Walking. Searching. Level upon level.
Swirling and twirling. Flowing and going.
Look to the right, to the left, to the right, to the left.
Giving up. Letting go.
Graves deep, markers crumbling.
Long lost. But not forgotten.
Open the door. See the belonging.
Feel the belonging. The sorrow and strife.
Start the ignition. Pay the tuition.
Realize what was once is not more.
Breathe and see without seeing.
There is nothing. Let it be.
— Wendy Who Walks With Wildflowers
Let All the Mothers Go
Breathe she thought
with grace and gratitude
Dust, let go of the dust
Let go of the mother
So she can let go of her mother
And hers
And hers
And hers
And his
Let go of Mother Earth
So they can call simply relax and be
Without worry
Without fright
And into the night
They sleep a pretty slumber
Where all dreams release
And into the day they step
Step. Step. Step. And FLY
Into the sky
Releasing all
It doesn’t matter
Go. Go. Go.
— Wendy Who Walks With Wildflowers
How to See What Is Before Me
Stop talking she thought to herself as she sat uneasy
What it before her may be what is askew
Or off to the right, along the gravel shoulder
Imagination comes alive like a store needing to be told
But to see, she simply closes her eyes
And knows what is needed will come forth
Like a fog creeping in during a cold, dark night.
Quietly tip toe through the tulips
In a unique voice we all laugh at
Yet serious and serene
What is before me?
Bright colors of life unfolding
Quiet. Quiet. Quiet.
And strong.
Softly focus
With wiggling toes stretch for the stars and always be bold.
Blooming
Invisible with the strength of the unknown
Carried like a child, tender, ungrown
Loved like a daisy in the sunshine in the spring
Tortured no longer under the weight
Let go
Embraced like a dollie given on Christmas day
Forgiven like a cherished wrong
We don’t know what blooms inside us
Until we let go, the get of hell on earth
And learn to laugh once again
Like the tired and delirious told to sleep
when the sun still shines
and the sweetness of the day lingers
like the taste of honey
Be strong in the attempts to bloom
It’s all worth it. Do it. Aho.
— Wendy Who Walks with Wildflowers
Safety
In the earth or in the trees in the sky I don’t know why
Hold me gently me oh my
Cradle me soothe me give me lullabies
In the middle of the day or in the middle of the night
There the comfort lets me know there is only us
Let the others go.
Why does the wrong become a place for the light to shine?
I read somewhere about struggle and how life is about struggle and what we do with it. My struggles have been something that have gotten me to a place in life currently where I talk to almost nobody other than the man who raped me for decades. What is wrong with me? Why has the struggle to survive gotten me to this place of isolation?
This place in the world is wrong yet right. All the bruises were wrong and the willingness to be bruised was wrong. It’s still wrong yet right. The bruises have transformed into a darkness so deep that the bruises have settled deep within. Resulting in an inability to do anything but hide. When the bruising began, the strength to endure became an obsession. The wrong yet right felt like the sentence given justly. The doors closed and held me tight. The doors opened and allowed the bruising and then the hiding in plain sight. The begging continues deep within and again the begging and pleading for safety is ignored as always. Wrong yet right. Right in ways that show up each morning with the sun streaming in the rapist’s windows. The sun shines on the rapist and joy lifts the rapist in ways that will always be mystifying and strange. Why does the wrong become a place for the light to shine?
The Struggle Is Holy
I struggle to love myself daily until I make the decision to align myself with source. And that source I suppose is holy. Even the struggle is holy as I write these words and feel a gratitude for being able to share.
When I love myself it is invisible and not. It’s confusing and I fear that loving myself will only be revealed at the moment that I transition from this world into an unknown. Perhaps it is there that I will be shown that I have loved myself with every breath. It is simple. Profound.
Greeting Grief
I greet grief with a love deep and strong. One moment at a time in the infinite wisdom that lies within. Be not afraid, I hear whispered in the quiet of the night. Busy myself no longer as the peace that dwells on the mountain tops rains down on me like a gentle spring carrying melted snow. Long ago there must have been a time when we all loved one another and in this moment we embrace and greet that love, acknowledging the grief that resides in our hearts like a welcome guest who gently rocks us as we view the stars. Be gentle. Be kind. Be strong. Be at peace. For there are and always will be the joyful twinkling chimes that play for us near and far.
Pay Attention
Breath comes easier
the aroma of dinner fills my heart
and I feel gratitude for all that is.
To ignore sometimes feels right
and then the attention goes elsewhere.
But what if I miss the one thing
that is most needed?
Impossible!
I hear from angels near
for what draws my attention
are the wings of angels
and their whispers of loving kindness.
Joy is all around
even when I don’t want to admit it
Joy in the candle flame
the taste of cranberry
the lingering warmth of a new pair of socks.
When I pay attention
the earth envelopes me
and allows my heart to soar
like an eagle gliding
and the sun shining
strong on a cold winter day.
— Wendy Who Walks With Wildflowers
Sacred Space
Alone in my heart
the quiet of the morning
dark or light
quiet or not
My sacred space connects me
once again to a trusted source within
which, for so long was forgotten.
But now, I trust and have faith
in the grace that allows
safety, happiness, health and peace.
A peaceful space
where the past, present and future
are released like a dove into the fair blue sky
to carry a part of me
that needs freedom and joy.
Alone in my heart is a space of light
and one that I share with all in need
for we all are worthy of harmony
beyond that which lies on the screen
And with that, I give thanks. Aho.
But I am not finished
even though my mind often goes there
goes there to a sacred space
carrying fear
of the long lost
but now found.
— Wendy Who Walks With Wildflowers
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