Thank you for your support, care and love this year. Thank you for being part of my journey.

Merry Christmas everyone. May your day be blessed with abounding goodness.

PS: This poem is best absorbed in the formatted image because of the shape and form it takes on (& below is the written version, just in case).

Promise

Close your eyes; embrace wide open anticipation

& remember...

The all at once awake spring, that bounces you out of bed before the birds

Bubbling bright, full of excited expectation

Child wonder. Wonder child.

Crisp, cool morning; the sun is still beneath its covers (as are your parents)

The surrounding darkness does nothing to deter the shivery sensations of dawn

Tiptoeing noisily towards that single focal point

The edges of perspective have softened and blurred

Drawn by the promise beneath the tree

Nothing else captivates like that brilliant beacon

of hope

of love

of life

My child, open your eyes and unwrap this gift of abounding goodness.

Less than whole. Less than capable. Less than fit for purpose. Definitely less productive. Less than worthy.

It’s a diminishing and uncomfortable harassment that tries to inch its way into my conscious most days. I’ve been wrestling with this intruder for a number of years now, since a debilitating back injury and more recently chronic cancer. I often have to dig deep to find the “more than.”

More than cancer. More than a bad back. More than a diagnosis. More than my limitations. More than enough.

This week, I’m heading to, not one, but two school assemblies. My children are receiving awards for work well done. But these days, my instinct rebels against this systematic glorification of achievement. Because sometimes we just don’t measure up. Sometimes, we just can’t. And then what?

There are times in our lives where we crash head first into an internal or external limitation. Suddenly, we find we can no longer function and sustain that award and recognition-seeking drive the fuels our society. A drive we are conditioned to from such a young age. But when all we can do is pull over and pray, does that make us less than? Does that disqualify our worth?

In all reality, there’s a lot of precious young ones, who, in those assemblies, have to sit and wait through hours of medals, trophies and certificates, knowing their name will never make the list in the first place.

What their hearts, our hearts, need to hear, always, despite our less than moments, days or years, is that we are loved. By Someone. That we are precious. We are seen. Always.

A few years ago, I sat and watched one of my children suffer the torment of being unseen, unnoticed, undone…

And so I composed this poem for all those who, in this season, are feeling less than and need to be wholly seen by someone…

un|seen

Separated by row on row of young ones
All I can see is the stiff straight nape of your neck
Upright; uptight maybe?
I am.

Listening to name after name called up to shine
All I can feel is your hope slowly leaking
Recognition for all, but you
I’m breaking.

Watching your crumbling frame sink down and down
All I can do is be ready to hold you
With every fiber of my being
I’m here.

Melting into my arms, you cry and cry
All my love protectively encircles around you
Just breathe, as words falter and fail
I…

Looking deeply, so deeply into your soulful eyes
All I want is for you to know
Precious one, that you are enough
I see you.

Husband stirs early
Kids jump in, morning time cuddles
And then…it’s all on again.
Time starts ticking,
Every watch, phone and clock
Measuring our moments.
Breakfast, squabbling, jobs
The mileage to school
A cup of chilling tea
Crammed in on the way.

Noise.

For a moment of stillness
away from it all.
For the hush of silence
A Heartbeat. A breath.
Living measures of time.

Overloaded on media, music and mail
Drowning in data,
Mountains of bad news to sift our way through.
Like a magpie, seeking out a single piece of string
To lead us to meaning
To draw us to hope
Cling to connection, even a threadbare strand.

Need a mute button.

For a moment of stillness
away from it all.
For the hush of silence
A Heartbeat. A breath.
Living measures of time.

A leaf floats down, barely stirring the air
A tree grows taller, in the quiet hours
A seed emerges, unheard but profound
Life in the silence
Not black and white.

A Heartbeat. A breath.
Living measures of time…

Take a moment to listen
To yours and to mine.

The sunny swing of her arms
Mimicking the soaring wings of a gull
Despite being wet up to her waist
She still adjusts the strap of her dress
Unconscious habits

Now she’s walked on by, but her question hasn’t
The waves still ripple in, reaching out
Won’t I come dance in their depths?
When I was young, I wasn’t afraid
What lurks?