Awake in the Dream

It’s the digging that becomes tedious  Then painful Exposing nerves  alive like electrical wires hot and unpredictable.  In my quest for authenticity  I have barely scratched the surface of myself.  The stark mirror of sobriety  exposes every whisker and barnacle  Every threadbare remnant  of my  temerity  And yet  there is beauty  in the muck of remembrance  Every layer an invitation  to soften  Every dark pocket  transformed  in the light  Brought to my knees  by the power of  this unearthing I am humbled  and raw  Prayers leave my lips broken and holy  made from what is  left of me  

 Home is in your bones  A landscape etched inside you  Felt in an instant 

  The older I get, the more grateful I feel. Part of this change is intentional because I have made a practice of declaring my gratitudes every day. In my garden, where the parsley still thrives, hearty in the morning frost, I give thanks for another day alive on the Earth. Bare feet in the grass and hands on my heart I make a display of myself. My inner critic chatters “What if the neighbors can see you?” and my higher self delights at the thought. This morning worship of dirt and sky. This urban prayer. This is a spectacle that I don’t mind being observed by peering eyes. I hope this vibe spreads like sacred seeds in the wind, over fences and into hearts.   “MOM!!! It’s cold!! You don’t have to do that you know! I’m hungry!! Come back inside!!” says the voice of my child, obstinate and demanding, vital and independent. He for one, does not want the neighbors to see me. The irony of this is that he still jumps on the trampoline naked. But I digress.  The effect of this p...