Kenya

_YGN3020Sometimes you need to reach up and take hold of a hand that is offered.

I’ve missed this space.

It’s been almost a year since we landed in Kenya. It’s been almost a year and we are headed home, back to my island paradise. 

I have so much I want to share. I have so much I want to get down, capture, to remember. I’ve been wanting to write…

It’s been a hard year. A wonderful year. A year that has taught and tested and will be wrestled with for a while. 

So many words and so many stories and such full days and such tired nights and I’ve felt so far from this, from myself…..

…and then….

I got the loveliest message; I was given a hand to bring me out of my head and back into the world to write, and share. 

A poet. A poet named Joel reached out and gave me his hand.

He wrote for me. Inspired by me. And now I am inspired by him. 

Thank you, Joel.

Thank you for your hand, and this beautiful poem. 

 

The Whisper (For Sabrina Lloyd)

Sometimes the world calls us out beyond ourselves, it leans over the fence of our comfortability, gets right down next to our ear
and whispers,

‘There is more. There is always more for you.’ She heard it, the call, the whisper, the invitation. Not just once,

She heard it again and again and again.

So she left what once was,
dreamed of a different life,
walked a different way,
one not bound by expectation.
This woman walked the globe,
Became a Mumma, not once, but twice, She has left place after place,

Moved from comfort to the uncomfortable Over and over.

And you would think by now this should be easier,
But it never is,
This walking out into the unknown, Or settling into the ground, Giving of oneself to that whisper.
No body made a blueprint, or a map.
She was given a compass though,

deep inside,

the direction to move, if not the path to follow. She makes her path, carves her way forward,
Like the blind woman,

she has learnt with a new sense,

to be guided and inspired. So yes, it may not be easier,

but would you have it any other way? When the wind came and whispered,

would you have ignored her,

told her to move on and whisper in somebody else’s ear. You cannot, would not, have not

And so it is now and it is always now,
the choice to embrace once more the call and the adventure.

It is now and always now,
when the pain grows in ones feet, even as the heart knows,
even as the lungs breath,
even as the world crumbles,

It is now, ever now that one must listen, again to the whisper,

but more,
listen to the inner calling, the inner voice,

For this is the voice that has been whispering all along, You can trust her. Yourself. You can trust her. You can wrap yourself around her soft edges. You can stand on her strength.

You can hold yourself open and believe that everything, everything, everything, everything comes together into the one glorious human that you are. Your past, your present, your future. You are threaded together, all together to be you. Trust her. You can trust her.

– By Joel Mckerrow ~ 9th April 2019 ~ Melbourne Australia

 

My House of Belonging

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Fires still lit for early mornings and fading light at day’s end. 

Skies filled with a sometimes warm sun riding on still too crisp breezes. 

Spring seems to whimper in a corner as winter refuses to yield. 

But our rhythmic days have returned after the whirlwind tumble of school breaks. 

Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s the mediative quality of the island, but I find myself so deeply in love with routine these days.

It means everyone is well. It means the wheels are all turning. It means contentment. 

I used to bristle at sameness, ache for difference. For my days to scream like a crow’s caw. 

Now I long for and settle into, celebrate my days that look like every other. 

I cook and study and play and tuck in and wake and do it again and again and again, happily. 

It’s become like a dance. 

The place I come home to. 

This routine of my perfectly simple life. 

A very special friend of mine in NY recently sent me a book of poetry. (Is there a better gift from a friend than a book of poetry?)

In it David Whyte writes, 

This it the bright home

in which I live,

this is where I ask

my friends to come,

this is where I want 

to love all things

it has taken me so long

to learn to love.

 

This is the temple 

of my adult aloneness 

and I belong

to that aloneness

as I belong to my life. 

 

There is no house

like the house of belonging.