little arms.

I can still remember that effortless 

love that she radiated

and wonder what that would be like

to wear for a day.

For a day to trust that

it will all work out.

To believe that what I make will 

add up to something

beautiful and

heart stopping.

To have faith

faith 

faith

that pesky word that 

at times

seems to be too heavy to carry and I

cast it off to hold something easier like

maybe

or

probably.

I held that baby - even if in my dream I was 

slightly repulsed by him-

for I would never turn away from 

a friend's child,

so why turn away from myself?

Am I afraid that the world will see that I am

not whole

that growing still needs me

or I need it?

When did I give myself the Title of Most Unworthy One?

It is time to 

take hold of my most repulsing self and

love it like a friend's child

with all the joy and 

hope for a future,

with all love and compassion

with all belief and faith and love.

Snow in the Evening

I am, hot chocolate in hand,
judging the barista who made it for her high
pitched
winey
voice.
I can feel my throat tighten up when
she talks
how constricted my own
vocal chords would have to be
to reach the height of her lilting
speech.
A part of me wants to liberate that part of her,
saying,
you can get my attention with out
the girlish squeal
without the definite screech of girlhood, which
she is far past.

Maybe it is how her mother spoke. Her
grandmother before that. Maybe they
both died before she
grew and her voice is
everything they left behind.
How much of me is struggling to hang on
to my mother,
her anxiety
her mood swings
her lumbering humor which endears far before it alienates.

Who am I to judge when I
too hold on to family
traits like I
would have my childhood blanket?
My sister's pride
my father's wandering spirit
and the way he can vanish
in a moment.
Their faults and attributes fall on my heart and
mound up like snow on boulders
I am an amalgamation of them,
and they,
me.

Who are we but a
continuation of each other?
Surround yourself with
people who rain down joy and love
because they will
pile on top of those wounds left
years ago and
heal
heal
heal
you and allow you to spin brightly into the world.