“The joy of bursting and bearing fruit” by Julia at her desk

Wednesday July 11, 2018
6:58am
5 minutes
Earth Prayers
John Soos

One day conceivable from here, from now, from everything that I know,
I will hold a tiny, living thing in my arms and I will feel this great love…
The one everyone talks about
the changing kind, the one that gently nudges, inspires, forces you into bearing witness

Each moment between now and then is a teacher
A dream
I will want this when I have gotten good at turning the love inward
At being a witness to myself
And there is much to see. This life has been long already, the one before this one longer still, I imagine, and it is going going
I would very much like to give a tiny, living thing, my heart beat in excess
I want to give everything away when I know I don’t need to hold onto anything I’ve gotten but a tiny, living thing
Everything of use to me is being shown to me from the inside out and the whole world knows it
At least it does if I give permission to the whole world to be within me

Last night I felt a connection with a tiny, living thing
that did not burst forth from my own joy,
but was able to recognize it
We rocked there, our heads touching
and that was enough for me to know

“what curious sense does it make?” By Julia at Sasha’s kitchen table


Tuesday January 10, 2016
2:45pm
5 minutes
Upstream
Mary Oliver


She looked around the room
wild eyed and buzzing
her tiny eyes still too glassy
to make sense of any faces
or shapes
little hands and noses mushed
into her field of vision
blurring in and out
in and out
Her head was fully held up
by the neck on which it stood
Advanced, some of the other new mothers
were marveling
She was anxious to be independent
ready, rather, since she popped out
her new mother said nonchalantly as she gnawed
on a meaty rib bone with her free hand

She gulped at the air
her mouth the same shape as her tiny fists
eager to be in the glory of it all
curious and young
to be so new and so old
all at the same time
a thousand tiny lifetimes lived
in every breath
every glance
every nod
of her perfect little head

“unable to” by Julia at Lindsay’s house


Wednesday, March 30, 2016
4:49pm
5 minutes
From an e-mail

Can’t keep my head on straight it’s a spinning
Got those blues again my heart’s a singing
I have a lot of lists saying try me try this try that and I don’t know what I think or if I think or what to think about any of it
Can’t keep my head on straight it’s a spinning
Got those dark blues shades of green my heart’s a singing
I said I would I said I wouldn’t I said I could but now I feel like I couldn’t
Even if I tried
Can’t keep my head on straight it’s loose and wobbling it’s a spinning
Got those blueish blues those greenish hues my heart’s a singing
Can’t cannot unable unstable
Can’t cannot unable unable

“the waiting place” by Sasha on the bus


Tuesday January 6, 2015
1:56pm
5 minutes
from An Incomplete Manifesto For Growth
Bruce Mau


The mountains are back
They never left
But I forgot that
They can’t move
Like we can
They are there come hell or wild fire or high water
They are there through it all
All of it
Can you imagine?
I see them now though
Through the trees
White-tipped and relaxed
Nothing to prove
A January hymn plays
Quietly
Wanting more of me than I want to give
The sun is sinking tired
Soup waits

“Each day drawn back to show” by Sasha at her desk


Monday January 13, 2014
12:37am
5 minutes
Life’s Veil
Kieran Dockerty


You tell me that it’s your birthday and I think about how you’re a water baby
Born Aquarian
Born for the ocean
Wanting whales to sing for you in the morning
Wanting coral reefs to support you
Each day of your life has been drawn back to show you
Swimming
A school of vibrant fish winking at you
A pearl
Your eye
A tide
Your breath

“over the next couple of weeks” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Monday January 6, 2014
8:24pm
5 minutes
bleubirdblog.com

Over the next couple of weeks I will open a store. Inside that tiny store will be lots of treasures. Wreaths of wildflowers dried in the sun. Preserved apricots with cinnamon and honey. Dill pickles so tart your lips pucker and your eyes smile. Small glass jars filled with homemade vanilla, or lemon essence or tea tree oil. A gold plated frame, about the size of your palm, with a black and white picture of a woman in a wide-brimmed hat. A whole wall of seeds, for planting in the spring. Butternut squash, lacinato kale, romaine, golden beets, rhubarb, wild rose and petunias. Another wall of recipes, each one priced for ten cents. Each one written by hand. A whole bookcase of poetry. E.E. Cummings, Mary Oliver, Hafiz and Naomi Shihab Nye. A husky will sit near the door, but the old, cream-coloured, sighing radiator. He’ll greet everyone who enters with a bark that reminds me of my first love.