Category Archives: acts of grace

Between Each Breath

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Between Each Breath
 ©2021 Louise Gallagher 
 
Between each breath
 there is a stillness
 within the stillness
 there is the space
 to breathe
 deeply
 into the beauty
 of all that is present
 in this moment
 embodied
 in all you are
 when you breathe
 within the stillness
between each breath.

Beaumont the Sheepadoodle and I have a new routine. Instead of taking him outside every morning via the lower deck, I put my longest coat on over my pyjamas, don my boots and hat and gloves to ward off the chill of these winter mornings. I drape his harness over Beaumont’s head and attach the retractable leash and off we go into the darkness that is still morning this first week of January.

We walk out of our cul de sac, turn right onto the street that leads from the top of the hill down to the main road and, at the corner where it meets the main road, we turn right again and walk along the well-litpath leading to the pedestrian bridge over the river.

There is a spot about halfway across where someone has affixed a red plastic wreath. Inside it is a photo. It is of a man smiling. His smile is frozen in time. His body lost to the rushing waters some months ago when he leapt from the bridge and disappeared.

Every morning since I began this new routine just before Christmas Day, I stand below the wreath, close my eyes and take a breath. A deep one.

Beaumont sniffs in the snow that covers the pathway, pulling on the leash as long as I let him. And then he stops and stands watching me. Patiently waiting. As if he knows this is a moment of reverence.

I listen to the river. Its flow is fast and furious in the winter. The ice island keeps growing larger between the two buttresses sunk deep into the water to support the bridgedeck. Between the buttresses, where an ice island has formed in the centre of the river, the flow is blocked, forcing it to either side. It pushes and shoves its way through the narrower waterway, slipping off the ice where it grows outward from the shore towards the centre and from the centre of the river out. Ice locked.

I stand, eyes closed, heart open, breath stirring deep in my belly and listen to the river. I stand and say a silent prayer for this man for whom life became too great a burden.

I stand and say a prayer for all those who will today let go of the burden of their lives and fall into the everlasting.

I stand and say a prayer for all those fighting to cling to life with every breath they take and for those who stand by their bedsides giving aid and comfort. They are standing in for the ones who cannot be there. They carry their pain.

I stand and say a prayer for this world. So hurting. So bruised and battered. Battle weary. For the leafless trees standing sentinel in the dark along the river banks. For the geese honking and flapping their wings somewhere out on the ice island. And for the river and the ice and the mountains and the sands, the oceans and the seas. I stand and say a prayer.

I stand and say a prayer for those who are sick or for whom the separation of these days sits like a heavy cloak upon their shoulders, bending their backs.

I stand and say a prayer for those who are struggling, who are feeling lost and alone. Frightened or confused by these days of solitude.

And then, I bring my prayers back home to my heart.

I stand and say a silent prayer for those close to me and far away, I stand and say a prayer for my mother and my father and brother, his wife, my family members who are gone and my cousin who lost the battle to Covid and all those who will lose the battle today.

I stand in the stillness between each breath and say a prayer.

My mother taught me the power of prayer.

It is teaching me how to be present in the grace of stillness.

I am grateful.

2021. High On Expectations

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Bookmarks — alcohol inks on yupo paper

I originally titled this post – 2020! Need I say more?

But then I wondered… what if it’s not about 2020 anymore? (Which btw it isn’t when I look at the calendar)

What if it’s all about 2021? We (as in the entire planet) sure are expecting a lot from it.

How will it ever live up to our expectations? Especially, if as the saying goes, “Expectations are premeditated disappointments.”

Which got me thinking that perhaps the best thing I can do is to stay out of the field of expectations and instead, water the seeds of Love growing in the garden of my heart.

That garden is the one I must tend to, no matter the season, the times, the weather, the state of the world around me. No matter if Covid beats a hasty retreat and we are free to embrace one another again without fearing the worst, the state of the garden of Love in my heart keeps me rooted in grace and gratitude. It opens me up and brings me into the beauty of this moment in which I find myself breathing freely.

May the garden of your heart be full of beauty growing wild and free in all the colours of the rainbow. May you awaken to Love blossoming with every breath you take.

Perhaps…

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The muse and I have an agreement.

She flows. I open. Myself. The floodgates. The doors. The windows. The entrances to my heart, my mind, my body, my being present. Here.

And in all that is opened up I lose the need to know what word, what thought, what idea comes next and simply allow. The word, the thought, the idea to appear.

This morning, I sat at my desk. My final eggnog latte of the season steamed in my Christmas mug, (final because the container is empty). Beaumont the Sheepadoodle curled up at my feet, piano music played softly all around, the furnace hummed, my husband slept in our bed.

Outside my window, the sun was kissing the night good-bye with rose-streaked kisses.

I sat at my desk and welcomed in the morning with a soul-satisfying breath. It sank, deep, deep into my belly. Softly, silently, it flowed with ease into my lungs, down, down into the crucible of my body, And as I breathed in, then out, I felt my conscious mind sinking down, down into the presence of the sacredness of this life-giving ritual of breathing. With each breath, in and out, I felt my entire being expand into every cell of my body bringing me effortlessly into the hallowed nature of this moment at the edge of day dawning.

And the words poured out.

 Perhaps 
 ©2020 Louise Gallagher
  
 In a rush to make-meaning
 in all that has happened
 in all that has gone wrong
 or right
 in all that has been lost
 or gained
 I lose
 myself
 in the desperate struggle
 to not feel
 the loss
 of all I tell myself
 has been lost.
  
 Perhaps in my struggle
 to make it all
 make sense
 or have a purpose
 or fit into a box
 that only I can see
 I lose sight of
 all I cannot see.
  
 Perhaps, the meaning
 is in the experience.
  
 Perhaps, the making sense
 does not make sense.
  
 Perhaps, when I allow
 the purpose of everything
 to be the experience
 of everything
 without holding on
 to it all
 without fearing
 losing
 it all
 without judging it
 good or bad
 acceptable or unacceptable
 necessary or unnecessary
 I will find myself
 in that liminal space
 where all I have
 and all I am
 and all I know
 are nothing
 more than
 all I have to let go of.
  
 And, perhaps
 when I let go
 of naming
 all I have
 all I lost
 all I won
 all I know
 I will find myself
 in all I am.
  
 Perhaps then I will experience
 the all that I am
 as the most 
 precious 
 gift
 of all.

Love. Comfort and Joy.

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I sit in the still darkness of early morning. The silence holds me tenderly in its velvety weightlessness.

Hold onto nothing, it seems to whisper. Allow everything in.

I breathe out and let everything go. Everything rushes in.

I breathe in and hold onto nothing. Everything rushes out.

You are the ocean, the velvety silence whispers. You are the sky. The moon and stardust. You are the everything of nothing but Love. There is no need to run or hide or jump up and down for attention. There is no need to yearn or hammer your fists against the universe and sink down into a puddle of weeping sorrow. No need to search for answers or meaning. There is only this nothingness of everything you are when you hold onto nothing and let everything in.

I breathe. In. Again.

Deep. Deep into my belly.

I feel. Deep. Deep in my belly the everything of nothing I hold onto.

I breathe. Out. Again.

Deep. Deep from my belly.

I feel. Deep into the space around me, deep into the darkness of this still silent morning the nothingness of everything I let go of.

And I know without knowing. I feel without feeling. Deep. Deep within my being. Deep in the presence of this moment, that this is the nothing and the everything of all I am. All I can be. All I need. All I want and desire. All of everything I let go of. All of everything I let in.

This is the everything of nothing but what remains when I hold onto nothing.

Breathing deep, I sat in the still darkness of morning.

And that’s where Love found me.

_________________

“My Morning Read”

This morning, as part of my commitment to read a poem every morning, I read Mark Nepo’s, Where is God

And this is what appeared.

In Years To Come…

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In years to come, when time has passed and the edges of memory have softened and mellowed with age, we will sit close together around a table, or snuggle up in front of a fire or walk arm in arm under a clear blue sky and tell stories of these days. We’ll laugh and sometimes shed a tear or two. We’ll raise a toast to those who did not make it through and we will remember.

We’ll remember how we stood on balconies and front porches and clanged pots at 6pm every day for weeks on end to honour the heroes of these days. The nurses and doctors and lab techs and hospital porters and emergency responders and schedulers and cleaners and so many more who risked their lives so we could live ours without fearing each breath would be our last. And the researchers, labouring long days and nights, weeks and months garbed in hazmat suits and protective shields just to find a vaccine to help preserve lives for years to come.

We’’ll talk about how heroes didn’t wear red cloaks and carry golden shields but donned brown and blue and tan coats as they drove all over the country to ensure we received the things we needed. Things to eat. To read. To listen to. To play with. To keep us amused. And laughing. And feeling alive and less alone.

How there were heroes who stood behind plexiglass screens and sanitized counter tops again and again after we visited stores where we bought our necessities and smiled with only our eyes visible through our masks.

How we greeted each other with a wave, careful to keep our distance and how the distance between us felt so foreign. Lonely. Far. Even when we stood six feet apart.

How hugs became a rare commodity, so precious some would risk their lives just to get one. And how some did risk their lives, not just for hugs but to ease the loneliness, the pain of being separate from the rest of their human family.

And how some chose to stand united against the things they could not stand for — Wearing masks. Social distance. Stay-at-home orders. Like all of us, they wanted their voices to be heard. It’s just their way was different.

And hopefully, we’ll talk about how those of us who did our best to abide by stay-at-home and wearing-mask orders struggled to understand how others could not grasp the severity of our situation. And how, our condemnation and judgement of those who suffered these times in different ways than us became a greater distance to traverse than the loneliness we all felt during these days of sheltering-in-place.

There will come a time when we will tell stories of these days and while we may not remember them fondly, let us remember how we each did our best to weather this storm. And how, while someone’s way may have been different, they too were doing their best to make sense of it all and to make a difference in whatever way they knew how.

And as we remember, let us let go of our human tendency to condemn those who think differently, believe differently, express themselves differently. Instead, let us cross the divide of our differences so that we can celebrate having come through these days of a global pandemic sweeping the globe, together.

Let us not remember our differences but instead, let us share our memories of love for the millions of lives lost, the millions of lives fallen ill, the millions of lives forever changed.

Let us remember our loved ones not with the regret of not being by their bedsides as they struggled to take their last breath, but rather, of all the times we sat by their sides laughing and sharing in the love that binds us in life, and in death.

Let us remember we were all struggling. Believers and non-believers. Mask wearers and non-mask wearers. Instead of making outcasts of those who did it differently, let us say a prayer. For one another. And in our prayers let us hold onto what connects us, what makes us who we are, what makes this human condition so remarkable.

Our humanity is not one colour, one belief, one common roadmap. It is diverse. Colourful. Multi-faceted. We stand on deserts and mountaintops. We walk on gravel paths and paved roads. We swim in salty oceans and freshwater lakes.

And still, we breathe air into our lungs. We flow blood through our veins. Our bodies are supported by skeletons made up of bones, 206 in every adult body. Our body is covered with the epidermis, no matter the colour of our skin.

In years to come, when we look back on these times and tell our stories of grief and hardship, of great feats of heroism and simple acts of kindness, let us remember to speak with gratitude and grace and kindness in every word we share about one another.

Because, in times to come, when we speak of these days, we will be speaking of ourselves. Of we, the people.

All of us. Coming through this. Together.

Let us carry with us the memories of how, no matter how dark the day or long the night, we never lost sight of the Love that binds us. The Love that brings us into this world and carries us through every day of our lives. For we each come into this world in the same way. Crying. Kicking. Gasping for breath. And we all leave it on one final breath.

And in between, though our lives may be different, let us remember that it is our capacity to love one another that connects us. Through good times and bad. Dark and light. Life and death.

In years to come, let us tell our stories. Let us remember. And let us hold onto Love.

Blessed are we in this circle of love.

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In my dream, someone, a young woman who used to work with me I think, asks, “How old are you anyway?”

I reply, not without some trepidation, “Sixty-seven.”

The young woman looks surprised. By the look on her face I think she’s going to say something like, “Wow. You don’t look it at all! I’d have put you 15 years younger.”

Instead, she says, “Wow. That’s old.”

Fortunately, I woke up before I did anything I might regret.

When my mother was 67 I remember thinking she was old. So I suppose it’s only fair that my dream reflect my judgements of my mother.

And then, of course, I want to justify why I thought she was old. How her tendency to cry, “Woe is me!” shadowed the light and kept her tethered to the darkness. How her ability to see accidents waiting to happen kept her from seeing the miracles falling all around.

I want to prove how, at sixty-seven, I am not like her. At all.

I don’t know if it is because it is just the melancholy that pervades this Christmas season or because my mother loved Christmas, but she has been on my mind and heart. A lot.

The other day, while on a Zoom call with a friend, I was telling them how my mother loved this season of joy. They asked, “Do you find you miss her more now that it’s Christmas?”

It was a powerful question.

Even when we lived an ocean apart, I never felt like I was ‘missing’ my mother. We never had that kind of relationship. She was not the person I called if I needed advice about life or love or career. Nor was she the first person I thought to call with good news.

I told my friend. “Even though I know regret serves no useful purpose and I know my dream of having that kind of relationship with her was just a dream, what I am feeling most is the regret that for much of her life with me, my mother felt my judgements harshly.

It wasn’t intentional. It was just the way we were together. I always felt she wanted me to live life by her rules, her way. And even though now, I can see her way was founded on love and her desire to protect me, I felt smothered by what I thought were her limitations and fears, not love. I wanted to fly free. By the very act of spreading my wings, I was saying to my mother, your way isn’t good enough for me.

It was a continual dance of life between us. My mother wanting to keep me safe on her terms. Me wanting to experience life on my terms.

And as I finish typing that sentence I glance up and see the beauty of the world outside my window.

The sky is streaked in rose and golden hues of morning. A flock of Canada Geese are floating past on the fast-moving river, their bodies turned backwards, drifting with the current. A squirrel is bounding up a tree trunk and a chickadee flits and frolics in the bush outside my window.

The world is alive with beauty.

And just like that, the sun breaks through and I remember what is true and real in this moment. The memories of my relationship with my mother are just that. Memories. They are only kept alive in my thoughts.

And I can change my thoughts.

Regret. Sadness. Sorrow. They are fleeting.

Love. Joy. Gratitude. They are enduring.

‘Tis the season. It is different this year. Quieter. Yet, no matter the times, what never changes, what endures always is Love.

This Christmas, I shall hold the Love close and let regret float away like the geese on the river. Sometimes, as it drifts off into that quiet place where memories that do not serve me well go to rest in peace, regret turns back to look at me as if to say, ‘Give me another chance.”

And I smile and wave and turn my back and return home to the one truth that cannot be changed. Can never be denied.

My mother is the miracle of life that gave birth to the miracle of me.

I am grateful for this miracle.

I am blessed by this act of love that endures and ripples out in waves of possibility and hope and joy and beauty through the lives of my daughters and my grandchildren.

Blessed are we in this circle of Love my mother created.

In The Sacred Nature Of A Tree

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 I stand beside a tree
 reach out my hand
 and touch its gnarled trunk 
 where the scars of time lay weathered 
 in undulating ridges of knobbly wood
 and granulated particles 
 pressed together
 to mark the passing of time
  
 I run my fingers along the path
 the squirrels ran as they played 
 a wild game of tag up into its branches
 to that place 
 where they nestle together
 through the long cold nights of winter 
 beating its icy winds
 against the sheltering limbs
 they call their home.
  
 And I hear the sweet song
 of a robin returning to the nest
 it built high above the ground
 to keep its babies safe 
 until they are strong enough
 to fly free like the wind
 far from the sheltering limbs
 of this tree they once called home.
  
 I lean my weary body against the tree
 and close my eyes 
 as if closing them 
 will block the sight of the scars
 of time passing and the disquiet
 of these times of isolation and worry
 that do not weather well
 in my troubled mind 
 stirring up thoughts
 that grip my heart with the fear
 this place I call my home
 no longer holds a safe place
 to breathe.
 
 And the tree stands tall
 swaying with the wind
 welcoming the seasons into its branches
 and I hear the whispers of time
 running through its sap
 in juicy fecund certainty
 that this too shall pass
 with time passing.

  “Rest here," the swaying branches
 and rustling limbs seem to say,
 "Rest here and lay you burdens down. 
 Here, where my weathered trunk
 meets the earth and my roots dig deep
 into the soil holding me steady
 in the ice cold winds of winter
 and the long hot days of summer.”
  
 And I take a breath deep into my bones
 and feel the warm sweet nature
 of the air around me
 enter my body.
 I breathe out
 and imagine all my worries
 sinking 
 down 
 into Mother Earth’s fertile womb
 and I feel my heart 
 beat
 slow
 and my breath
 flow
 in and out
 with ease.
  
 And the earth
 and the tree
 and the squirrels sleeping in the hollow
 and the robin nesting in its limbs
 breathe with me
 in the sacred nature
 of all of life 
 on this planet
 we call our home.
  

I do not know why I took this picture of a tree yesterday, but, as I walked through the woods and Beaumont the Sheepadoodle ran through the winter dry grasses, this tree called to me.

I clicked a couple of shots and Beaumont and I continued on our way.

And then, at 2am, I awoke with the words of this poem rustling through the sleep soaked crevices of my mind.

I got up and left my beloved sleeping in our bed. I padded quietly into the living room where Beaumont slept on the sofa. He barely raised his head to acknowledge my intrusion before falling back to sleep.

I opened my laptop where it sits on the desk in front of the front window of our home that overlooks the tree-lined banks of the Bow. And I began to write in the quiet warmth of night resting peacefully inside our home.

__

Outside, darkness shrouds the world. On the deck, white Christmas lights twinkle along its glass enclosure.

A streetlight shimmers on the river’s surface where it passes under the bridge.

The sky is heavy. No stars on this cloudy night.

And I sit writing.

It is not what I’d thought of earlier for today’s post. Thank goodness WordPress lets me schedule it for posting at a more practical hour. Perhaps when this posts, I shall be sleeping once again.

The muse… I’m not sure she sleeps and she’s definitely not as practical as WP. She likes to have her way with my creative expressions.

I just wish she’d be a little more thoughtful about the time she chooses to stir my imagination and awaken my creative juices to the desire to listen to my heart and flow free.

Snow Falling At Dawn

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Snow Falling At Dawn
Louise Gallagher
 
Sometimes, on mornings like this, 
 when the sky is gloomy grey 
 and snow falls softly
 as the world rests lightly 
 in the lingering tendrils of night's embrace, 
 I stand outside in the still quiet space before the dawn 
 and close my eyes 
 and turn my face up towards the sky 
 to feel
 the cool slick wetness of snow 
 falling against my skin.
  
 I listen to the river flowing
 to the sound of geese stirring
 on the far bank 
 where they rest upon a gravel bar
 throughout the night.
 A quiet honk, a rustle of wings
 and then 
 only the sound of the river flowing.
 In the distance,
 I hear the sibilant hiss of tires
 approaching
 followed by the more gutteral thrum
 as a car crosses over the bridge.
  
 For a moment,
 my mind will stray
 and I will wonder
 about their direction.
 To work? Or coming home?
 Were they at the hospital all night
 saving lives? 
 Tried? Weary? Exhausted?
 Or are they on their way
 fresh faced and eager to greet this day
 where they will serve 
 in a multitude of ways
 those of us who venture out
 only for necessities.
  
 And then, I’ll take a little breath
 say a quiet prayer of gratitude
 for whomever it is crossing the bridge
 and in that prayer
 I will remember all those who have crossed over
 their final bridge
 and all those who will cross over
 on this day that is just beginning
 which will become their last.
  
 Tenderly I hold the silence 
 in the sacred nature
 of my heart
 beating quietly
 in this darkness
 before the dawn
 and let my mind settle
 once again
 into the still quiet spaces
 of morning awakening
 slowly 
 beneath the tender light
 of snow falling at dawn.

Today is my birthday.

It is a day full of gratitude. Grace. Generosity. And above all Love.

My heart is full.

And though the world around me is locking-down in an effort to stem the flow of this virus that is reaching out in ever-widening waves to infect more and more people and cause more and more hardship, gratitude remains at the core of all I feel and know. All I welcome in and all I bring to this day.

I am thankful for my beloved. His heart and kind-spirit. His constancy and Love.

I am grateful for my daughters. For their tender mercies and love that has never faltered even when I have fallen on the road of life and lost my way.

And for my step-son and daughter who remind me always that love can expand in never-ending ripples of joy and laughter in this sacred space of being family.

I am grateful for my sisters who hold my heart and memories with such grace and who share theirs with endless generosity. And for the men in their lives who stand with us in all kinds of weather.

I am grateful for my friends. For those who have been on this path with me for many years and those who have only recently started walking beside me. Your presence illuminates my path, no matter the times.

I am grateful for all of you. For visiting me here. For being part of my journey. For encouraging me and seeing me and acknowledging me on this path.

There are many paths to find joy, contentment, happiness, peace. I am so grateful you are all at the heart of mine.

Namaste.

Snow Falling At Dawn

Let It Be And Love Will Have Its Way

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For several days now, the Beatles iconic hit, Let It Be, has been playing through my mind.

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

When I chatted with both my sisters yesterday we talked about how this is our first Christmas without mom. And, though her arthritis had made it too painful for her to make the journey to join us at our Christmas dinner table, she was always present.

My mother loved Christmas. In her 80s, living alone in a one-bedroom apartment, she would spend days decorating it up with boughs and bows, glitter and glitz. Garlands of fir, poinsettias, stars and angels graced every surface.

And always, her small Christmas tree was placed on a table visible from every corner of the living room. And Mary and Joseph and all the animals were placed in the manger in the middle of her sideboard. Of course, just as when I was a child, the baby Jesus would not be amongst them. At least not until Christmas eve when, as if by magic, we’d return home from midnight mass and there he’d be, lying peacefully on the straw, surrounded by his tiny family of Mary, Joseph, the animals and the three Kings.

He was only a small clay infant swaddled in a white cloth but he held such magic for me.

Of course, Santa would also have paid a visit while we were out so after a cursory check to make sure the baby was safely tucked into his place of honour, I’d run off to join my siblings in “The Great Christmas Present Opening Mayhem”.

What I remember most about my mom in those bygone Christmases is how she never sat down when we got home from midnight mass. While the rest of us raced in to check out what had appeared under the tree, she’d head straight to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on ‘Le Réveillon de Noël’, our post-midnight feast. And to wrap some last-minute gifts because, inevitably, my father would have invited friends from church to join in the festivities. And in my mother’s house, no one ever left empty-handed.

While we kids tore into the gift-laden tree, my father would pour drinks and mum would glide in and out of the room carrying platters of mince tarts and deviled eggs and cheeses. By 1am, I’d be yawning and trying desperately to keep my eyes open as the Tourtière was carried in.

And the eating and drinking would get down to business as I sleepily watched the mayhem unfolding around me.

I think it is the mayhem I miss.

The comings and goings, the toing’s and froing’s of getting ready for Christmas throughout the month. And, of course, the staying out of trouble to stay on the ‘good’ side of Santa’s list.

Staying on the ‘good’ side of Santa’s list was a struggle for me as a child. But in December, without my mother’s eagle eyes watching my every move and with my siblings equally as excited about Santa’s visit, (which gave them less opportunity to tattle on me) it seemed easier to stay out of trouble – though as the youngest of four whose nickname was, “The Brat”, getting into trouble came too easily to me. At least, that’s what my mother told me.

But at Christmastime, she was so busy shopping and cooking and decorating and wrapping gifts and volunteering at the church, she didn’t have as much time to notice when I wasn’t behaving ‘like the others’, which was her most frequent request of me.

Even as a child, that one confused me. “How could I be like the others if I was going to be me?” I’d ask her, innocently enough (at least in the beginning) but, as the years went on and her desire for me to ‘be like the others’ remained just as strong, my question became more of a ‘poke’ than innocent curiosity.

Eventually, with my mother’s repeated requests that I just ‘Let it be’ so she could have some peace, I learned to poke less. And though it never meant my mother and I had an easy relationship, it did mean I quit searching for my answers in her and started looking for them in me.

Sometimes, to find our answers we must let grace open our hearts so that we can find peace with the unknown.

The heart always knows.

And sometimes, all the heart wants is for us to “Let It Be” so that Love can have its way.

________________________

And… just in case it’s been a while since you watched or listened to the version of Let It Be from one of my all-time favourite movies, Across the Universe, I’m sharing it here.

Two Simple Words

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Morning light — photo unfiltered. untouched.
 
 I want to write of gratitude
 of how this year hasn’t been so bad
 how there’s so much good that’s come out of
 the bad
 and how I’ve learned so much and grown
 and found my way clear to living in this moment
 but the darkness outside my window
 seems to linger
 and I feel myself falling
 into its cloying embrace
 hoping it might hold me
 just a little bit longer
 all the while hoping
 it will let me go
 find my way out of the darkness.
  
 And my shoulders slump
 and my body grows tired
 of waiting for the morning light.
  
 I lean back into my chair
 close my eyes
 and try to take a deep breath
 but it’s not very deep
 this morning breath filled with
 the weary and worry of 
 these times
 that seem to grow heavier
 with every news report I read.
  
 And as I sit with eyes closed
 I hear my Auntie Maggie’s voice
 who at 90 lives alone in the city in southern India
 where she and my mother were born.
 She hasn’t been out of her house since March
 her only contact with ‘the outside world’
 her two servants who come daily
 and a neighbour who visits regularly
 and her What’sApp calls
 where she sometimes laughs and sometimes cries
 and always sings me a song from her childhood
 when she and my mother and all their siblings
 lived together in what they called
 their own private Shangri-la.
 Your mama loved to sing, she says
 And I remember and hear her sweet voice singing
 her favourite Christmas song, 
 “Il est né le divin enfant
 Jouez hautbois, résonnez musettes”
  
 And I smile and open my eyes 
 and see
 that in those few moments
 while I sat with eyes closed and spirits flagging
 the sun has broken through the darkness
 and streaked the sky with rosy hues
 that glow and pulse across the horizon
 in undulating waves
 of violet and pink and tiffany blue
 and the trees are dressed in cloaks of rose-brushed gold
 and the river flows deep in the morning glory
 of dawn breaking free of night.
  
 I want to write of gratitude
 and find myself here
 in this moment
 falling
 breathlessly
 into the beauty of light
 bursting through the cracks.
  
 I want to write of gratitude
 but words escape me
 as I breathe into the grace
 that arrives with every breath
 when I let go of what I want
 of what I miss or regret or yearn for
 and let this prayer
 of two simple words
 be all that I can say.
 Thank You.