**** me in the sistine chapel
with your lips against my neck
and your breath still hot and lingering
"at least she died happy," they'll say
"or least, 'happy' for being...her"

when i take my last breath,
it is't michelangelo's masterpieces
on the ceiling i'll be focused on
*it's you i want to see before i go

I used to walk to the chapel often
    at least every weekend, sometimes more.
I'd gather up my friends and we'd head out.
    Sometimes there were 6 of us, sometimes only 2.
Walking to the chapel was an experience of freedom from our every day lives --
    from our schoolwork especially.
Walking to the chapel was an experience of living life to its fullness
    drinking in the smell of the water, of the trees, of the season.
Drinking in each other, and the friendship we shared.

Sometimes we walked to the chapel, sometimes we ran;
    Always the joy pouring out of us, the fresh energy of youth, and the
    raw emotion of our shared relationships.
We walked to the chapel, but then we also floated there:
    carried by our love of the land, the water, our curiosity, and each other.

Walking to the chapel was a sacred experience.

Tonight we walked to the chapel again;
This time a group of 5 --
two parents, three children -- together.
We smelled the water and the trees,
we felt the warm breeze.
We walked together -- one unit -- and yet each of us free.
The children running ahead, the baby carried.
The adults joined now in care not only of themselves,
but of the little ones they helped create.
The beauty of the place heightened by the beauty of being a family.
The emotions of days past, the joy, the freedom, the experience of life, they rise up.

We are a family.
    We exist to help each other.
We find joy, delight in one another.
    We are free to love life in all its glory;
    to be uniquely ourselves,
    and yet bound together in love.

Walking to the chapel as a family is dynamically life-giving,
    and an example of holiness.

Inside my brain
There is a tornado
Spinning to infinity and beyond.
God only knows how fast.
My shoulders ache and my feet cramp.
My wrists click
And my eyes go damp.
Inside my brain instead is a monsoon:
A tumultuous storm that rages on.
Waves froth and smash,
Beating against the backs of my eyeballs.
Sometimes they find their way
Down my soft spotted cheeks.
My lashes float to the earth
One by one by one by one.
Would you collect them for me
Like discarded flower petals
Down the aisle of my soul's chapel
And press them into a scrapbook
Full of twisted memories?
Inside my brain is an H2O tornado
Like reckless rainstorm pirouettes.
My swirling view is blurred,
But every so often
I catch a clear picture
Of the glowing whites of your eyes
And I remember to fill my lungs,
Head above the water,
And breathe.
Twirl, twist.
Wind, mist.
But don't panic,
Because every so often
I catch a clear picture
Of you.