Dear Miracle

Setting free the beautiful truth inside.


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Being Human

“Wholeness does not mean perfection. It means embracing brokenness as an integral part of life.”

– Parker J. Palmer –

Being human…is not easy.

It’s messy, and its

imperfection is a virtue of living in this body.

It means we are here for the human experience

in every imaginable facet, in all its

anguish and glory. Yet not necessarily

all at once, although it can feel like it sometimes.

 

Quit trying to airbrush your imperfections away.

—they keep you real and learning.

They have the ability to heal your soul and ground your body.

 

Forgive yourself. Embrace what hurts—be infinitely kind to it

while you wait for healing.

As often as possible, be in the feral world of nature where nothing

pretends to be anything other than what it is—broken or beautiful.

Unfurl your life, bent wings and everything.

Learn to inhabit yourself—dig your toes into the soil now

and then as a reminder you are part of it.

 

You are already gorgeous with your shriveled petals, your funny ways,

your insecurities, and your

crazy ideas that just might save the world.

 

S. Wolfington

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The Way of Angels

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  I am a river sluicing past canyon walls,

  splashing at the bends before 

  settling down again.

  Little whitecaps belie the deep undertow

 of quiet and knowing repose

  rushing through my belly below.

And following a predestined path set before

over a million years and more,

I do not hammer or drive into the stone 

at my side—it is with instinctive ease

that I bend and twist and glide.

I have no need to resist what lies ahead

as I wash on by.

Let the howling winds chip away the stone,

let the rain drive a wider channel—

 I am going the way of angels.

 

© 1997 Shoshana Wolfington


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A Woman of Many Names

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I am a woman of many names.

A life’s collection, in fact,

tried on in dressing rooms of elation,

false starts and infatuations, premises

designed for the backs of others.

Trying things on in ideas or people, in places I’ve been.

Discerning what fits or not, what’s priced too high,

beside what rings genuinely so

in the clear bell of my soul.

Some names remain—names I wear still.

Some interchangeable, suited well.

A collection of ideas coalesced, a coupler of connecting notes,

the jarring timpani, the repetitive litany, the well-choreographed song;

and you must know

life has come down to this in these years of gold—

I’m still the same girl I came here for.

Notes off key now and then, I was never lost, always known,

the soul of which knew well where I need to go.

It has come down to here and now, stronger for the places I’ve been,

I’m a full playing orchestra not done until the fat lady sings in clothes that fit,

with trails to be walked upon, and dreams that resound loud and strong

inside the clear ringing bell of my soul.

 

© 2014 S. Wolfington


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Tending the Roses of God

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My mother, light as paper, stands,

folds, crumples to the floor.

Yellowed parchment skin inked in

purple orbs and reddened tears, evidence

of failed attempts to hold on.

Her feathery body sleeps heavy

against knocks at her door, barely knows

anymore the call of her name.

She does not stir as I press my lips to her cheek,

my love into her heart,

stroke her hair or feet, wondering where she goes

when she sleeps.

Is she walking somewhere in light-filled fields of gold?

Is she speaking in hushed tones with dear ones passed on?

Is she tending the roses of God?

Will someone tell me please?

I want to know if when she awakes,

something of her stays behind in that world

and waits

for her to come home.

© 2013 ~ S. Wolfington

 


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Be Intoxicating

old friendsA number of years back, my daughter was an assistant teacher at an elite private school just outside of Los Angeles. Many of the children that attended there had parents in the movie industry and one of them was a student in my daughter’s classroom. His dad just happened to be Will Smith. Since I was personally dating the cousin of the owner of the school at the same time, I was invited to several social events, which also included being introduced to a few of the celebrity parents, including Will Smith and his beautiful wife, Jada. It was quickly apparent to me they were no different than the rest of us, and on top of that, they were warm, friendly and engaging. Since then I have seen interviews with them, and it is my feeling that they are old souls here on this planet, highly evolved individuals with ample amounts of integrity and wisdom. I realized there is a lot I could learn from them.

So tonight, when I happened along this Facebook post, Be Intoxicating, by Jada (https://www.facebook.com/jada), I was thrilled. It’s a perfect segue from my last blog post, “The Crack in the Mirror”. And I am excited, having written that piece over a year ago, to have transitioned to a place of being pretty okay with who I am and where I find myself at this stage of my life. I am loving just sending out love wherever I happen to find myself by noticing the people that end up in front of me—the teller at the bank, the stranger at the other end of the phone, the person waiting on me, calling them by their first name, engaging them, becoming genuinely interested in their humanity. It’s a selfish act really for all the satisfaction it personally brings to me as I  find ways to let someone know they are seen and appreciated just for who they are right here and now, however they show up. I am far from perfect at this and I definitely have my moments of being self absorbed, yet this seems to be fast becoming a new avocation of mine as I learn to practice on one person at a time.

But I digress…I’ll just let you read Jada on Be Intoxicating

 I have never been nor will I ever be the prettiest girl in the room. This has a lot to do with my profession, but also with the fact that my grandmother raised me with the belief that there will always be someone prettier than me and that beauty does not guarantee anyone love. Therefore, she did not focus on beauty in her house. Instead, she raised me to focus on what she considered to be the most important component in life…how well we relate to the soul of another. 


The other day I met a woman, who was 80, who spoke to the most unreachable spaces of my soul through her kindness, laughter and wisdom. We related in a way that was so intoxicating, it was difficult to leave her. My experience with this woman brought my grandmother’s vision of relating full circle for me. Jada, be a joy to others and may that joy nourish them. Surround yourself with those who are a joy to you and allow that joy to nourish you. Always make the effort to find a language for the untouched spaces of every soul you meet. This is the recipe for blissful intoxication that she has passed on to me.

Thank you Marion.

J


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Woman Who Waits

IcelandLast night, I was held captive,

a kitchen slave tied to the galley amidst

formal rooms upon rooms between floors

upon floors,

half dead among pots and pans

cooking for some nameless man who

ignored me in his big house.

For years I disappeared—search party had given up

until a young girl found me, took me by the hand

and led me out.

Last night I was a rich lady putting on airs

at Neiman Marcus, hair

covered in swathes of

white fabric that showed my pedigree,

customary for well-to-do ladies like myself—

that is, in dreams.

That is, until I looked in the mirror and saw

the disheveled smeared made up face, the aging lines,

panicked I would be seen and

scouring floor to floor for makeup counters that would save me.

This was my dream.

Messages from the underworld of my soul—

pay attention, please!

Not washer woman, not rich woman,

but woman in first light’s chill scrambling

up slick footed moss covered knolls

to revel in maiden recital of dew coated starlings and sparrows.

Woman rapt with awe in amazement’s cloak—

slack jawed, eye struck watching

as sun climbs by slivers

just past mountain’s top.

A woman witness to riotous revelry heralding

birth of first light—all of nature lifting its head to sing in

intemperate praise!

Not this—slave, drudge or drone of days, I am free!

Not this—above or below, but equal to the breadth and width of my days.

I am this—woman who waits,

if there is a way,

to translate on to page such thinly skinned sacred splendor,

my soul eager, breath-held in rapture as I wait.

Toes dug in mud, stars and soul tangled together, I wait.

Exultant life in sun and starlings and first morning’s light

coursing through my veins,

its blood

bleeding on to page.

© 2012  –  S. Wolfington