Here’s good:
There is something so surreal and so absolutely,
achingly,
magically,
transcendently beautiful
about watching my mama rock
her granddaughter – my daughter – to sleep.
My heart can barely hold it.
And I know:
It’s not the wars that will keep us safe,
that will keep us going.
It’s the women.
Becoming isn’t just to be.
It is to make,
to create
to sew,
to choose a path and go.
It is to do,
and not get happened to.
It’s to wish that wish
and whatever it is,
to plant it,
tend it,
help it grow,
and in the working know:
Every day is new.
Old traditions now
become new.
I will never get tired of building
this beautiful life
with you,
my Lucy Blue.
Some have called me
ray of light
and some have called me
shadow.
It seems some universal law says
I can’t be both.
So, who am I to you?
Look closer –
Is it true?
Welcome to the ghoulies and the ghosties
and the spirits
of ancestors long since dead,
and welcome to those who remember them as if they are still here.
Welcome to oranges and golds
and to wood smoke and sunsets and the chill in the air
that reaches your bones and your toes.
Welcome to October,
to the darkening of the year,
to traditions and tales to tell and moments of reflection.
Welcome, welcome, to the ancient
Month of Stories.
Sit for a spell and take your share.
My oldest friend (or so it seems),
how nice to be acquainted once more.
Dear Night-time,
we never do part ways for long, do we?
And here we are again,
singing this same familiar song
in chorus with the moon and the tide and the stars,
waiting and not waiting
for the rest of the world to join us.
Quiet though we may be,
we’re quite good company,
you and the dark sky and me.
Our lives ebb and flow
like the tides,
cosmically connected
more than we know.
We rise and then fall
and the dance goes on,
eternal.
Our hearts beat in that
rhythmic roar,
deep and vast and
powerful as the sea.
And though we must go
one day,
always we stay –
a drop of soul
in an everlasting ocean.
Picture this:
You spend your whole life
learning to say no.
And then:
A small human
who looks like you
comes along,
and all that practice?
Yeah, it’s gone.
Out the window.
With the wind.
And you find:
You don’t even care.
Because, truly, who could
say no to that face?
A Virginia Writer's Diary 