10 January, 2013
we drove into winter, into below zero, with everything that matters on four wheels. there was nowhere else i’d rather have been than with them. my hand held, the palpable intricacy and delicacy of all that we have shared on this road between colorado and california. as the miles passed, i thought of what it has meant to raise our children into their teenage years, of the depth and heartache shared in twenty-two years of relationship. i thought of all the boundaries pushed, the fears faced, the gains and the losses. i thought about forgiveness and humility. i thought about what is coming and what no longer is.
as this new year begins, i am without many plans and outward ambitions. i find myself still taking form in surrender, in letting-go, in allowing slowness and service to prevail. i want to laugh more. i want to spend time daily in nature. i want to know myself as a guide and a healer, but first to myself.
i want to continue to explore the relationship to what captures us –wind, water, humanity and howling. i want to know vitality and vulgarity, where the rough spots wear down to reveal something alluring and elegant. i want to tell the truth of these things, in imagery and with honesty.
i believe that light prevails. even though each and every one of us will wind up in the most senseless of dramas where the smallest parts of our brains, and the arrested parts of our hearts, will make decisions that wound and hurt, i still have to believe that light will prevail. my prayer for 2013 is that i may know this light as a home that i may always return to– in my body, in my relationship, in my service, and in the world. a home in which i may feel settled and rooted. a home that is a sanctuary and a foundational place to return to for respite and nourishment.
as the mountains rise and the rivers run, may we all remember this home that we share. the one where the light does not dim, and where there is peace waiting at the threshold.
i will meet you there.
I open the window and snow has fallen in a
steep drift, against the pane, I
look up, into it,
a wall of cold crystals, silent
and glistening, I quietly call to you
and you come and hold my hand and I say
I cannot see beyond it. I cannot see beyond it.
~Sharon Olds, from the poem True Love