hightide and redbud ~


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Friday. Another sweet surrender.

Whenever I need re-centering, I know where to go. With every return to nature, I am strengthened. I am remembered to myself time and again.redbudhome

Just this morning, before heading off to work, I sat for a moment and pulled myself into the now, focused not on the two places where nothing is – the past, the future. The breeze was soft and even in the present, there were scatterings of other times at the edges of my memory. So, I focused on the trees that push against the fence line.

They are without rule, without the strict reinforcement of man. They grow, and I let them. But in them, I was again reminded back to a lesson, one which I needed their help to re-find.

Every country girl moved to the big city knows one thing for certain. Regardless where you are, there is a part of you that grows deeper than concrete. You also know that while it’s a wonderful thought to dig up some of those baby trees for transplanting to city yards, it rarely works.

That’s because nature is without the limits of man’s wisdom. She grows untended, dogwood pressed against oak; redbud blossoming between pine and sweet gum; lady slipper and sumac in the same patch of moss. If you dig one up, expecting to see thick strong roots, you’ll be surprised. They aren’t that way at all. They are fragile and sprawling and weaved into each other. It is an environment that teaches them both to fight and to bend. So, if you relocate that pretty little redbud to the wide open space of a city yard, she will likely die.

And there, the lesson. We not only belong together; we are meant to be together. Our roots are made stronger when bound with another, reminding us to each other (to home) again and again.

savemenextAs some of you know, my father was diagnosed with Parkinson disease some years ago. It is a blessing and a curse. Like any other disease, it is a lover that only ever wants more of that which we hold dear. But the blessing is in the lessons learned – in the weaving together of joys, memories, and challenges. Even sorrow is a gift for it surely never leaves us where it found us. I reflect on my interaction with my daddy, mama, my brother and sisters. Where one is lacking, another picks up. Even in the tight space of a hospital room or a kitchen, we are remembered back to the dance of being one, together, the same. One leans in as another sways. Weaving never is finished. Knots are tied and re-tied to remind us of moments fragile and perfect, but only always of love – the divine water that allows us to bloom, to grow, to strengthen, to pray, to heal.

So, back to the woods (the now). If you dared to dig up that little redbud, and tried to unravel her roots, you might be amazed. Not only would you find them intertwined with the neighboring pine and dogwood, but you’d find traces of roots from trees and flowers long since gone.

Her real beauty (her strength) lies not in the blush that decorates a forest, but in that which reaches deeper than dirt. As with all of us, the real story is the one written to her soul.

. . .

what story
beginning here
from traces of hello
resounds within
the echoes of goodbye
last we loved
might I have known
the way
would lead me back
where we are new –
made one
within the light

. . .

a moment (forever) ~


, , , , , , , , , , , ,


a moment
was the last time
(the first)
looking thru eyes
the same (still)
as mine
seeing me clearer
than any
(save one)
(longing) to fill
hands falling
reasons and seasons
for times
(we remain)
as a sigh on our lips
(forever was) once
the echo of bliss
to my heart
nights (in the kitchen)
scattering whispers
let us begin
the leaving (worn bare
by our living)
all is forgiven
time grieves (for none)
the trust that was love
(a moment)
our all

. . .

cathedral ~


, , , , , , , , , , ,

Most days, as I arrive home, I’m scanning the tree line, hoping to see one of three bunnies that live in my yard. They adore my abundance of clover.

The newest is just a baby. This morning, as I walked out before leaving the house, he emerged from beneath a pine, stretching as if I had disturbed his sleep. It’s the same tree where I saw him last night, as my headlights traced the edge of his ‘one of a kind’ bunny ears. Regardless of my day, I squeal with delight when I see him or one of the others.cloverlove

They remind me of a truth far deeper than ever I could write.

I am a child of nature. There’s no other place where I feel as whole, as blessed. There are places I know of that seem to be as close to heaven as possible. The air is clearer, the pace a bit slower, and even babies stop their crying.

Every breath is one of divine intention, manifestation of a loving God.

I believe the hardest commandment to keep is the last – Thou shall not covet. I feel the need to confess every time I visit Millie’s port. I’m in total envy of her place in North Carolina. I imagine the cool dirt path beneath my toes, the soft shush of wind pushing bough against limb.

There’s a similar spot not far from me, where I cannot pass without stopping, sloughing off my shoes, and wading into waters surely as clear and cool as they were thousands of years ago.

It is my refuge, my recharger. It is home regardless of where I’m going or how long I’ve been gone.

it is here that I
what was surely the
set deep in my bones
a voice
I remember
from a far distant place

was to gather me
a wanting so right
I could lay
side by side
with the stars
tracing back the journey
the ways we had come
returning of souls
unto one

creator of all
calls my beginning
no other the same
as the fate
of a sparrow
a silent recall
to the heart
we were sharing
one day

a lighted
of cedar and spring
propped up
by the night

here I am nothing
everything true
a melding of shadow
endeared to the light
memory given to name

beloved of heaven
writer of wings
breath I have tasted
as mine
is known in this
where I am begun
from a song
once the robins
were singing
so sweet

. . .


evergreen ~


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,



As of late, I’ve been criticized for being distant, quiet, unavailable, aloof, and downright selfish.

My southern grace pushes me to apologize, but the part that is protective of me – my hurts, my heart, my silence – doesn’t feel the need to say I’m sorry, for fear it will be seen as an opening door – an unwelcome intrusion into the private world that is me.

Experience has shown me that it is a fragile line which divides time I need for myself and time I gladly sacrifice for others. Perhaps that’s why it’s so noticeable, since most of my time is spent on the sacrifice side of the fence.

Years ago, I was going through a rather traumatic time, and I didn’t share it with my family. Some likely saw that as selfish, and yet, it was a difficult period and my focus needed to be on myself. I’m certain (still) that if I had shared it with others, my role would have changed into being one to helping them to get through it. It’s also possible that the shift in focus would have been good for me, even if it came with the cost of certain burden.

Sometimes (selfish or not), it has to be about me. And sometimes, it is in these times that I realize those who love me most – those who allow me whatever I need (even – and especially when – it is at odds with what they would prefer).

Thank you for allowing me the gift of oneness, the sweet rapturous void of nothing…….. <3

what time remains
as once we gathered
shadows of the sun
hands were folded
soft into
dreams we dared become
a fallen spark
of ancient light
some other
might have been
moments held
within the space
of one

and miles to go
home before we knew
a garden bloomed
from seeds
of yesterday
a path
not one remembers
a distant
passing through
remains the same
as these we loved
blessings to repay

nights beyond
when all I dreamed
was you

. . .

morning grace ~


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


in the swell
of a moment
forever one light
was the cool
morning mist
to my face
a lifetime
as ages to stone
like a breath
pulled around
here I am
held as forever
loosened to rhyme
so sweet now the dew
neath my feet
stars falling soft
as the last time
I wished
was the first
to remind me
of love

. . .

swirling ~


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


for heaven
might I hesitate
the giving of my all
or barter here
for one more yesterday
when willing met
with needful dreams
one night beneath
the boughs
sealed within the silence
of truths we couldn’t say
as proof allowed
in making less
soul to bind my weary soul
the stars mistook
for let me in
whispers to the
forest floor
swirling luna flight
where once
your ache
became my skin

. . .


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 845 other followers