I can almost see you as a child, bending
over a page, like your daughter does
one world blurred out as another is
brought into being, a tiny crease 
between brows, the sign of concentration
of creation

Handed like heirlooms from your grandpa
to your mama, down again to grace 
your face and then your children's
We could call GrossP’s ones determination
(or stubbornness)

Momo’s could be named excellence
(or perfection)
And yours, well, you might call them overthinking
But I call them focusing, noticing, caring
(or glazed-over staring)

I wonder how far these lines go, how many
ancestors frowned, bent over their art or
over their flourishing garden beds or
at each other over the rims of foamy lagers 
or over injustice- like you do

I watch you, thoughts gathering to meet
between your eyebrows, until a laugh explodes
them outward and confettis joy into the room
it slides in light-ray lines from half closed eyes
that straighten out when the smile settles

I know you google “wrinkle acceptance" but
you find “how to” articles instead, how to
prevent, how to reduce, how to smooth
out the history from your expressive face
the wealth of years 

I also know you will sit at the badi, face tilted up
your children a blur of water and sand
And the sun will bend and kiss your brow,
the corners of your eyes, 
And you will see your mother, your daughter
yourself
time stretched out before you, so limited
so precious these faces
so precious this life

so precious this life

I wrote this for my sister-in-law, as you can tell I love her face and want her to love it more easily too. But this is also for anyone else that wants some perspective on faces and wrinkles and the precious nature of this one short life. I have a lot of opinions about the double standard for woman’s aging, the influence social media has on this and the rise in the number of woman turning to Botox and other procedures to reduce the appearance of aging. It makes sense, there is a lot of pressure. But the more women who conform to these standards, the more these standards become the norm which simply increases the pressure for all the other women. We are playing into a destructive cycle to look good for who exactly? We say for ourselves… that is probably true to some extent, but lets look at what is beneath the years and years of messaging about what is beautiful and why women are often reduced to that. Anyway, I told myself not to start about this topic because, like in the poem, the easiest way to minimize the space these narratives take up in our lives is by zooming out. Looking at the big picture, and the big picture is full of people we love and beauty to be noticed. We are here; we can live to the point of tears, shove handfuls of life into our hungry souls and let our story write itself on our faces and hands and bodies.

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Lose my Mind

The decadence of biltong for breakfast, rooibos tea with honey
Sunrise matching the flora, painted the colours of the garden
hibiscus, lavender, bougainvillea, protea
Sky turns an endless blue after gold crowned everything in sight
I could lose my mind in the horizon, and find it again
coming in on the tide, or around the bend on Chapmans Peak Drive
riding the setting sun into my eyes

Hunger

I am less hungry here, my mind less likely to crave
my hands not opening fridges and cupboards
Perhaps it is the biltong, the steak
the perfect avocados
It could be the guava
surprising my nostrils as I pass by
making me stop
breathe deeply
Perhaps the sky is so wide
that it fills me accidentally,
blue sliding down my throat
on an inhale
Perhaps the sun slid down too
every time I watched it set 
flaming, framing silhouettes 
of people I love

Soutie
An insult that evolved from Soutpiel, Afrikaans for salt penis. 
 
I have more sympathy now, for my English ancestors
Mocked for being unable to put both feet on South African soil
Legs spread from their old home to their new
Genitals dangling in the salty ocean

Perhaps it is my back that is salted by waves
My chest cracked open, my ribs a bridge
And every time I cross it 
I step onto my heart

Luckily for you guys, I didn’t add a picture for the last poem haha. We went to South Africa in April for the Spring holidays (Autumn there) and a big family wedding. I hope that you can catch glimpses of my time there through these poems. Home and belonging and the the tension held within the human heart are difficult to write about neatly. I have no epiphanies or conclusions to share, just poems. There are still many feelings and impressions stuck inside me, my subconscious is slowly mining for the words to help me understand them. Perhaps they will become poetry at some stage too. Or perhaps they will trickle out in sweat and tears and hugs and long distance voice notes and laughter. I am so aware of the richness of my life, of the multitude of things I have to be grateful for. Loving two countries makes me feel like I am at home in neither place, but that is not completely true. In many ways I have more and not less. Perhaps I do have to step on my heart as I navigate home and belonging, but there is a lot more heart to step on than there used to be. One day, I hope it will be so big that it will contain Home, stretched up to the heavens and around the whole world. Love is like that when it grows and grows and grows.

Held

Darkness softly licks my calves
reaches up from the edge of the abyss
so tempting, that black numbness
nothingness
so easy, like a sigh before sleep

Drag me to the light!
quick, before I forget how it feels
before I can’t yell for help
Drag me to the light!

Let the sun wake these anemic bones
flood my eyes with memory
of all the goodness, dripping
sweet and slow
blood like honey
on broken lips
broken soul
made 
whole

Drag me to the light!

I forgot that Light
dragged himself to me
to Gethsemane, down beyond 
the forsaken place, the great dark ache
to rest his fingers on my face
to meet me with his sweet strong grace

Hold me in the light
let it be my dwelling place
all my days, all my days
let my lips be shaping praise
Hold me in the light

This poem is from two years ago, one of those poems that went from my journal into my Google Drive and disappeared from my mind. Some poetry feels too personal, too much of a revelation of my internal landscape, to share. Some poetry is simply written to be written. I thought that was the case with this poem, until I went through a phase that I was having difficulty describing and I remembered it. It was helpful for me to read again and so I changed my mind about it, perhaps it will be helpful for someone else to read. If it is, then I am glad!

Defiant Knowing

My body bumps against you as I retreat
into silence, words on the other side
of a murky cloud
Before I hand my mind over to 
all the lies that keep it caged
I am steadied by 
Defiant knowing
When my thoughts stand wide eyed
before the mess, the humanness
I   hear   a   whisper
Defiant knowing
When my calculations lead once again
to hopelessness,
I tilt my head
Defiant knowing
Woven through the neural pathways,
all the seas that have been parted
all the moments light shone 
in the darkness
Defiant knowing
The darkness cannot overcome it
Defiant knowing 

This one is from Tuesday writing group, Write The Good Write with and a bunch of awesome humans. I thought it paired well with the first poem so I added it in here.

May you be held this week, and fill to the brim with defiant knowing.

spine meets fiber as I dip
   under the noise
      let the chaos
        float,  hot  and  light
          up
         
       away

I am buried in stolen
 
              silence

my own pulse in my ears
 slowing
  softening
   soothing

a micro hibernation
brief incubation
in mercy

and again, into the day
     
                 I rise

This is a poem I wrote specifically for a submission call, when I do that and the poem gets rejected then I don’t really know what to do with it. So I will share it with you. The theme was Silence. This was also written in the beginning of Spring so it pulls on winter ending, bulbs in the soil waiting, and the resurrection of Christ. How, because of God’s mercy, because of the cross I can meet the presence of God in my everyday life. I can go through Winter into Spring on a random afternoon. I can have moments of peace with God in the middle of a crazy day with loud children and a long to-do list. Silence is a gift, meeting God in the silence is even more beautiful. I don’t often get silence, but sometimes I simply dip under the noise and return to my day a lot more present and full.

May this encourage you to steal some moments of silence too!

You make space for others to be themselves
like the Drakensberg does, calling to the
beauty in us, with us in our oscillations  
Your soul is solid as a mountain range, lofty
your slopes and curves and graceful edges,
a silhouette etched against the sky

I see your sunshine and your storm
Cerulean eyes flashing, lighting up worlds
Hands rhythmic on the Jembe, heart ablaze
Mouth truth dropping, deception washing 
leaving growth behind in the glistening rays

But mountains ranges do not sob
in the presence of God, they do not
catch a flight when their friends need them
They do not move countries alone, volta
and thrive. They do not laugh and learn
from the hues of their victories and mistakes

They do not wrestle with themselves, with
their fears, with God. Like Jacob:
I will not let go unless you bless me
The hearts of mountains do not break
and mend and burst with flowering beauty 

Their prayers do not cascade like waterfalls
over my children in your arms, over 
the labouring mothers and babies you serve
Over the home we share and the home
you’ve made, brave and bold and raw
Generous blessing pouring down

Mountains have not learned to trudge
slow and faithful, to fight for joy
for breath, for purpose
They do not crave adventure
rise to challenges, spice conversations
with subtle jokes

But you have, you do, you are
All this and more, much more
And you will see 
the goodness of the Lord in
the land of the living

Sometimes I write poems for my friends. Sometimes I use my Substack as a way of celebrating them. And I do it while a silly grin makes its way across my face. Sanchia and I have known each other since primary school (unfortunately I have no photo evidence from that time) and I am so grateful for the privilege of having her in my life. The poem says a lot and not nearly enough. I am often in awe of the friendships in my life, of the people I get to share memories and moments with. I have been abundantly blessed with relationships, with knowing and loving and being known and loved. If there is an area in my life where I consider myself ridiculously rich, it is in friendship.

Sanchia once (many years ago) wrote “Thank you Lord for Sanchia’s butt” on a sticky note and put it in my favorite bible. This may sound irreverent, but I have never taken it out and I do, indeed, thank the Lord for Sanchia’s butt every time I open to Psalm 60.

If gratefulness for your friends is bubbling up inside of you as you read this, please message them or write a poem or a note or ring their bell or give them a call.

Morning Song

Could the birdsong swallow me up
Could I swim in it
until my blood tinkles, lilts
along in my veins
until my soul is carried
up on the music
to greet the sun
Welcome the day
A new day
A new day

Let everything that has breath praise the Lord

Psalm 150:6
I am grateful to have so many birds outside my bedroom window and to my neighbours for always feeding them.

Attention

The dance of silence and words
Sitting in the quiet places
Carving them out of the chaos
Listening to my life hum as I set priorities
And keep them in order

Then twirling with the Word
Life words on the page
Out of my mouth
Spirit breath
Clear and living

Then swaying again into silence
Waiting, still  
And open

You, God, are my God,
Earnestly I seek you;
I thirst for you,
My whole being longs for you,
In a dry and parched land
Where there is no water.

I keep being drawn to Psalm 63 this Lenten season.

Am I Bad at it or is it Unimportant (to Me)?

I wonder if your mother whispered it,
hand on her convex belly
I wonder if it calls to your ancestors
passed like an inheritance down your line 
If it dropped from your father’s mouth
like a revelation, just right 
If it comes from a book, a friend, a whim
If you love it or hate it or even care
I wonder as we lock eyes, shake hands
move on
I will try remember
your name

A few years ago my husband started to really pay attention to people’s names and memorize them. He used “memory hooks” which is basically linking the names to pictures or other words or names already in his long term memory. He decided that remembering names is important and followed through. I really admire that and have started doing the same. I wrote this poem when I forgot the name of one of the parents of a girl in my son’s Kindergarten class. His name is not one I have heard before, I was in a rush, I hardly remember greeting him… you know how it is. When I saw him again and realized I had no idea what his name was (except that it was foreign sounding to me) I looked at him in the eye and asked him to say it again. I built a mnemonic bridge, I asked him a few questions. Our kids are friends now and have play dates. It is crazy how names can open up small worlds we never knew existed.

Washing and Waiting

I’m behind with the washing
Again
Or rather, the washing is ahead of me
Below me on the bathroom floor
Beside me in baskets unfolded
I wonder when todays wont blur
Into tomorrows
In a jagged line of emotional availability
I wonder what lies beyond the gate
Lord, give me joy to tend this garden
While I wait

If you feel the urge to support my writing, I would love that! (No pressure though) You could:

buy me a coffee

In all transparency I might spend the money on decaf coffee beans for my French press or my next journal…

I am surrounded by water 
Rain, days of it 
Fog, heavy and wet
Drizzle, cold on the windows
Drops on my glasses, mud 
on the stairs
Drowning in the absence
of Sunlight

In my dreams, I see the Tugela
flowing like my childhood
River water smooth and earthy clean
I feel the warmth of her bank on my back

I see the Indian Ocean
Feel it, fear it, love it
Tumbled, tucked in until
I kick off the floor toward the light
Adventure pouring salty out my nose

Do I remember the times I prayed for rain?
Throat lined with dust, summers dry and desperate
Waiting for the clouds to form, watching the horizon
for days, until the storm rolled over the Drakensberg
like a benediction, big drops plopping craters in the soil
Faster and faster until the sky and the earth dance
in crashing, blinding celebration

I wonder if this rain here holds droplets 
blown from the coast of Africa, perhaps
the Tugela is running down my face
Perhaps Lake Zurich mixes with particles 
of the deep, the one the Spirit hovered over
in the beginning
Perhaps I am touching my ancestors
being blessed by atoms of the past

Perhaps, today, I will take off my glasses
and tilt my face, enchanted
by the rain
Bless me
Bless me and the crocuses,
the snowdrops, the primroses
the tulip stems, the hellebores
Bless the buds on branches , the opening greens
Bless us

Where do you want to lengthen your days? (The word Lent comes from the Anglo-Saxon word for Spring, when the days lengthen)

I want to lean
into the time between things, dead time
stretch, let my arms extend
the borders of those minutes

as silence disempowers distraction
as my hands flail phoneless
as my soul sways in the newfound 
   space

to lengthen the stillness
the presence
the being without asking everything else
who I am

to meet kindness in my discomfort
until my day is scattered 
with love shaped 
pockets,
    alive time

Write about your recent learnings- what’s emerging?

The thought that
I can do this,
one step softer toward calling
myself a poet
pressure sliding from my shoulders
as I show up
the more my pen meets paper
the more I ingest the process
lip smacking, satisfied
the end result shrinks
in my mind
ideas swelling, joy inflates
I write to write
and that's okay

This poem is one published a while back by Part-Time Poets. I really enjoy the poetry they publish, I would recommend checking them out. They are currently open for Submission, if you have “poems that speak to the human experience, individual and shared, through the lens of womanhood and/or motherhood.”

The Richness of It All

Nobody can prepare you
for how the small child phase
catches you by the throat
steals your breath, tightroping
between suffocation and awe
Stuck like a sob, gulping
on overwhelm
and joy
How it wrings 
blood, milk, sweat
from your stretch velvet body
sucks the iron from your blood
stirs up the rage from your belly
How you will somehow
give it more than it asks for
How it asks for more
than you ever thought you could give
How it scrapes out the membranes
of your selfishness
carves the sleep
from behind your eyes
How your strength will surprise you
love cemented deep
into your foundations 
How you will live closer to tears
one finger on the pulse of life
How you will eventually stop looking
for who you once were
Call it refining,
or phoenix arising
Mesmerizing
How your wings will scatter the ashes
of your former self
and you will mourn in fleeting moments
sorrow stark yet overshadowed
by the richness of it all

Thank you for reading my poetry! I genuinely appreciate it so much.

Poetry helps me keep it short and not confusing, what follows this is what happens when I am not writing poetry. It may or may not be long and confusing, you will have to read to find out. At the moment I am figuring out how I want to use Substack. I am a bit wary of Substack because I want to be fully present in my life. I don’t want the publication of a post to be at the back of my mind when I have an interesting train of thought or am simply writing in my journal at the end of the day. I don’t need another reason to look at my phone. I want to choose whose accounts I give my time and limited brain space to and have intentional times for doing that. I want to figure out my priorities and let my time, energy and thought life reflect them. Have I mentioned that I can sometimes overthink?

I want to think… not always of myself… and yet I want to figure out this need for affirmation, for approval. I want to explore my soul honestly but not dwell there. Part of what makes great writers is an ability to be extremely self aware but not self focused. Life focused, other focused, yet also deeply connected with themselves. I have dabbled in painting and photography at different phases in my life. What these things have in common with writing is noticing. Noticing. What makes a photograph resonate is not simply good framing or an interesting subject, it is something portrayed in a way that makes the viewer feel like somewhere in their being they know that, have been moved by that. It is framing something that already exists, a feeling contained within the human experience that until that moment seemed inexpressible in this particular way. Someone has noticed, noticed long enough to connect us to the subject through their art. Chests expand in an inhale that is universal, we are moved. I want to do that. And read that. And kind of let my life be that.

I am also figuring out the why’s and the how’s of my writing (you could probably pick that theme up in the first poem and the title of this post). I am feeling vulnerable and hopeful and confused and exuberant, and also very aware of the part of me that wants to do this for the likes. I want to write poetry that helps me work through my life and experiences. Write poetry to remind myself of truth. Write poetry to encourage myself and others. Write poetry to help me notice. Write poetry because I notice. Write poetry because the words are in me. Write poetry for the people around me, write it about them. Write poetry for people to read but also write poetry for no one to read. Mostly though, I want to write, to simply write. So I will do that while I figure all of this out.

Can anyone relate to my inner ramblings?!

Thanks for reading, I genuinely appreciate it so much.

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sometimes I am overwhelmed by time,
the gift of it
the weight of it
priceless glimmering in my hands
time with my children, time with my friends
time listening to my husband breathe
as I battle to sleep
time to sooth and play and sing and cry
time to catch the light in my laughter lines
time for rooibos tea on a lazy tongue
time for sport and sweat and heaving lungs
time for cooking with the help of little hands
time for bedtime books and midnight hushes
time for resounding clashes of will
time to lie exhausted on the orange carpet—
the day not even half done
time to meet a smile with another,
spreading like spring over barren cheeks.
time
I watch as it spills from my palms
so slow I don’t notice, unless
I pause
to watch the light refracted by rivulets
listen to the gentle splashing
of the present into the infinite
I know I can’t close my hands and hold it 
tighter, safer
and so I dive into my days
immersed in the gift
of living  
 

Buy me a coffee

Reading Hopkins brought to mind the first time I ever heard about him, in a Poetry University session. , our professor, walked us through an analysis of “Pied Beauty”. His writing completely drew me in, so alive and image rich.

During my time in Dublin I had many moments where I noticed growth. Growth in myself, in my friend, in our relationship, in our marriages, in our children...
I noticed the non linear nature of growth, the grace in it, the miracle of it. My musings on growth in combination with reading Hopkins led to this poem. I occasionally try to challenge myself to write within limits I don’t usually impose or to try out different forms or structures.

So, a poem about growth after “Pied Beauty” by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

                                 Multiplied Beauty

Glory be to God for growing things —
   For friendships: fledgling, falling, soaring
      For trust-crusted marriages, that know both blazing and dim 
Fresh-faced children failing, trying, smiling; grasping at all life brings                 
   Fascia-rooted faith in fertile soil, cells sunlight storing                       
      And all accepted weakness, soft progress with fragile limb 

All things that extend, discover, root, contend
   Whatever is broadening, burgeoning (who knows how?)
      With swift, slow, sprouting, swelling; frailty, vim                                   
He father-draws whose is beginning and also end:
                                     Praise Him. 

I would love feedback, so let me know what aspects you enjoyed or where you see room for improvement. This is an experiment for me, something to help me learn and grow.

Flying

clouds like whipped cream
in a vast bowl of blue
I want to dive down
tumble, till my back meets you

squint to greet the sunlight
Hello! You’ve travelled 8 minutes
and 20 seconds to get here
I’ll save you the last 30 microseconds

I’m Jess
feel free to land on me
I’ll take every ray I can get

Shannon

I hugged you like slipping
into a well worn shoe
if a shoe could hold
a heart instead of a foot

You call shoes foot prisons, but
sometimes things need 
to be surrounded, be held
be known

feet, hearts
even minds
dark and brilliant ones too

we apologize for our tears
we can’t help it
even though we know better

you say your son still
gets the best of you
despite it all 
it all, I know
what you mean
and I admire you

I want to tell you that
so many of us
get the best of you
despite it all

our joy is buoyant
what a beautiful day
despite it all
because of it all

our giggles and dance moves
pave a path for us
like they did 
all those years ago

we have always been
part grit, part dreams
and a whole lot of 
defiant knowing

To Harald, from Dublin

It’s been burning under my fingernails
(as the Swiss would say)
to tell you that I love you
to hold your jaw and gaze, your face
has become my standard of beauty
In between the laughs and song
I search the crowd for your eyes

A guy called John says you’re a lucky man
he asked what it's like to be happily married
I think it depends on your definition of happy
If I could choose anyone to be here
in this moment, most moments
it would be you

Lyrics brush my ear
You are the measure of my dreams
the measure of my dreams
and I think of you, again
if dreams were like seasons
and oceans, and ordinary days

Shan and I laugh till we cry
and talk till we cry
and walk and smile and sigh
I send videos of live music and me
laughing with Guinness foam on my lips

You are reading stories to the kids
and then wiping and sweeping,
dishwasher packing, fitfully sleeping 

I swam in the winter sea,
I couldn’t resist the waves
It’s been three years since I saw the ocean
maybe you will taste the salt on me

maybe this is what love is
what happy is
all of it, 
all of it

Locusts

the ten came back and said
we were like grasshoppers in our own sight, 
and so we were in their sight
made small by fear

some grasshoppers can become locusts
gregarious, they swarm
devour
maybe that is the next stage of fear
 
we have seen the giants 
in the promised land
and we have reported
do not be afraid
the Lord is with us

we have counted the years
destroyed 
by locust and worm, and
we have felt the first drops
of restoration on our palms

we have been lavishly crowned 
with lovingkindness and 
tender mercy, and
we have said to our souls
bless the Lord, all that is within me
bless His holy name

If you made it until here, well done! And thank you. This is not my usual style of posting, I like to post one poem at a time that I know is finished and I feel confident about. I have a lot of poems that simply live in my journal or Google Drive, but I wanted to share about this weekend because it was a special one to me. So these are some poems that would usually stay with me or the people that I wrote them for, in all their raw and simple glory.

I got to go to Dublin to see an amazing friend of mine. We have known each other for thirteen years. Before husbands, before children. We stayed in the same university residence (think Sorority, sort of) during our undergraduate degrees and shared a lot of subjects. She has been a friend through many life phases and country changes, through times of lots of contact and times of less contact. She is someone who I love and respect and miss so much. When she said she was going to be so close to Switzerland to present her research at a conference, I started making plans. Obviously.

I have so much that I want to say but I have no idea where to start. The poems already say a lot. I want to add that it was the first time I was away from the kids for three nights, I missed them lots but it was also wonderful.
Having time to think, to simply be quiet and have nothing to clean, cook, organize, plan, answer. To sit with my thoughts, to pray for hours and to walk with no idea when I will stop. To sleep through the night and to have so much time to focus on a friend. I am very very grateful. I had written these poems by the time I was home again, space to think is just so good (and productive). It is definitely worth planning into my life again.
It also made me realize how much I rush for no reason, I could be more present in my own life if I removed some strange and unfounded internal pressures I put on myself. I could be more aware of the people I encounter, more attuned to the feel of my town and the breath in my body. Waiting expectantly for the beauty of the day and the people to reveal itself to me. Like Dublin did, I was truly mesmerized. I attempted a poem on Dublin and stopped multiple times, some things need more than a glimpse. It was my first time there and I am already wondering when we will meet again.

There is no point to this post, other than sharing poetry and the joy I have found in friendship and in life. In the absence of a deep conclusion or profound thought for the week, please take some of the joy if it rubs off on you.

Cheers!

May you talk gently to yourself
as you pour determination like tears
into the straightening of your spine
nauseously curved toward a cracking skull
May you acknowledge your strength,
breathtaking
May you accept your weakness

May you be carried
in a myriad of unexpected ways
May you have people you trust enough
to ask for help, again
May you know that they do not think
again

May His grace be sufficient for you today
May His mercy be raised repeatedly 
to your dry and desperate lips
May your spark of hope for healing 
not splutter out in the fight for steady breath
May the Spirit of the Lord breathe and breathe and breathe
His strength
His hope
His comfort
into your sagging sighing soul
May you be cradled in presence today

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Today I wrote poetry with a cloth
curving damp stanzas on wood
I wrote it into a palmful 
of crumbs and broccoli bits
I wrote it with a broom and a spatula
with little toothbrushes on little teeth
I wrote it on the cave walls of tired ears 
and around the bend of achy wrists
I wrote it on gifts of minutes and hours 
in the glittering beam of attentive eyes
in the margins of bedtime stories
in the arc of arms stacking and folding
Today I wrote poetry with an ordinary body
onto an ordinary life, today
I was poetry

A Toast to the Stäfa Swimmers

The lake waits, cold and beautiful
I watch it full of craving and hesitation
My mouth waters for the calm high
waiting on the other side of cold shock
When my heart rate lowers and my breathing
settles and the cold sparking through my skin
is replaced by a tingling warmth
and when I try get dressed with shaking hands
giddy laughter tumbles through clear air
I am alive, had I forgotten?
I am alive! 

Before steaming tea meets shaky lips
let’s raise our mugs to the keepers
of Winter rebellion, the bold seekers
of shivering thrill
of laughter passing over open flame
of beauty in the ordinary days
We are alive, had we forgotten?
We are alive! 

Scarcity is Not My Master - A Toast

Can I toast to the drizzle, the grey?
The gentle drops touching my face
making a mirror of the tar so
the clouds can watch their curves
moving slowly, releasing blessing,
filling lakes and reservoirs 

Can I see the fog like a hug,
like protection. Like a reminder
to look inside, to see
the avoided things
and sit with them

A toast to the dark and
the shadows, keeping me honest
showing my humanness dripping
like condensation in the cold, ready
to be caught in the morning light

The idea of practicing toasting comes from Joshua Luke Smith’s “Praying Like Poets” session last Wednesday. I would highly recommend joining if you have not. Great group of people, so much to learn and so many practical tips and prompts. Most of my toasts have been with two children at lunch time. My son toasts to his favorite slide, to the farmer who made the food, to the candle’s flame. My daughter says cheers and laughs as water cups crash into each other. I toast to them, to love, to moments that I often take for granted. I toast to my husband, who awkwardly tries to support my whims. Until he comes home from work smiling and announcing he has something to toast about from the day. Let us toast! Let us celebrate. Let us be together and acknowledge the goodness in it.

That being said, Winter in Europe is not so easy for me. I grew up in South Africa, I am basically made of sunshine. It is not the temperature, we are a resilient lot. The cold never bothered me, anyway. (Yes, you should sing it.) It is the grey. The late sunrise and early sunset. The clouds and the fog. The rain in Winter (this is not a thing where I come from). Missing family over the festive season. So I have found many ways of helping with the Winter blues. One is Winter swimming in the lake. Another is being honest about how I feel. Writing to process. Chasing the sun, making fires outside despite the season and weather. Practicing noticing, engaging in the beauty around me. Living in the tension of holding two contrasting truths inside of me. These toasts are for this time of year, a product of writing to process.

If any of you battle with Winter or write to process your own journeys or have tips and tricks for navigating it all, I would love to hear from you.

What is it about you that so attracts me
I know what you are: Summer’s elegy,
the golden path into Winter’s grey 
death strolling along, shrouded in wonder

The mountains seem closer, air glass clear
The world is quiet, watching this valediction
Sunlight so tangible, if I stretch out my fingers
surely, they will caress the honey rays 

The leaves have lived their summer,
had their full of sunlight and growth
Light’s decay turns them into setting suns
floating down down, night will come

But not right now, now we tilt our faces up
eyelids a portal, the warmth of heaven 
touching the spreading frost in us
thawing memories to dance a little longer
 
Could I fall gently when this season ends
becoming a poem, a photo, a memory 
before I become dirt, squashed umber underfoot
before I become mulch, unnoticed and useful

Could I look Winter in the face, naked
and lost in the fog, somehow knowing my place
Could I still find the light to close my
eyes against, to slurp an unchanged sun

let me climb the mountain in the morning
before something else calls my name, hello
fresh wind on my waking face. Eyes open
to the blues sighing pink and lavender
soft across the cheeks of the stirring day

there may be a tiredness in my bones
or a heaviness trying to hold me
down in the dirt of ordinary days
but I lift my eyes to the mountain, to
my help, the maker of heaven and earth

there may be an aching in my shoulders
a burning in my lungs, still my foot finds
surface, you have never once let me slip
you wait and watch, delight in my attempts
you greet me with the light of the whole world

let me climb the mountain in the morning
I long for light, beams from the face of God
I crave voice, love lapping in sonic waves
and if sometimes I forget your beauty
speak truth to me until I catch on fire

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You took me down to the valley, to walk among the bones
bleached and broken beside my hesitant feet
a great multitude, dead and dry parts of us
their silence gripped my throat. I looked at dreams 
so bare and still, at a friend’s murdered hopes
remains of ideas quietly suffocated under the weight of living, of failing
love for our neighbours starved to death by distraction and fear
relationships collapsed in bitterness and pain
I could not look away, it pulled at me this tragedy
parched dirt lined my mouth, I blinked sandy eyes
half swallowed by the dusty desolation
reeling in a whirl of hopelessness 

Can these bones live?
Sovereign Lord, you alone know. You alone know
You alone made Eve from Adam’s bone
You alone made bone from dust. Gave breath to bone.
You alone know

Prophecy to these bones!
I reach slowly for my pen, poet eyes shooting specs of light, 
particles of dust catching fire
Streams running through my fingertips onto thirsty land, 
I am listening 
Dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! 
This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones…

Oh poets, let us call to life all that should not be dead
Let us walk with the God who spoke the sun into being
Let us ask how to resurrect hope with words 
Let us drip, drizzle, sprinkle
Light in black on white
Love in letters
Let us prophecy!

This poem is mostly for myself, but it’s also a call to other poets, writers and any humans who use words. Because words have power. I wanted to remind us of the creative force, the power of words. We bless and we curse. We build and we break down. We come into alignment with what God is doing or we do not.

This is not to say anyone must start publicly prophesying if they don’t want to. This is me saying that you should write those letters to your friend. Write that poem for your sister. Send the messages, say the words. Make sure the voice in your children’s head is a loving one. Conversations are gateways, our eyes are gateways. We are shaped by what we let in and our environments are shaped by what we let out. So let us remember the power of words.

The inspiration for this poem is from Ezekiel 37, God is talking here about breathing life into Israel, restoring the hope of the people. I have used some poetic license with this scripture because I believe that God is still in the business of restoring hope. I have seen dead things in myself come to life, I have seen relationships restored that I thought were only dry bones. I have wept in awe at the beauty of Jesus while dreams walked out of graves in the lives of people I know. I believe that God speaks. That just like in the beginning when the sun was flung into the sky with a sentence God is still creating life and beauty. We get to partner in that, we get to listen and pray. We get to sit in the presence of the Creator and ask him to align our hearts with his. We get the privilege of asking how to pray for our children, our friends, our hearts, our world. We get to write, to create, to shape. Oh friends, can you feel the burning of my heart? Let us listen, let us pray, let us write, let us LOVE. Oh Lord, can these bones live?

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desperation like nails on skin, breaking 
scraping, someone say something 
before I split in the tension, I can’t 
sit here wondering if I am enough
the silence swells and squashes me

a child once quiet in her urgency 
hands shooting out
for any scrap, any hint to feed
the unnoticed vacuum, mine deep belly
ego screaming at pit bottom

grown up now I shout, rage rolling
against mountains of expectation
I am enough! 
my echo mocks back at me
I am enough?

splashing my face with muddy water
dying of thirst, hands
fumble for another palmful
dirt caked fingers scrape the  
stones of Siloam

into my frenzy drops a whisper
           I am the Light of the world
dirt and spit meet on my eyelids
and just like that, I am a frame
a stage, a universe
housing Glory

eyes open to the face of Love
         Bread of Life
              Living Water
      eat and drink, my precious daughter  
finally, filled like a flood
by broken body, poured out blood
by faithfulness

by so much love

I don’t always feel like the first few stanza’s of this poem. Those moments are infrequent but forceful, pressing me into the ground like increased gravity. Charles Bukowski said that “writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers.” I think that all humans are desperate, not continually, but we all have moments of suffocating under our own craving to be more than we are. We are desperate for acceptance, for love, for power, for safety, for being known. Maybe not all at once, but there are times saturated in this relentless burning. I occasionally feel like I was born desperate, or born blind like the man at Siloam. Blind since birth but still searching for healing, waiting at the side of the pool. He became a vessel for the glory of God to be displayed. His desperation was met with compassion in the form of saliva mud, in the form of healing, in the form of Jesus coming to find him when the Pharisees threw him out. He was given sight and salvation. He believed and he worshipped. John 9: 1-41.

I am the blind man desperate for sight, I am the woman at the well thirsting for something she could not name, I am the hungry crowd that Jesus fed with bread and fish and a message that shook them. I am the dry and parched land met with Living Water. I am everyone who has seen the face of Love and walked on mercy road. I have been met again and again and again, and have been transformed by the light of the world.

For all those who are feeling desperate today, may you be met by Love.

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The crunch of grass burnt black, brittle
breaking beneath my little boots
eyes on the stretching bleakness
what remained in the morning, after 
fire burnt hot and wild at night

As a child I would walk and watch
until the greenest green I had ever seen
somehow grew out of charred black blades
and some darkness in me would pop open 
into excitement, fresh and buoyant 

I would imagine the first people to see
fire raging in the night, fear and awe 
rampant in thumping hearts. Wide eyed   
in sweat and heat and confusion, until
the sun rose silent over dark desolation

They would not know about the vibrant green
that this is not the end, that the world would
not remain barren and black. They would
walk, lungs full of sooty grief, to seek
a new home beyond the smolder

And it would rain and then shine, and
they would journey hunched and quiet
until one morning, green on black promising
beauty from ashes. Their hearts would shift
it is not all dead, it is not all dead

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there have been ordinary days 
where I reach out toward soft curls,
dirty dishes, broom handles, ripe berries
to find my hand filled suddenly 
weight that brings me tumbling
into presence, submerged in glory
prostrate in the intersection of realms
heavy beauty this, eternal perspective
brushing my eyes, fanning desires
I am full and hungry and full again
light dances from my adoring gaze
along my arms, into my open palms
shimmers on everything I touch
joy’s hallmark on the commonplace 

This poem was inspired in part by the sermon C.S Lewis preached called The Weight of Glory. Kavod is the Hebrew word for glory or honour, signifying the value attributed to heavy or weighty things and has been on my mind recently. I am so amazed at how we can live our messy ordinary lives with the ever present invitation into the presence of God.

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