Soul Sunday

Hi friends. I don’t think that this past full week of the new year is what any of us were aiming for, to start the year out right. These are strange times which we are going through. However, we are not alone. We are experiencing a lot of “stuff”, together. I am grateful to commune with all of you, as we navigate another year of our lives, together. My regular readers know that I dedicate Sundays to poetry. Please share your poems (they are there, in your heart – put a pen in your hand and let them flow out. You will be pleasantly surprised – “Shakespeare’s a poet, and doesn’t know it”) in my Comments section. Today I wrote this poem (I hope that you may relate, and that you can enjoy some familiarity, with me):

It Never Fails

It never fails,

Every year I find it,

That one little relic,

of the holidays past,

That I forgot to put away.

This year it was a sparkly hand towel,

In the powder room,

Depicting a Christmas tree,

Shiny, erect, hopeful and bright.

Could it be a subconscious hint?

Much like a woman who leaves her glove,

After an enjoyable evening out,

Perhaps it’s an honest mistake,

or perhaps it’s an intuitive gesture,

From something deep inside,

Trying to connect and to keep and to hold,

The magic of the moment alive,

For the entire year to come.

Soul Sunday

Hi friends. My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry. Poetry is mysterious. It leads people to bring more of their own selves to the words, as poetry is more open to interpretation, than most forms of writing. I think that a lot of us think that we don’t like poetry, and then we open our minds to it, and we end up liking it a lot. Poetry is freeing. Here’s my poem for today. Please, as always, feel safe and comfortable to add your own poems to my Comments section.

JUST FOR ME

The poems that are coming to me this morning,

Are too private to share.

The shield over my heart, tells me to expose no more.

Today the muse needs the soft protection,

of holy hands and feathers, and leather bound covers.

Today the words are just mine.

As are the complicated feelings,

That sometimes words just can’t describe.

Some days, my written language is solely my own.

A story made just for me.

Soul Sunday

Hi friends. As my regular readers know, Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. On Sundays, I share a poem that I have written or someone else has written. Please share your poems in the Comments section. This is a sacred space for us to share the words which seep from the deepest corners of our hearts.

“Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.” — Paul Engle

Here is my poem that I wrote for today:

THE PURPOSE OF WELLS

Once there was a woman who was just walking along,

and she unexpectedly fell into a deep, dark, pitted well.

This had happened before in her journeys,

But somehow she always managed to forget

how scary, and dark, and lonely, and helpless she felt,

at the bottom of her cavernous well.

At first, she panicked. She screamed and she wailed,

and she tried angrily to claw her way out of the well,

but the clawing only gave her more injuries, and exhaustion,

And made her feel weaker than she already was.

More rocks and debris fell on to her, as she mightily struggled,

And the jagged stones opened ancient, unhealed wounds,

And these fresh, new gashes bled out all of her strength.

And she was filled with fear and despair.

She fell dejectedly to the bottom of her well and she whimpered.

It started raining. It was pouring and storming and bleak.

And those who love her, and those whom she loves and adores,

Called to her, from afar, from the top of the deep, deep well,

Promising to stay with her and to help her.

But, she intuitively understood that this rescue,

Would be something that mostly,

She would have to do for herself.

She also knew that some of her own deep loves,

Had fallen into their own deep wells, at the same time,

And she panicked and she flailed,

And she tried to gain control,

of everyone and of everything.

Mostly, she wanted to save all of those loved ones,

She wanted to pull them out of their own frightening wells,

Even more than she cared to escape her own lonely cell,

But there was really nothing she could do,

At the bottom of her own caged pit.

The woman stewed in fear, and in anxiety and in sadness and in despair.

But then . . . . when she got really quiet, she listened and she heard.

“Rest”, someone whispered, adding a hint of light into the darkness.

“Let’s just rest. Let’s just let it be.”

“Surrender. Trust. Let it go.”

And the woman felt the words swirling and beating into her heart,

The words were coming from someone sitting right next to her,

Someone peaceful and kind, holding the woman’s hand, assuredly.

It was her beautiful, serene, shining Guardian, adding light into the darkness.

“There is a purpose for your well.”

“There is a purpose for all wells,”

her Guardian soothed, and the glorious spirit held the frightened woman,

Enveloping her in soft, downy, yet mighty wings.

“Everyone else’s Guardians are with them right now, too.”

And she beckoned for the woman to look upwards.

And the woman looked up at the top of her well,

And she saw everyone whom she loved being held by their Guardians.

There was a beautiful, shining, overwhelmingly bounteous army of Guardians,

Surrounding and shielding and protecting everyone she loves,

Too many Guardians to count, forming a unified glorious light,

A light that was so luminous that it almost hurt the woman’s eyes to see it,

And then at that precise moment, the woman clearly understood,

That even people who had fallen into other deep, dark, isolating wells,

Were also being held and and were also being soothed,

And were also being loved into their own hallowed healing,

by their own sacred Guardians,

Hurting people were being held and nestled,

In their own cozy, safe, private holes of protection,

By their own fearless, loving Guardians,

Each Guardian carefully nestling their charges to wholeness, once again.

These Guardians had been assigned to their people by the Eternal One,

And then the woman realized in perfect awe, that the Guardians,

Had never left any of their people, ever at all.

And the woman relaxed into this peaceful, calming Knowing

And she slept. And she rested. And she trusted. And she let it all go.

And she healed.

And when the woman woke, after what felt like an eternity of sleep,

she felt light, and she felt energized and right before her

Stood a beautiful, solid, ornate stairway, that was easy for her to climb.

And she came back up from her deepest, darkest depths,

and she rubbed her eyes and she looked around,

and she remembered how utterly beautiful it is,

At the safe, solid landing at the everlasting top of the well.

Everything she felt and everything that she saw,

Seemed even more miraculously lovely than it ever had before.

And as she held her Guardian’s hand, she thought that perhaps,

this is what her Guardian meant.

Perhaps it is this renewal,

Perhaps it is this constant rebirth of hope,

Perhaps it is this process that happens,

in the hidden, wrapped cocoons before any crucial changes,

That is the entire purpose of falling into,

and then later, being able to climb out of,

the inky, dark, fearsome wells along our paths.

And then, stepping on to the beautiful, soft landing, at the the top of the well,

the woman took fresh, assured, confident steps forward,

Into the lightness of a beautiful, sun-filled day.

She was filled with a knowing that she is always, always surrounded and bathed,

In endless, bottomless, all encompassing Light and Love,

Even when she temporarily falls into the scattered, very deep wells,

and sometimes forgets about the eternal, impenetrable Beauty and Light,

The light which forms the everlasting well-spring,

Which nourishes and replenishes and heals every single soul,

The woman is reminded that the Light has never left her, nor will ever leave her,

Along the varied pathways and the thrilling adventures,

which make up the very essence of living one glorious human life.

We are not alone. We are never alone. We can walk in peace.

This I know.

Soul Sunday

Hello friends. I hope that this Sunday finds you in a state of peace. Sundays are reserved for the songs of the Soul, here at Adulting – Second Half. Sundays are devoted to poetry. Please share your poems in my Comments section. This is a “no judgment” zone. This is a safe place for release in the form of the written word. Here is my poem for today:

I Hear You

I’m listening, Body.

You are the one who always gets ignored.

The Middle Child, mediator of the Mind and the Soul.

You don’t have the voice, or the emotion of your siblings,

But you house the heart.

You make possible the breath.

You work overtime, trying to keep everyone and everything in balance.

You subtly ask for care, but your subtly is so easy to ignore,

Until your whispers turn to cries.

Don’t let my cries, turn to screams, you say.

I’m listening, Body.

Today, I care for you.

You are the precious vehicle for my travels in life,

And for the acuity of my Mind,

And for the sensories of my Soul.

Today, I honor you and I respect you,

For everything that you give, to the whole of me.

Soul Sunday

Good morning friends and readers. I hope that this post finds you in a peaceful place. Sundays, are a free flow of words in poetry. Sundays are poetry workshop days at Adulting – Second Half. I write a poem or I procure a poem from one of my readings, written by someone else. I strongly encourage you to add your poems to my Comments section. This is a no judgment zone. This is just a place to freely express what sits on your heart. Have a restful, rejuvenating day! Here is my poem I wrote for today. I am sending lots of love to you out there. I hope that you can feel it and that you can shelter in the cocoon of Love, at least for today.

What Lies on My Heart

I’m so scared, I want to stay holed up in a ball

In the safest confines of my home.

I’m so bored, I want to jump in my car, and take it,

To go to wherever my boldest imagination,

Finds an intriguing dot on a map, and then some more.

I don’t want to get ill and more so, I don’t want to be the cause

Of anyone’s pain nor terrible, breathless demise.

But you can’t live a joyous life, without a dash of risk.

But, but, but . . . . . . . . back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back

And forth . . . . . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nobody talks about their “daily doings” anymore.

Because Everyone has become judge and juror.

Nobody wants to be “cancelled,” and therefore Everyone is “cancelled”.

Cancelled from expressing our true authentic selves.

But how do you learn from what can’t be acknowledged nor revealed?

It’s lonely when you can’t be real.

And those who are still expressing, tend to take it too far.

They have absorbed all of the energy of the unsaid,

And all of the energy of the unfelt,

And it explodes and it bursts and it erupts out of them,

Too forcefully.

And the meaning is lost in the angry noise.

And the rest of us stay safely quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My mind whirls around in jumbled circles, these days.

Everything is a decision, a weighing of chance.

Everything, Every Single Day.

Everything.

Every. Single. Day.

Again and again.

It’s exhausting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But my heart does tell me that everything is going to be okay.

My heart tells me that everything is okay.

My heart says for me, to just be quiet, and to be still.

Be still and know that I am.

Be still. Know.

I am.

And then I take a deep breath and I’m peaceful again.

Soul Sunday

Good morning. Welcome to Soul Sunday. Sundays are all about poetry here at Adulting-Second Half. Sometimes I write a poem and share it. Other times I share a poem by someone else that has moved me. I strongly encourage you to add your poems to my Comments section. Poetry is such a fluid, interesting, untethered use of words. Try it. You’ll like it. I found today’s poem as I was going through some piles of paper on my desk. It is a beautiful poem by the poet Ingrid Goff-Maidoff. Since our homes have been our keepers and our comforters throughout the pandemic, I thought that her words were particularly meaningful.

House Blessing by Ingrid Goff-Maidoff

This house is Love’s house.

It is a sanctuary, a garden,

a safe haven.

May it be delightful.

May it be a home that encourages

creativity and peace,

togetherness and private time.

May it be an environment

that celebrates life, untidy and ever flowing.

May simplicity be honored in this house,

valuing love above all else.

May daily chores and small moments

all be approached with reverence and with love.

Mistakes may be seen as lessons learned.

Kindness, forgiveness, laughter, joy,

and calm enthusiasm

will nourish all who enter through its doors.

May all who visit leave refreshed.

May all who live in this house

live in contentment and harmony,

dreaming many beautiful dreams,

rejoicing in the way things are.

Soul Sunday

I slept so well last night. I always do, when it is the six members of my immediate family, safe under one roof. My eldest son made it back for a visit for the first time since Christmas. We had previous visits planned, but those got delayed, of course, due to the coronavirus. Right now, we are all ecstatic. No one showed his excitement and joy for our son’s return more, than did our Labrador retriever, Ralphie. Ralphie “hugged” our son several times, covered him with slobbery kisses, brought him every toy that he owns, and Ralphie’s tail was going on “high speed” for what seemed like hours, well into the night. Ralphie perfectly portrayed, in physical motion, what all the rest of us were feeling in our hearts. I will never wonder why we love dogs.

New readers, Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. Typically I share I poem which I have written or I share a poem which someone else has written that has touched me. Since, I am eager to get back to the breakfast table, in order to continue to catch up with my son, I am going to share my favorite poem by Rudyard Kipling. It seems like an apropos choice for today. Friends, please add your poetry to the Comments section. The world always needs poetry, especially these days.

“If” by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;   
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;   
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Soul Sunday

Hello, dear hearts. I was reading an essay about a writer who would go to her grandparents’ Kentucky home every summer and her favorite memory of that precious time in her childhood, is that everyone would call each other “dear heart.” It’s so interesting, when we look back at our lives, to see what memories really mean something to us and seem to stick out, as defining moments. Often, it’s the most seemingly inconsequential happenings that really make the biggest mark on our lives. When this coronavirus situation has finally passed, we will all just hold tidbits of memories and emotions that will forever mark this time in our lives. And even though we are all collectively experiencing much of the same event, we will all memorialize it differently, with a few random aspects of it all, that will be forever seared into our minds and into our hearts.

My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry. It is poetry workshop day at Adulting – Second Half. Here’s my poem for the day. Please gift us with your melodious, soul flowing words, in my Comments section. Thank you and bless you, dear hearts.

Home

The charming abode with the white picket fence,

Filled with apple pies and common decency,

Once became so unremarkable that it bored people to tears.

But in times of raging storms and bewildering uncertainty,

We seek the lovely, well-kept, placid cottage,

Brimming with integrity and the solidity of a foundation

Made from the salt of the earth.

And yet its location is not so easy to find anymore.

It turns out that the common places, weren’t so common.

They were precious. They got overshadowed by Darkness’ need,

for ravenous attention and the insatiable hunger to overtake.

Still, the navigation system lies within, to bring us back,

To the windy path, protected by the wise elders of trees,

And at the end of the path, is the place of our heartland,

That has always been there, with doors wide open,

Beckoning us in with a welcoming, warm embrace.

Reminding us that we can always return to the comfort

Of the indefatigable sunlit energy that sustains the lovely retreat,

This wholesome, beautiful, light-filled, sustainable cottage of our hearts.

Soul Sunday

My soul is a little quiet this Sunday morning. My soul was caught up in a tsunami of emotion and a firestorm of thoughts, pulsing through my mind, most of this week. My soul is trying to rest in a body that’s holding a lot of tension – a body that has had no other choice than to be the rigid container of the relentless tsunamis and the chaotic firestorms, which felt like they would never end. My soul is not looking to reach out today, but more so, to settle down, within, to still the waters and to get back to the peace that lies below all storms and fires. Always.

The poem below by Carl Sandberg moves me. Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. Please share a poem that moves you, whether you are the author or not. Poetry is salve for the soul. Writing poems and reading poems are release valves, to whatever needs to be let go.

“I Love You” by Carl Sandberg

I love you for what you are, but I love you yet more for what you are going to be.
I love you not so much for your realities as for your ideals. I pray for your desires that they may be great, rather than for your satisfactions, which may be so hazardously little.
A satisfied flower is one whose petals are about to fall. The most beautiful rose is one hardly more than a bud wherein the pangs and ecstasies of desire are working for a larger and finer growth. Not always shall you be what you are now. You are going forward toward something great. I am on the way with you and therefore I love you.

Soul Sunday

Happy Father’s Day!! I am blessed by the men in my life. As a woman, I understand that not everyone can say that, so I am utterly and completely grateful. New readers, Sundays are devoted to poetry. On Sundays, I either write a poem or share a poem written by someone else and I strongly encourage you to add your poems in my Comments section. I consider Sundays to be a poetry workshop day for us. There is no judgment, just creative wordplay and word flow. Please see previous Sunday posts for more poetry to feed your soul.

To My Husband and the Father of My Children

When I fell in love with you

We were just kids ourselves.

Now our own children are mostly grown.

Yet . . . .

With all of your accomplishments,

With all of your roguish competitiveness,

With all of your dreams and dedication,

There was never, ever a doubt in my mind,

That our family was the heart of it all, for you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.