Seeker of the Edge

(A continuation from Ash Wednesday’s poem, Seeker of Ash) • • • Outside,the moon hangs with foresight. Inside,I sit in the basement of the sanctuary, rifle theforgotten book on my lap,flashlight in hand,flip with fury,find fallen phenomenon. Creeeeeak, creeeeeak, creeeeeakFootsteps above me,my heart stops— What if they figure me out? Quiet settles,I keep on,forge for informationof the deep way With roots fixed firm,there she is —arms rise to flexible form,an expansive stretch Gaia, spreader of seeds With flaming heart,there she is —eyes flicker with desire,faces the fable of sin Eve, seeker of solid food With fluid connection,there she is—hands embrace…

Creative Advent: Self-Love

Robes of grace glow around her formbetween the doors of the altar,where she tends the heart of creationin the palm of her hands. In the innermost recesses,where the highest priests reside,Mary sews her sacred tale,dares to believe in her creative worth. She is the seamstress of heart, weaves the veil of enigmawith a red thread of love,dares to speak “Yes” to angelic request. Her unwed belly grows.Voices taunt, “You need to be saved.”She knows better than to believe she is broken;afterall, expansion is of God. Instead, she chooses to love herself andthe beating pulse of creativity within. She loves herself…

Beginning with Goodness

You know, I used to see my sin first — the flaw of humanity running in my veins. Goodness lived in the next town over, (me) always traveling, never arriving. I used to view myself as a twisted ray of light with a deep urge to straighten out. If I studied hard enough and gave my time away, would it prove my value? and yes, I knew Jesus at the time and the story of how he cleans my slate and makes me shiny as a whistle but somehow, what this did, was allow me to claim grace for myself,…

Invisible Magic

The first time I came home with a two feet by three feet canvas, I believed I wouldn’t be able to paint this large. Did I have it in me? What is “it” anyways? White-washed canvas taunted. Blank space stared back with beady eyes. Who was I to do this? Who was I to paint? All the old stories came sweeping in: Art is a luxury Isn’t there something better to spend time on? How is change made with the stroke of a brush? Then, I heard from the depth of my being Do not be afraid. Do it anyway….