Bright cap and streamers,
He sings in the hollow:
Come follow, come follow,
All you that love.
Leave dreams to the dreamers
That will not after,
That song and laughter
Do nothing move.

With ribbons streaming
He sings the bolder;
In troop at his shoulder
The wild bees hum.
And the time of dreaming
Dreams is over -- -
As lover to lover,
Sweetheart, I come.

I was volunteering in our church thrift closet yesterday. It is a time to change over the winter clothes to the spring clothes. This is a great benefit to the community to be able to shop there.

I talked and worked next to another church volunteer, and we got into a really good conversation.  I will not share her name, but will share some of what she said to me. I have no problem opening up to strangers, for I find that I have that gift in the ability to share my humanity. A very sensitive person, I like to be able to relate to people who have a story to tell. We all have stories to tell, do we not?  

We talked about our faith. We talked about the problems that we had in our family of origins. She shared about her divorce and ability to get back on her feet and start a daycare center when she was used to being a housewife.

The indomitable human spirit. Well, clearly many succumb to the hardships they face. I've seen plenty of things on the TV. I've witnessed this tragedy in some people's lives that I personally knew. In addition, I heard about some unhappy stories from what other people told me they experienced or heard about.

Absolutely, the news is supposed to report what is actually going on in the world, and much of that is grim reality. We all grow weary of it.  Yet the entertainment value of television can often provide nothing better than the unpleasant side of life to get ratings. Often it is fictional violence and crime. That's odd, because I observe that we Americans shy away from death. It still seems like a taboo topic.  Yet at the same time, we are so intrigued as if to peak at it from a distance like wondrous children hoping not to get caught.    

Back to my discussion with this woman, I shared that I am an amateur  writer. I shared about my first encounter with tragedy, as I just wrote about two children close to my age that I knew of who were murdered by their mother. I was just a child. It was a very, very scary reality for my young psyche.

This fellow volunteer related back to my story that her paternal grandmother and her aunt were both victims of suicide. The grandmother turned on the oven and letting the gas fumes overtake the house. "They both did it together?" I questioned.  

It ends up the aunt was only three years old. I said, "No, it was a ******/suicide."  The mother was in a forced marriage and desperate to get out.  This is the kind of stuff that is far more shocking when in your own life than when on the news.

This woman also told me that her father was the one who found his mother and sister. He was only seven-years-old! I truly felt for her and for that man! Well, she had shared prior to this story that her father had a mental breakdown in his early twenties and wasn't able to work after that.

"No wonder", I replied, understanding what he went through. How could he be unscathed by such a tragedy?  I'm sure there was more to what was wrong with him, but I could see how this could be so damaging to a seven-year-old soul.

Later in life, he spent a lot of times in mental institutions. I had shared that my paternal grandmother had to be committed, too. The woman also shared that though her parents were separated and eventually divorced. Her mother and father still loved each other very much, so that wasn't the reason. She loved her father very much, too, and looked after him when she was an adult. Her father just couldn't cope with his family or be the provider that he was supposed to be. Times were hard, and the mother had to scrounge around for any menial work that she could acquire to support the family, sometimes not having enough to eat so the children could have enough. It is similar to my dad having to support himself, his mother and his brothers when he was still a boy, living in terrible poverty.    

This kind of story swapping gives me great insight and is helpful for when I lose my proper perspective or get angry at the world.  I cannot deny that I have been bitter, yet this woman never felt this way. It wasn't on her radar. She made that quite clear that she was able to avoid those pitfalls. Undoubtedly,  her faith helped her to move forward, was and is the wind in her sails.

Bitterness is a choice. Both of us go to church in spite of the ugly stuff we witnessed or knew of, the things that often become the easy chance to question the existence or fairness of God or the meaningfulness of life.

I have struggled--and still have struggles--with becoming better by my trials. I'm not always there, but I realize that to give up on the battle is not an option.  The world is full of over-comers. The news doesn't always report that. It isn't the sensational stuff of headlines, but it is up to each of us who struggled with life to make our own, personal news stories. A triumphant headline, indeed, is the one I want to publish. To dismiss that experience is to miss out on any growth, and I find that more tragic than the hardship itself.

For when we overcome, we are more willing to relate our humanity, reaching out and helping those who also desperately need a helping hand, as well.

Do not let the migrating soul
Capture the night
You are about to fall
Agree with all
Bemused and in awe
Harness all hate in a pocket
Through and through
In the sadness of my sleep

This internal cataclysm
Incurable but I am hoping
That my mid-twenties tragedy will transform
My biological clock into a vortex
Sending me shooting forward to see that I am divine
Then back again to this impending mortality
I cannot see the future, endless
Possibilities take form in the shape of current faces, places
I often wonder if in fact I am as I claim
"OK"
Words like strong, will of iron and resilient
Pair with my story when told by others
My version is much more malleable
More like gold in the hands of Hephaestus

I once met a viking girl,
who hailed from Norway.
I usually wouldn't have bothered,
but there was something special about her
I couldn't fully grasp.
It was like some weight had been lifted
to relieve my tired body
of it's former failings.

There was a magic she could wield,
some massive dreadnought of power
she kept sheathed in ornate leather.
Sometimes, when she was nervous,
her fingers would brush it's scabbard,
tracing the embossed symbols,
unaware of what she was doing.
And then this longing would overtake her,
leaving her eyes vacant,
momentarily...
As if her vessel had been abandoned
as she expanded
well beyond it's threshold.

During these brief moments
when she'd slip away,
I saw things I couldn't explain.
A furnace of starlight,
encased deep in the Norwegian ice,
alongside the warships of her ancestors.
Usually well-guarded,
out of habit
or necessity.

Before I was consumed entirely
she returned from her reverie,
tearing me away
from that solace.

I wonder now
if she was aware
of what happened.
Those secret woodlands
will haunt me
long after I've gone.
Long after life has left me,
and into the outstretched arms of eternity
and the worlds that follow.
And like some dream,
it still escapes me..
how so much beauty
can be reserved
and contained.

It sickens me to know
that what I'll remember most
was the physical form she'd taken,
and not the things
that truly mattered.
Not the magic she used
to tear me asunder,
wide open and spilling..
helpless in it's radiance.
Not the gentle breeze
that expanded from her wake
as she passed me.

Because it's easier
to be shallow.
It's easier
to forget.

Light sparkles in the clover,
Yellow and blurr of bees
Are honeyed in the sun
And robins have come,
Yanking in the gasses,
So green is the moisten
Of the painting of the dew
And all is lolling in petrichor,
The soils running with slow
Time so shortly experienced,
Oils of wood permeate the air,
Lapping brooks bream into light,
The loft kestrel swirls in meadow
And chipmunks scuttle at base of tree,
Even the wind does freshly quiet, crisply,
There as a hug waiting for body and spirit,
Patches of white are disappearing, they know—
That one day we must all return, after winter snows.