Finding God in the Music

Klimt (

I lost Jesus at 14 when the woman I loved most in this world was crushed by an eighteen-wheeler. I didn’t trust God anymore. What kind of world kills your grandmother and her best friends on their way to a fundraiser?

In the absence of His love and that of my beloveds, I found myself a man; But in the end I couldn’t (and wouldn’t) trust him either. Neither did my own father remain steadfast in his love. Those years were swollen with pain, as I watched my family splinter, until there was little left upon which I could rest faith.

Shortly after I gave up on God, some of my siblings took up with him–in that boorish, effusive way of the freshly born-again. Their new-found love, only made me lonelier; and their certainty that Jesus belonged to them, left me wondering how he had ever been my friend.

In my twenties, I came to Al-Anon, and began dating my Higher Spirit, who remained faceless, and who never quite hit the spot like the handsome guy in robes with penetrating eyes and long, sandy hair. It would be decades before I came to peace without a spiritual beloved, and until then I searched for him in many faiths.

When I finally found what I was looking for, it wasn’t in a chapel or a temple or even a women’s circle, it was in the music.  On the night before my beloved grandfather’s funeral–the man who lost his wife to the tragedy that stole God–my sister handed me some music that she was ready to discard.

She saved my soul that night, though not in the way she had always wanted.

When the soloist delivered Jesus to me in her rich, sultry tones, it didn’t matter that the stirring I felt inside made no sense.

When the storms in my life are raging. When the weight of this world drives me to my knees… I found a Hiding Place…

I felt the love that had once been mine.

I reclaimed Spirit then, in every song and sound, no matter whence it sprang…

Allah, Yahweh, Jesus, Krishna, Shakti, Kuan Yin, Earth, Water, Sky, Home

With music–and now movement–I make sacred the mystery of this journey we call life, without needing to name it or know why.

Late Summer Collection

One of the things that I treasure about blogging is that it’s simple enough to do–even when the kids are home–as evidenced by these posting highlights harvested from each of my blogs this summer.  I hope you  find a title or two that intrigues you. As always, your voice is most welcome.  Read a post, share a comment/connection!


Summer’s Harvest

~This Vermont Life: The Dog Days of Summer and Until I Moved to Vermont, a tribute to the summer sun in the Green Mountains.

~The Motherless Muse: Days Like ThisThe Writing Cellar and Namesake.

~The Marriage Journey: posts from My Sister’s Wedding.

~The Empty(ing) Nest Diary: The Running Away Thing, Last Days of Summer Panic, and The Wisdom of Fatigue.

~ Two Owls Calling (and the Life Purpose Path):  Thought Anthropologist, Dis-Orient Me, Life’s Debris, The Stream of Love, The Path of Women, The Yoga of Teeth, The Party Gene and Weeding My Life.

Kelly Salasin, Fall 2010

The 48 Hour Christmas

I’ve always loved Christmas… and never stopped believing in Santa. I look forward to the season almost as soon as it ends, anticipating its return, the day after Thanksgiving. This is when the watershed of festivities begin: decorations brought down from the attic, lights strung up outside, and best of all— the Christmas music played–for an entire month!

In truth, there have been some desperate years when I unpacked the holiday tunes long before it was “officially” legitimate, but I restricted myself to instrumental selections, careful not to delve any further.

This past year, however, I began sneaking into the carols earlier than ever (July!) We had just moved from one rental to another while embarking on the task of building our first home (my husband doing most of it himself). What was meant to be a temporary living situation, “just for the summer,” was extended, again and again when the house was not completed “on time.”

When the leaves began to fall, I had to face the possibility that my holidays might be celebrated in this rental rather than in our new home as we had expected. I began playing Johnny Mathis and Nat King Cole– a line I’ve never crossed before– but even they didn’t cheer me.

On one particularly gray day in November, my sister in Florida emailed, inviting us for a visit as she often did. “Only if we can stay till the house is finished!” I replied in frustration.

To both of our surprise, she answered,” COME!” And thus, just weeks before the Christmas favorites could be played out in the open, I flew south with my boys.

Leaving during the holidays was hard for me. Though I enjoyed my relatives’ traditions, the season wasn’t the same without my own things– and without snow and mountains and sledding.

When my sister’s family decorated their home on an eighty-degree day, I found myself withdrawn and sad; and when that night of all nights came— the one to adorn the evergreen, I couldn’t help thinking of my own ornaments packed away.

In light of world affairs, of families separated by war and devastation, mine seemed a trifling preoccupation, but I couldn’t shake it.

As Christmas approached, the phone calls between Florida and Vermont increased. We each felt the growing strain of our separation, desperate to be reunited. With each conversation, there were reports of progress (or delays) on the house.

After a long day of teaching, my husband would head over to the building site to spend  long and lonely winter nights: framing, sheetrocking, spackling, flooring; installing cabinets, fixtures, bathrooms; and finishing electric and plumbing. It seemed endless, but we both held onto the dream that we’d celebrate Christmas together– in our new home.

After weeks and weeks of anticipation (and three visits to Disney), the boys and I kissed my sister’s family goodbye, and boarded a plane for New England. We arrived in the wee hours of December 22nd, the first day of winter, when the airports were full of folks flying in the opposite direction.

We arrived without knowing for certain if my husband had been able to finish the house, but as we turned the corner of the terminal, and saw his familiar smile behind the gate, nothing else mattered. There was no better homecoming than the warmth and certainty of his embrace after such a long absence.

That first morning in Vermont, I woke to the sun kissing my face. There are few commodities as precious as sun in a northern climate, particularly at the start of a cold day.

The eastern light through my bedroom window was such a delight that it distracted me from the rawness of my surroundings– the unpainted walls; the yellow insulation foam hanging from windows; the rough and unfinished floors; the invasion of cluster flies from an exposed attic; and the lack of doors anywhere, even on the bathroom.

My husband was up and off to work already, and the boys slept beside me, in this, the only livable bedroom.

I was pretty groggy that first day back in Vermont and didn’t do much but unpack the bathing suits and search for boots and snowpants. In the afternoon, I wandered downstairs, and fixed some tea in “my” kitchen on my new stove; sipping it while I watched the boys sled down the hill in our own front yard– a light snow falling.

When my husband arrived “home” from school late that afternoon, our holiday (and our lives here) began. With only 48 hours to unfold, we scuttled to create a Christmas together.

We found one of the last trees at a stand down the road, bought a half-priced wreath and poinsettia, picked up some last minute food at the grocery store, and unpacked a single box of our favorite holiday things. The tree was decorated and the cookies for Santa baked just before the boys were tucked in Christmas Eve.

What had once taken weeks to carefully execute, was joyfully prepared in just two days. The tempo lent a heightened excitement to our festivities, and something more precious– a slowing of expectations.

In 48 hours, Christmas can’t be perfect. I had to let go of so much that had once felt so important, and I had to hold onto that which I treasure most: the company of my family, around a Christmas tree, in our new home, while carols played all the day long.

Kelly Salasin, 2006

Love’s Testimony

Kelly Salasin

I spoke these truths at my mother’s funeral in 2000.

I have the deepest respect for my mother
I’ve always wanted  to be able to offer this kind of public testimony for her–because she was a “background/behind the scenes” kind of person who I felt needed to 
be exalted…

My mom supported and encouraged so many others with their 
dreams and their problems,  but never seemed to need to be the center of 
things or to shine herself.  
For me this made her a kind of hero.   
She was definitely  the “wind beneath my wings” … whether it was acting in a highschool play, going off to college, 
traveling through Europe, moving to VT, or deciding to give up a career and 
be an at home mom.

It was my mother’s constancy of unconditional love and acceptance that made so much 
possible for me.  I always wished that she could have had some of the glory and opportunities 
that I did so it is an honor to glorify her here today.

And I always thought that I would have to get up here and tell people about 
how special she was, but after this summer– 
after all the love letters &cards, poems & paintings, presents & meals 
that were sent her way, I know that others realized the gift she was  too.

And more importantly, there is the testimony that her children offered, each 
and every day this summer in the hospital and at  home, as they lovingly 
cared for mom, and left their personal lives and homes behind. 
I was and am touched so deeply by their devotion and by their unified 
how they came together and loved my mother whole-heartedly.   
I am continually in awe of this,  and I was blessed to be here on some short 
visits and in her last days to witness this love story.

I’d like to share some glimpses of those last days and hours with you when 
all of us rallied around mom; there were so many beautiful moments, so many 
blessings in the sadness of it all….

So here is a spoken slide 
show of those moments together:
~my brother-in-law Dr. Ken Cramer at my mother1s side, listening to her lungs 
with his stethoscope, tears streaming down his face
~my mother’s eyes closed and unresponsive for hours, suddenly opening wide 
and looking all around  after hearing the cry of my newborn son
~wall to wall air mattresses, arriving daily to be placed around my mother’s 
bed so that each of her children could be there to support her in her last 
~in the wee hours, these beds filled with family who haven’t slept under the 
same roof in fifteen years
~having the little ones toddling around, John and Sequoia and Josh, and to 
see the love they had for their mom-mom
~my aunt cass (my mom’s sister) who massaged my mom’s feet each time she came, even after my 
mom had passed
~to hear laughter coming from a full kitchen of siblings and spouses, 
relatives and friends;  and the meals that arrived daily to feed of all of us
~to share in the sorrow of these days with with each other’s partners, Kenny 
Cramer, Ken Burcham, Casey, Tim, Rich, Frank, and Danny’s Diana who always 
had that beautiful smile and a gift for mom
~to find mom’s brothers and sisters together again to support her
~to see the natural rhythm of the bed-side vigil, always one or two to sit 
beside mom without the need to ask…  holding mom’s hand, telling her how 
beautiful she was, giving her water with a sponge, wiping her mouth and 
brow:  her brother bill, her sister chris, her sister in law Barbara

~the times we all gathered around mom, sobbing, holding onto each other and 
to her, telling her how we loved her and were there for her, thinking she 
was taking her last breaths, only to see her open her eyes and wonder what 
was going on…
~watching Kenny’s tears turn to laughter after this, realizing that his 
stethoscope & medical examination didn’t /couldn’t account for everything, 
particularly mom’s determination
~having Big Dan say at one of these gathering times around mom, that if he 
was a painter, he’d paint this beautiful picture
~the sight of my nephew Corey in tears behind us, and how my niece Jamie 
fell into my sister Michelle’s arms after my mother passed
~little bonnie lying beside mom that last night, staying with her in her last 
hours, and mom waiting to begin to finally let go until Bonnie got up to 
make a pot of coffee
~the incredible pain and blessing of each of us being present around my 
mother as she took her lasts struggled breaths, continuing to breath even 
after her heart had stopped
~the sound of each person’s utter grief
~to have my son Lloyd there when my mother passed, and my son Aidan waking 
just before she was dying, continuing the awesome connection between his new 
life and her ending life this summer
~to watch the love that each one of us gave to her even after she passed… 
causing the nurse and the undertaker to eventually leave to come back hours 
later  to do their work
~to witness the relationship and love that had developed between the nurses 
and my family
~to see my nieces Bekah and Jordan sitting beside my mom alone after she had 
died and lovingly touching her face… while Andrew and Lloyd jumped on her 
~to have big Dan bring us all together around mom’s body to offer our words 
of love one last time, and to hear him talk about how special we all were
~to watch my mom’s body being taken, and stand there among sobbing sisters, 
and aunts and uncles on the sidewalk, in the yard and on the porch as 
she left our lives
~to see what a comfort big dan was to my mother, his devotion, his daily 
tears, his touches, and to see the reflection of that in the affection and 
respect held for him by my sisters- for this he has my undying gratitude

For each  of us I think that there will be a “Bonnie” shaped hole in our 
hearts and lives from this time on.  Mine felt like a crater this morning, 
but there is also the blessing that this summer has been for all of us.
My mom’s life, even in its ending, was certainly a success, and so I’d like to close with a poem by Emerson entitled the same.   
I found it on  a card I sent to my mom years ago that she had saved.  It is as true today of her as it ever was,


To laugh often and much; 
to win the respect of intelligent people 
and affection of children; 
to earn the appreciation of honest critics 
and endure the betrayal of false friends; 
to appreciate beauty 
to find the best in others, 
to love the world a little bit better, 
whether by a healthy child, 
a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; 
to know even one life has breathed easier 
because you have lived. 
This is to have succeeded.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

(please consider visiting The Motherless Muse– my new blog of writing following my mother’s passing)

Here is the Church

Kelly Salasin

Here is the Church:
Where i learned about love
with freshly-brushed bangs and rosy-pinched cheeks
and bible stories pieced together
with scissors and paste and popsicle sticks…

Here is the Church and
Here is the Steeple:
Where i met Jesus
His love, warm and constant
streaming through the windows
of my Sunday school classroom
upon white buckled shoes and ribboned dresses…

Here is the Church and
Here is the Steeple,
Open the Door
And see me beaming
beside sisters and cousins
an eager children’s choir,
and in that same place
under His cross
twenty years later
marrying the man of my dreams…

Here is the Church and
Here is the Steeple,
Open the Door and
See All the People
In these golden pews
four generations of my family pray
summers at vacation bible school
the fullness of God’s love resounding
in sea shells and glitter and song…

Here is the Church and Here is the Steeple,
Open the Door and See all the people,
Close the door
As we bury my mother
so young
crying Tora Lora Loo

Here is the Church and Here is the Steeple,
Open the Door and See all the People,
Close the Door and
Hear Them Pray
Bowed heads once brown or blonde, now grey
empty choir where the Reverend’s wife once sang
Charlie Rowe, life-long friend
forever walking Aster, parsonage to pulpit
beside each bed when sickness came
beside each grave
when love was lost…

Here is the Church and Here is the Steeple,
Open the Door and See All the People,
Close the Door and Hear Them Pray,
Open the Door
Onto bright yellow bonnets
hands held for photos
dollars pressed inside tiny palms
gingerly placed on golden trays
forever carried by Angels
who never age
Rejoice! He is risen!
Baskets filled with eggs
bagels and lox strewn across
my grandmother’s table…

Here is the Church and Here is the Steeple,
Open the Door and See All the People,
Close the Door and Hear Them Pray,
Open the Door and
They All Run Away…

But some come back
and once children, become pastors even
lighting memories of
graham cracker crumbs and grape-juice mustaches
skipping down the Avenue
His words in hand,
Jesus loves me, this I know!”

(This piece was written while my own boys attended Vacation Bible School at the same church I attended as a child– only now my sister and her husband/pastor were the youth leaders, and my uncle–the Pastor!)


my mom’s phone was disconnected today
and although she’s been dead for three years
it felt like the umbilical cord had been ripped between us

my stepfather had finally dropped her outgoing message a few months back
until then we could call
and hear her voice
the one before she got sick
before she herself had an umbilical cord
to an oxygen machine
in her living room

Just a simple 609-522-1556
and I could call
and leave her a message:
“Hi Mom, how are you?  Aidan is three now.”
“Hi Mom, Lloyd has the lead in his school play.”
“Hi Mom, Merry Christmas,  You’d be 60 today.  You’d hate that.”

But today, when I dial… 609 522 1556
I don’t hear her voice, and panicked I turn to my husband:
“That’s my mother’s number, right?”

Later I find that out my stepfather is changing the phone into his name
and somehow they disconnected the line.
What if he’s lost the number?
Her number!

He moved out and in and out long before she had gotten sick
and had only moved back full time
after she died
so that he could be there for the kids.

But she was the one who was ALWAYS there
Sitting at the dining room table
Facing the passing cars out the picture window
Answering each call

It takes my breath away
to open my birthday calendar book
and see a parenthesis around her name
Such a short life, filled with strife, and light

I can’t believe that there are no more Christmas Eve’s together
No more late night birthday calls
No more, “Hi Kels”
No more 522-1556

the Circle of Life

Only a few cards arrive for my husband’s birthday, but our kitchen window is full. Cards line the sill, and others hang from the wooden mullions that lend our Vermont farmhouse that window-pane look.

Moons and lambs and jumping cows continue to trickle in–and do look out of place beside the ones poking fun of Casey’s age. But it’s the cards I’ve added most recently that make the window overflow and contradict itself.

I feel the same way. Flooded with an unmanageable coupling of joy and sorrow–torn in two by the juxtaposition of events–birth and death accomplished within weeks of each other.

In June, we were given two months. My mother–two to live. Me–two before delivery. The two of us, three hundred miles apart, agonizingly separated by the coming of child who would be such a blessing through this time.

As each week passed, I lay on my bed in the mountains, looking out to the trees, searching the leaves for my mother’s face–serene or contorted–while my belly ripened.

It seemed as if my mother and I were engaged in a parallel dance–one spinning toward death, the other toward life–both facing an ending and a beginning–crossing a threshold of no return.

Sometimes rather than moving together, I sensed a collision course, fearing my delivery would bring on her own.

In early August, just after midnight, a week before expected, my contractions began, sharpening before dawn, lending an acute awareness of my mother’s suffering, and of how, in many ways, we were sharing a similar path–one of struggle and surrender–surrounded by loved ones there to midwife our passage.

The next morning, just before noon, I gave birth to a baby boy in our home in in the Green Mountains while my mother lay near the sea in a hospital bed by the bay window where her workout equipment stood just a season earlier.

She couldn’t walk or even sit up, but she was there to answer the phone when I called with the news.

“Hi Mom, it’s Kel…”

I remember the air outside. The hush of the midwife beside me. The feeling of the phone cradled against my ear.

My mother would probably never meet her grandson, but I was so grateful for her voice just then.

It’s funny how life gets dished out sometimes–with heaps of sorrow or heaps of joy–or heaps of both at once.  I can’t fully grasp the connection between her leaving and his coming, but I’ve learned so much being present to them at the same time.

My mother took her last breath on my husband’s birthday–a month later than expected–surrounded by her eight children, including my nursing babe, who cried out just before her passing.

I’d never felt so much bliss. The depth of sorrow seemed to make the expression of the love excruciatingly palpable–as if  they were meant to be felt together.

This truth revealed itself in the quiet hours at my mother’s side just before she died, with the baby on my breast, or on her lap, napping.

My mother & my son Aidan.
Photo: Robin Salasin

Ever watch a baby sleep? It’s a profoundly meditative experience–deeply soothing and compelling.

What strikes me most is how at one moment a baby’s face will light up with a smile, and in the next, his lips will quiver, his brow wrinkle, and he’ll let out a whimper that pierces your heart.

I love those sleepy smiles, but I’ve always worked to chase those cries away.

But now it occurs to me–Maybe they belong together. Maybe the baby, in these early moments, is preparing for the joy and loss his life will hold.

On the morning of my mother’s leaving, the world seemed to echo this truth. The sun shone bright, a bay breeze blew through the window over her bed, and her young granddaughters took a seat beside her body, lovingly touching her face, casually discussing their own deaths “someday,” while outside, her grandsons jumped on the trampoline.

I hadn’t known that so much fullness could be felt inside such a vacancy.

As Autumn replaces Summer, I hold this fullness close. On those days when I can’t handle a fussy baby, or the cold and darkness growing inside me, I remember my labor and my mother’s passing, and I find strength in this coupling.

One by one, I remove cards from the window. My mother has been gone three weeks now, and Aidan is two months old.  His face has begun to reflect back that which he has received: countless hours of love and wonder and devotion.

In the end, it was the same with my mother.

All that she gave to us was reflected back upon her.

My mother’s children on the morning of her burial

(Other versions of this piece were published in The Cracker Barrel in 2000 & in Chicken Soup to Inspire a Women’s Soul in 2004)

The Elevator

by Kelly Salasin

in memory of my mother & friend, Bonnie Kelly Bradley, Christmas Day 1942 to September 8, 2000

Now that This
is done
She’ll die…

Leaning against the
toilet, Crouched
in a Puddle
of  blood
in bath towels
even though
it is Warm-

He breathes
against me
the Two of us
Come through
a Storm
Neither particularly
loving the other, Collapsed
into this new
of Separation

I have never Known
my Body like
This before
that Something
the size
of a Cantaloupe
could Push through
like a Train
Reconfiguring my
in an

I’d take that
Elevator with him
to summer’s End
on the Curb
of a boarded up Motel
A covert block
from the cross-shaped
high school
my mother and I both attended,
two decades spanning
Our sophomore years

I’d find Her
in knee socks, buckled shoes
straight barreted brunette hair
shin-length pinafore snug
across emerging breasts
Heaving a sigh
of Relief
That I wasn’t
a Nun come upon her As
she takes the First
of her First
cigarette till  the
of her Life…

in her exhale
we  Lock
eye to eye
and with babe in arms, I plead

PLEASE, Don’t.”

Because some
day you’ll be
My mother
and he’ll
be Your grandson,
and Together we’ll

Sun Affair

“The dawn has secrets to tell you.

Don’t go back to sleep.

You have to ask for what you want.

Don’t go back to sleep.”


I.  Seduction

You have to be patient to catch the sunrise…

Part One:

I wake in the darkness, long before dawn,

and wait

till the sky begins to color

Swaths of peach and pink.

There in the distance

I make out a light-

a ship on the horizon,

a bright star-

but too gold to be either.

I wait and watch that flickering light,

then throw on my coat and boots

running toward the beach to catch it-

The secret jeweled promise of a new day.

And though it seems to try, again and again,

it never shows its face –

painting the sky lighter and lighter

from his hiding place.

Unaccostomed to such early morning adventure,

I return home, sleepy

thinking the day too overcast

to catch a sun

I nestle back into my writer’s perch

a cozy seat, overlooking the Atlantic

in soft pink light

and forget about my questing

Yet in the moment it takes to

tend the simmer of my chai

and place a steaming mug next to my sleeping beauty,

I find the white wall beside my chair

Awash with color.

Gasping, I turn toward the sea and find

a bright orange ball, hoisting itself up

out of the ocean and above the clouds

Bathing my face

in its glorious light.

Those who wake only minutes later

to a world- winter white,

know nothing of this reluctant artist.

Only a thin line of color remains

where the ocean meets the sky

a wink to those of us who witnessed

his spectacular dawn show.

Seduction, Part Two:

Later we catch each other’s eye

Across the day-

sharing “a moment

our morning between us…

At days end, I think of him again,

and notice he’s taken his paintbrush to the sky,

but I turn away

and rush home with milk for dinner

unable to bear such an  unrequited affair.

II.  Lover

This morning I stir again in the dark,

but weary from the early rising yesterday,

attempt, over and over,

to drift back into dreams.

Go see the sun rise,” I nudge my sleeping husband

hoping his action

will quell the need

for my own.

But once the room begins to fill with light,

it is I who leap from bed once more

Simmering chai while quickly dressing

pressing my husband to come along.

I rush toward the beach

mug bouncing in hand,

Casey a block behind.

I move toward the dunes,

but my husband stalls

seeking shelter from the wind

under the deck of a vacant beach front hotel

We sip our drinks from this

safe but sterile perch

until I glimpse him…

Just a nail tip of

of an orange orb

behind the horizon lined clouds.

Casey calls after me about shoes and sand

as I run down the dunes to meet him

And there in full view of my husband

I open my arms to Another’s embrace

Receiving him in my heart

and wishing I’d come alone

Later as I crawl back into bed

instead of starting a day,

my husband rebukes my dawn antics,

for this “crush” I have formed on the sun.

I smiled slyly before drifting off,

wondering how I will leave this lover behind

upon returning to the mountains.

(Funny that we wait

for the Sun to rise

into view,

when it is us

who are turning

toward him.)

III  Quarrel

I wake at 5:30 again


the demands of this relationship

angrily, I open the blinds to see if he’s there

mechanically I head to the kitchen to start my chai

and wait,

wait, wait

for him

It’s always him,

WHERE is he?

When will he come?

Will I  make it in time?

And then he mocks my feigned indifference

and doesn’t rise

He leaves behind his studly orange garb

and appears later, higher,

in Regal Golden Robes

in Holier than me  light

Casting his halo upon me

His soft, brilliant healing hue


and i know,

that wherever i go

he is with me

as friend, not lover

IV.  Stalker

an overcast day

his light is filmy

and i’m exhausted

i want to forget him

go back to my sunless life

enjoy the easiness of an afternoon

can’t manage dawn interludes

but he is always there

and i feel him

pulling at me

even in my sleep

V.  Goodbye

I wake and realize that he has risen

without me.

I feel both relief

and utter loss.

Today I return to the mountains

to a sun hidden behind hill and forest

How will I live without our ocean dawns?

Or is he one and the same

wherever I go

across the Millenium

Gandhi, Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha?

How will I know him

without that brightly colored garb

or regal robe?

Can I return to him even if I cannot always stay,

Prodigal lover?

This morning I wake

with those

who know the world only

in winter white,

I have missed the magnificence of

his dawning,

and I know it will

be a long time

before I embrace him again

His love is a gift

a sacrifice

a blessing of light on my life.

Shining, but never joining

me in bed.

Gate of the Morning,

I give thanks

for this new day.

VI.  Home

Who is it that shines in the sky and lights my morning mountain bed?  Bright, white, rising above the pines, reflecting snow?

It can’t be you.

It can’t be the orange garbed painter, the regal robed artist.

You can’t be one and the same.

That beach, those sands, are over 300 miles away.

There is no sea here.

How do you still make it to me?

How large and omnipotent are you?

Unfathomable, inconceivable light reaching, heart touching, morning waking orb?

You are the light of the world.

How can that be?

You are the light of the world?


How can I experience such an intimacy to

ONE who belongs to ALL?

And what about you,

Are your rays that wide?

Sun, tell me.

How is it that you touch me so deeply while touching billions of others at once?

Embracing land and sea, forest and mountain, jungle and desert?

Through rain and snow and sweltering heat?

How can you be so large?


How do I bridge our intimacy with

the impossible span

of your grandeur?

VII.  Awakening

I haven’t just discovered you, have I?

This has been a neverending love story

Why didn’t you tell me?

How painful it must be to wait for me to remember.

My childhood days with you on my back

Mountain mornings of sunshine on my shoulder

Pond dusks

Marshland sunsets

It’s always been you and me and then I  forgot.

We have to cultivate that which we want in our lives.

How can you love such amnesiacs?

“The dawn has secrets to tell you.

Don’t go back to sleep.

You have to ask for what you want.

Don’t go back to sleep.”


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