Such Singing In The Wild Trees | a poem

It was spring
and I finally heard him
among the first leaves––
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness––
and that’s when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree––
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing––
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfect blue sky–––all of them

were singing.
And, of course, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn’t last

For more than a few moments.
It’s one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you’ve been there,
you’re there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

-Mary Oliver

To listen

(The happiest me, Saturday evening after LTYM rehearsal. Photo credit: Kelly Buck)

I love people. People are my favorite. They’re just so damn wonderful. They make me crazy happy. I love stories. Hearing stories, telling stories, writing stories, photographing stories, singing stories. I LOVE STORIES. Stories heal, bring us together. Make us feel less alone. The fabulous thing about stories is that everyone has one, it’s a common thread amongst us humans.

But stories aren’t all the same. A few are lovely and sunshiny all the time (these make me a teensy bit jealous, which of course brings out the ugliest form of me, which then makes me a teensy bit angry). But most stories — and my very most favorite — are the gritty, painful, not-easily-come-by stories. Those are the ones that stick with me. Change me.

I spent Saturday with 14 brave women in Oklahoma City, laughing over fajitas and chocolate sheet cake, watching as each of these women courageously stood and bared their souls behind a podium in preparation for next Sunday’s Listen To Your Mother OKC show. I’m a believer of standing with others in their pain, and listening is such a beautiful way to stand with another human, to gather up and hold on to their words. This listening validates the soul. It becomes an embrace, and in these sacred moments we hold each other, and the strength we provide is beyond explanation. This space is holy.

Some of the stories in our show have been silent, waiting for years to find their voice. Sunday we give them that voice, and I’m so thankful to stand with my newfound sisters and witness the miracle of being heard and held.

Want to listen? Tickets to the Sunday May 4th, OKC, Listen To Your Mother show can be purchased here. And if you’re not in Oklahoma no worries b/c there are 32 shows across the good ol’ U. S.
of A. Find them here.

M U D ::: Sensory Delight

Mud
by
Polly Chase Boyden

Mud is very nice to feel
All squishy-squash between the toes!
I’d rather wade in wiggly mud
Than smell a yellow rose.

It was a rainy Monday. Then the sun peeked through the clouds for a bright moment, she lit up.

“Mama, do you want to come and play in the mud!?”

Who can resist… We splashed and jumped, we oozed our toes through the gooey mud. We laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

We’re currently loving this song from our friends Dear Saint Isaac. Especially, when our darling belts it out. Enjoy!

A R I S E

  My beloved spoke and said to me,
“Arise, my darling,
my beautiful one, come with me.
  See! The winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.
  Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.
  The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me.”

Song of Songs 2:10-13

Anxiety, Fear, and the Kick –My Messy Beautiful

Sometimes I’m scared to talk about it. To bring it up again. What will people think? I should be better by now. Just move on.

But I can’t.

I thought I’d never ache so badly as the day we lost it all and flew back across the ocean, the second time we’d crossed that ocean in less than a year. Surely that was the worst pain I’d ever feel, that dull ache that never went away, tears just waiting to fall. If I could just get through life with an intact marriage and four littles, I would consider that good. We found a tiny house with a rent we could afford in an okay neighborhood. It wasn’t much but it had hardwood floors and a decent yard for the kids. It was just a place to land with no job and no prospects. We’d make do.

We did. Adam worked hard in a dry cleaning plant in the mornings; in the afternoons he would deliver that dry cleaning; the evenings he used to try to regain his freelance writing career. I focused on homeschooling kids, housework, and healing. We found out we were expecting again, a surprise that didn’t coincide with my “get through this life with four littles” plan. Life was hard. So damn hard. We longed for community, for the right place to lead worship, for a way to belong again. Nothing came and every door we thought we’d walk through was slammed shut in our faces. Even though we’d come “home” it seemed “home” was no longer able to house us. Or it didn’t know how anyway.

Then the kick came.

Five boys with five shotguns all pointed at me in my living room. My worst nightmare was being lived out. I wasn’t sure I’d live through it. I still can’t believe I did, that we did. There are really no words to describe the terror I felt that night. The thought of my children’s last memories of their mother being her death screams.

Those five boys, they killed someone the next night. We were spared.

Honestly, I thought I’d be okay by now. I should be. It was nearly three years ago. But again, I was wrong.

The effects of that night have wrecked me. I live in constant fear and worry of it happening again. I’m afraid of guns. I live in a cussing open-carry state; sometimes when I’m out and I see someone proudly wearing a gun on their hip, something in me wants to take off and run. I’m always planning my escape, searching for my exit. I question everything and everyone I see is suspicious. I’m afraid to leave my house, because I feel safest here. And also most vulnerable. I never don’t feel vulnerable. Like a target. I’m a clustercuss of emotions. Being awake in the night is terrifying to me. When I’m most afraid I talk to myself, I say: “That was only the ______________, everything’s okay. Nothing is going to happen. You’re safe. You’re okay. You’re okay….” I try to remember to breathe during that 15-second pep talk and when I do that is what settles me most. Deep yoga breaths. The ones that got me through five natural labors, those.

The boys with the five shotguns stole so much more than a laptop and $20 that night….they stole my peace, my sense of security.

Sometimes I worry I’ll never get it back and that puts me on a whole other crazy spin. The one that fears life is hopeless, that God didn’t stop bad things and He won’t again. That life might as well be over. A happy life is gone. These thoughts make me want to hide in the darkest caves. Professional therapy has not been an option; we just haven’t had the funds and insurance is not part of the freelance “benefit package.”

But the real truth is my hope is not gone. Everything is not lost.

I’ve begun volunteering at a food pantry twice a week, and finding a place to serve has been important to my healing, but every time is hard for me. I’m anxious before going, I’m anxious while there. But I go anyway. I’ve been going with my big kids for 6 months, and now it’s our favorite part of the week. Being welcomed and received by the staff and guests reminds me that I’m still needed in the world. That we are. That we have a place. And it feels so good. I meet Jesus in the stories and faces of our guests every week. They give me strength and hope. He gives me strength and hope.

I also find hope in my immediate family. My husband and I are still madly in love after 17+ years and five babies. His care and patience with me is overwhelming. He shows me Jesus on a daily basis. My kids are healthy and they love and LIKE each other. Our family is stronger because of what we’ve gone through. This is a gift.

As difficult as it has been and as broken as it’s made me, I’m also changed for the good. My heart has not grown bitter and I see that as the greatest gift. I do not hate the boys who stole my peace–I pray for them. For their families. I hope they are okay. I know struggle in a way many don’t and because of that I’m able to show compassion to those struggling. This is a gift. In going through what we have I’ve realized many do not know how to walk through pain with others. It is a learned art. One I’ve come to know only through walking the lonely road of suffering myself. Just sitting with someone in their pain is holy. To listen and affirm, a gift.

I’ve been through pain unspeakable. We all have. Sharing our stories and realizing that together we are strongest–that is worth the hard. Together we are a force unstoppable.

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

 

 

 http://momastery.com/carry-on-warrior

On Hope

When dreams of living on land aren’t realized, I’m thankful for times we have to run and enjoy the glory of creation. For sunsets and laughter, for running free. For dreaming still, even when it feels hopeless. When it seems all is lost.

But as Emily Dickinson wrote,

“’Hope’ is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops – at all.”

At the beginning of Holy Week, I’m desperate for hope to come and make all things that were lost right again.

To redeem.

And as hard as it is in the face of so much brokenness, I will put my mustard-seed trust at His feet. Where my tears become prayers.

Whisper, “I believe, Father. Help me in my unbelief.”

Grace and peace.

Dot’s Fabulous Wraps

Dot’s Fabulous Wraps

1/2 of a small cabbage
1 onion
4 carrots
1 cucumber
1 red pepper
Mint leaves (optional)
2 chicken breasts (shredded)
Rice paper wraps

Shred veggies in a food processor. Mix together. Squeeze lime and add salt to taste. Scoop veggies and chicken onto wraps and fold tightly.

Peanut sauce (served on the side):
In a small pan, heat equal parts coconut milk (canned) and peanut butter, plus juice of 1 lime wedge, dash of cayenne, pinch of salt and sugar.