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Board me quickly; cast to sea;
leave this grieving shoreline.
How welcome this exile.
Never again to pass where I watched
unknown
still wearing your scent,
your touch, all made doubly absent
by strangers’ ignorant sobs.

No one saw; my mourning days unwritten,
these waiting days left
on quite roadsides, wondering
if indeed I would last
forever, how long named by
past-tense love,
wishing us present, wishing again
to read your mind as only
one soul allows.

Abide with me.
Remain with me.
My wisdom, yes, but more my plea –
my heart’s great cry.
I ran to those you love,
gave them all I knew,
searching their beauty, their glory
for any piece for every piece of you,
hoping my feet once more would carry
me faster and this time find you waiting.

I miss your words.
Replaying them in my head, I cling to comfort
as your voice becomes more ink than breath.
And here I wait again, each
slapping wave releasing me from these remembered places,
washing my feet once more;
the ghost-less sea leading
me in unexpected kindness to
my laying bare.

Light and love are my embankment;
even here they shield and secure me,
holding me until in thrilling
delirium I feast on this glimpse.
Across the adoring multitude:
my friend.
And I forget even the future,
beholding the beloved,
knowing that against you again I’ll recline.

come
please come.

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I’ve been trying to get this one out for more than a year, but it wouldn’t let go.  Turned out there were some things I just didn’t know enough to write yet.  After a little more waiting (and working and listening), I think we found a point that we’re happy with.  I’m excited it’s here now.  Hope you enjoy.

An unexpected thing happened in recent weeks. I thought about and planned this blog for so many months, and I never thought I’d be afraid of it, afraid to tell the truth. I never thought I’d spend the first two months after it really started fighting off a heaviness I’ve not seen in years. I never thought I’d talk about that here, because it’s not what I want to say or what I want you to hear. But it’s part of making my way.

It’s the rhythm of blogging that eludes me a little, the balance between honesty and image, especially when I know at this point that almost anyone that reads this knows me already. And it’s probably not just here that it eludes me; it seems like I spend a lot of time negotiating between who I am and who I hope I’m becoming (who I really am!). They’re both very persuasive.

I want to write things that are funny and insightful, hopeful, challenging, and beautiful. I want to capture the extraordinary moments in the process, the every-day amazing that feeds both my delight and desire for what comes next. My heart’s desire: to live. I want to leave out the hard moments (the hard days), concerned they’ll crowd out the others on this screen, and that you’ll wonder too much if I’m ok (I am!).

I have a sweet friend who’s often told me to be raw, to not always insist on being finished and together. I know she’s right. It seems a little to me like asking for the first draft of a poem or a half-cooked meal, but I guess finished products are harder to wait for in people. Postcards from perfect moments are nice for sharing from a distance, but it’s the rambling and sometimes desperate letters that draw us into each other’s lives; they‘re the moments I’m thrilled to share with people I love and that I miss most when they‘re not around. I love to be part of their living, of being rough drafts together. We live life together believing we’re changed together. Your glory-to-glory is mine too; sometimes we hold onto it for each other when it gets slippery and look together for the extraordinary.

So we’ll get this out of the way. Not all of my days are perfect, and I occasionally lose sight of their extraordinariness. If I wait to only write on the days that I have everything together, I’ll never do it, and I’m not ready to give it up. And honestly, the writing helps me get it together. Putting it here is about sharing, about knowing there’s someone else making their way to something hard to see, figuring out the way to get there, even on the days that don’t seem particularly funny or insightful. I’m only afraid of hard days if they don’t lead me anywhere, that don’t get me closer. You remind me – the yous I know and don’t know – we have somewhere to go.