Unwrapping Gratitude

18 May

 

 

 

Rain on the roof.
Sunday morning
always feels like unwrapping
gratitude
for the thought behind a gift.
Can one fall in love with
simply folding back paper,
uncurling ribbon,
lifting the lid?
What part of the heart
becomes coldquiet
and breathbone still
at loving the giving,
and the Giver
when the box only holds
more space?

 

On April 15, 2018 at 7:15 p.m., my neighborhood was hit by a F3 tornado.

I hid in the basement with my dog Clarence on the phone with my mother who prayed for us. It was the scariest two minutes of my life. The weeks after have been the most lonely of this journey. Having to learn how to deal with insurance and contractors and clean up while still working two jobs, has been emotionally hard. Many people helped me, though, in the first difficult week. 

I lost my roof and a lot of the exterior was damaged. Water came in and damaged plaster. The trees featured with the last few poems are now gone. I lost all the large old trees in my yard, including the holly which was the subject of one of my first poems featured here. I drug tree parts 12 hours a day, for five days, till the remainder was too big to move.. 

This house was built in 1924 and for the length of this blog I can say that I have been trying to avoid it.  It seems ironically funny that I felt like Dorothy at the beginning of this journey and now to be delivered firmly and resolutely home by a tornado is too much synchrony to ignore. 

What this means is that this first difficult journey is now truly over.

I’m healed. I’ve expanded and explored. I have become much much more than I ever was before.

I write . . . almost as much as I breathe. Art and Dance continue to unfold.  And yoga has made its way into trauma sensitive teaching. I hold deep gratefulness now for this time even though it was not my choice. 

In almost every way, my life is infinitely better than it was before. I’ve shed people, possessions, and parts of myself that no longer serve and filled it with what brings well being.

But there is one open spot. And perhaps rebuilding and remodeling this house once again, erasing much of what was before, will deliver me to a new point in the meadow. It’s been six and a half years. I blinked and it passed. Now that the wind has carried the scaffolding of the journey away, I am here standing at the threshold of home. 

I trust that I am being given what I need when I need it. That the lessons I am learning about my own house might bring what will fill that open spot. I am grateful for it all.

One day, I know I will be grateful for so much space.

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