In the soft heart of June

 

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June whispers in my ear, beckoning me to stop and drink her in.

Her discordant song echoes in layers, defying the mathematics of music.
What is this confused passion?
This abstraction — perfectly balanced?
The treble of the gnat,
The bass of the bullfrog,
The trill whistle of the bird,
Never a more tangled rhythm beats in the soft heart of June.

Each creature moves to the drumbeat of the Flower Child,
who’s finest garb is strewn about her messy room.
The amber and cerulean bluebird stands guard outside his nest, while his bride arranges her cradle.
The hummingbird skillfully hovers, his wings beating a buzz, before he jets off to fight for his place in the sky.
The turtle lazes in the warmth of the sun, atop a fallen tree, while the dragonfly jettisons across the water.
June’s energy is endless and her laughter rings through the trees.

Paintbrush in hand, she strokes the lightest of light.
Her hand does not shy from the darkness of night.
Her skies churn charcoal grey and electric blue,
and palette knives scoop white upon white.
Her petals scream color,
Her fireflies ignite,
A climax of wonder, the longest day of light.

June brushes soft against my skin.
I stop, quiet, and give myself to her.
Resigned, there are no words fit to describe her wild beauty.
She spins, slowly, in pirouette,
Then, on this, the first day of summer,
I watch her laugh as she begins to dance away.

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Photo by Amy Treasure

Letting Go…

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My children now see me as a separate person.
That feels strangely vulnerable.
What do they mean by saying they can see Dad and I living here or there?
Or that they can see us doing this or that?
There is a Dad and I?
I had almost forgotten.
Forgotten that one day — it would be he and I,
And we would be over the hump — that there would be another chapter,
Another chapter of he and I.

I have been inextricably entwined in the beautiful necessities of the precious everyday.
Deeply engrossed in the job of giving my absolutely everything.
Watering and tending the root, only when the day allows.

I have spent years treasuring my beloved and most cherished place as mother.
The cushion is still very warm.
I sit there awhile, looking out over the day.
It is increasingly mine.
I rediscover that I have my own preferences, my own desires, my own passions.

I am once again the lord of my own radio.
Let no one touch my pre-sets.

I find my husband’s hand… it is beautifully familiar — but strangely — not the same.
Do we remember how to dream together?

My heart is in the chair, my foot is on the road.
I look forward with anticipation and back with yearning.
A balancing act.
Let go.
I must learn to let go.

Thankful.
I have done this thing- however not perfectly well.
I have experienced the excruciatingly beautiful and primal process of receiving precious seed, carrying hidden life, and laboring through birth.
I have been made drunk with the desire to love, nurture and mold my brood —
my people — those who are connected to all that I am, all that I was, and all that I will be.

And now I am called to let go.
Not a little- but completely.
I am invited to drink from a new cup, explore a new realm of necessity and desire, and enjoy the warmth of a new season.

Obviously, to be continued …