One of you will have felt this,
the fear after sharing
that comes like a rattling ore car
through the body,
shaking the weak timbers.
The teeth knock atrociously,
like an old typewriter gone mad,
giving cacophonous voice
to the trembling.
Hiding does not help
and nor does more exposure;
it’s a movement of the long-ignored body
that needs to quake.
The only mild comfort I can offer
is the physical fact
that teeth can’t chatter
when the mouth is open wide.
Like a duck imprinted early,
these forms have taught me routes to love
— invocation, confession,
listening, joining together,
lifting up our burdens,
making room for the celestial.
Too much waddling in circles
has led me back to where I started,
contemplating flight.
This time I notice
my feathers are in place
and the wind
is rustling.
Come out to play,
Chastity Goodheart,
you have been scrubbing that floor
too cheerfully
for too long,
polishing that holy place
free of adornment.
Your skirt is homespun
and we all respect you,
the hardworking puritan
who knows the Lord in her soul,
who hums quietly
with worship joy
propelling all that work.
This is not a call of judgement;
hear in our voices
the free invitation
to be who you are,
just more fully…
there are warm breezes
that will touch your legs
if you spin with us,
and sweet apples
from the outstretched trees.
She sat at my table,
mostly a stranger;
I provided tea and small talk
as I have been trained.
Later when I heard the news,
I wondered if I should have been braver,
let my larger ears peep through,
hauled out my periscope
so we could take turns
seeing from the trapped place
to a wider world.
I wonder if by showing her
these other ways I see,
I might have helped her
save her family.
Look at all the ways
we shuck off our old skin;
cocoons and corn husks,
pruning old branches,
new cars, lovers,
madness at the mall…
I have seen the stunned sorrow
in the ones who are left behind,
as well as the riotous confusion
of the leavers that blew away.
Would that we had academies of peace
to help us hold our dying,
help us sew robes
for our next versions,
help us reach out to our dear ones
as we grow into newness.
Bite-sized pieces,
I keep minimizing
so that none will choke
as they feed
… and in the cutting down
I feel the loss,
as if this feast
is better consumed
like rich cuisine in a large pot.
Surely it is up to others
whether they sip or choose
to gorge themselves
or take one whiff and turn away.
Surely my talent
is in adding new spices
and offering spoons.
There is a community
of healers
who warm the lives of others
through true revelation,
standing with light exposed
through their work,
the artistry of their sharing
spread
through music, paintings,
gifts of stretching,
words on film or page,
loaves of bread,
hands on bodies
and even that macramé of crafts,
the poem.
Years I looked for their welcome
and plotted how to let their circle find me
so I could be anointed into belonging
with the deep oil of acceptance.
This morning in my sleep
a healer came
to press me to the floor
and soothe my aching back;
he rested on my warmth
and all the boundaries
of who heals and who is healed
were stilled
and I let him take what he needed
as my poor trapped back
began to tingle.
I’m not going anywhere
even if I travel
or fall off a cliff…
right now I have this sense of home
like a turtle with a porous shell
who can sleep anywhere
and be awake when the light tickles.
And I can sense something near my heart
that wants to know for sure,
that longs to know
whether home can ever be stripped off
or whether this time the safety
will endure over aeons.
And that cold speck
will just have to get used to warmth
whether it lasts a day
or past the threshold
when my heart no longer beats;
and I have to admit
that the speck will be my companion,
warm or cool.
For all that we dress worship
in fancy robes,
loose silk or thick brocade,
it is really just a simple thanks.
It is the act of grateful pause,
the uncertain offering of just one
cherished thing,
or even the hole where it used to reside,
and a pause for noticing
how that one beloved
is attached to more,
like the tip of a magician’s bright scarf
that can be tugged endlessly.
It is the necessary humbling
that comes from remembering
the vast expanse,
both inside and out,
a thank you without words
that may find a way to fit into them,
or drip into music
or the rustle of gathered breathing.
And this can be a guide
when you are lost
in the many exhortations;
to listen for the voice
that rings the most true joy
to free your gratitude.
The reason we hate witches
is because they know
we belong to a dirty decrepit family
we want no part of.
They welcome us into the coven
of the damned
when we want to be the lucky escapees.
They don’t even have the decency
to be outcasts
in their various states of decay
and bedragglement
but cluster under the moon
and practice soaring.
They access secret wisdom
through the use of everyday potions,
imbuing a ripe kitchen
with terrible power.
We can’t even be sure they like us,
for their stares are piercing
as if we are naked
in ways we learned not to be.
On dark nights
when we have no choices left
and find ourselves
clutching cold gravestones
we may peek
towards their circles of firelight.
We can stumble
towards their hot brew,
listen to their harsh songs,
take our place.
Eventually
we feel stirrings,
the urge to fly
becoming
the reason we love witches.