VERONICA LEE

She walks, hesitantly.
Are they ready?
Do they remember their wholeness?
 
It’s a life journey, yes… for most.
And, the new ones are starlight incarnated.
 
We all were, but our remembrance was
locked away in a tighter knot.
Not for them…
but still, she wants to be sure.
 
The fear of remembering,
disconnecting from illusions
that keep us oh-so human,
and grounded.
Safe.
 
It’s a mother’s job.
Her most sacred promise,
and desire.
Her work.
Preserving the starlight,
protecting the being.
Leading them with trust
and conviction.
Absolutely no rope.

She was not able to
leave her soul hidden.
Even when she
wished to let go
of anything that
reflected the
loneliness of being
The One.

Ever flawed.
Ever sensitive,
yet so afraid of
the depth of her heart.

Would her children
own their souls?

She held their hands,
nursed them with love,
encouragement
and the liquid gold
from her breasts.
Into the starlights.
 
For so many moons,
and decades.
Probably lifetimes.
As they are all
her children.
All aspects of
The One.
 
And now…
Now.

Integrating.
walking,
she behind them.
Finally trusting.
that now she
can embody
Heaven on Earth
knowing they
are there, too.
 
Because she now
sees they never left
their starlight.

Move your body, dear woman.
Move slowly, gently as you awaken her senses.
Breathe in the fragrance of curiosity.
What does Life want you to accept?

Breathe again, allowing the subtle notes
of spring to tickle your nostrils.

And sway.
Feel the dance of the tress, the grass,
as the wind guides time toward the unknown.
Close your eyes in surrender.
You do not need to be a witness,
merely an instrument of forgetting.

Sway and circle.
Small tendrils of ecstasy 
spiraling from the nape of your neck.
Around, slowly, with willing release.
There is nothing to hold here.
No need for posture or tight jaws 
or intention.

Lean into the curves of your womanness
with large sensuous waves.
Those hands - oh, the life they have touched! 
Let them travel softly onto thighs, hips,
hugging your belly with 
compassion and forgiveness.

Soften, dear beauty.
Soften into your truth,
your vulnerability,
your power.

Move your body with surrendered sweetness,
opening and closing, lifting and lowering,
swaying into whatever form
beckons you next.

This is your body, your power,
longing to emerge from 
your sacred core.
The witness is within, eyes inward,
as the world evaporates into
only air and music and vibration.

Move your body, dear soul,
and allow your story to be
​experienced by the universe.

An invitation.
I just received an invitation to write a letter to Death.
I assume it's a capital "D" 
but I am not sure about the address.
Where, exactly, does Death reside?
​And I wonder if Death will respond?

Dear Death,
Where do I begin? In rage, despair, fear or some kind of pleading? No, let me begin again...

I honestly don't know what to say to you, as I hone in on the words, merely noting the range of emotions, questions and negotiations that hover, wanting to infiltrate accusingly. But I am trying to stay neutral, to open my heart at this moment of purposeful communication. So, Death, I guess I will start with a question: What are you, and what is your purpose for being? Okay, I guess that's two questions. My mind seeks clarity... understanding.

Religions, philosophers and perhaps even science have tried to define you, your purpose. In a very practical way it seems to be about impermanence and cycles, but I want to hear your words, your directness of identity and, I assume, value.

I am doing my best to be earnest, even curious, but this letter might convey my own defensiveness.

See, Death, I am recently wounded by you... or an aspect of you. I know we all meet you eventually, so it seems strange - victim-y - to label any transition to you as a wound. At least for those of us who've not yet met you. For those who've lost our loves ones to you. 

Again, I am trying to express and speak my truth with as much honesty and neutrality as possible, but I am human, after all.

Perhaps if I were more like you - a source of some kind, a field that every living thing meets - I would feel less vulnerable?

I'm wanting, in this moment, to proclaim that I don't fear you, but I do notice all the conditions I've attached.

Let me just be clear... I don't need an answer, or definition, or understanding of you, really. I think I just need to express how confused I am right now, how hurt I still feel; the grief. And, though I don't actually blame you, I do feel it was important to write this letter. Just to be hear.

Sincerely,
​Veronica

For all the ways love remembers us...
Us. 
Is it two, or six?
Me and you, or the whole of us, including our children?
It must be six,
as they represent four of the ways love remembers us.
In their hearts, in their actions,
the curves of their faces.
You, me... our creations.

What is way number one?
Our first date? The first "I love you"?
Are the ways even countable
like drops in a sea?
Evaporation, rain, even the storms that build
adding pressure and tension.
Should I count the storms as love?
Or perhaps it was our endurance of them?

Our children aren't merely a product of love,
they are beings all their own,
carrying DNA, bad habits, humor
and interesting characteristics.
I so often tell them, "just like Dad," with
longing, love and pride.

We all want to conjure you back to our present.
This, I know, is a way love remembers us.
Even as it pierces with unavoidable pain.

What, exactly, does love remembering us 
feel like?
Joy? Sorrow? Life living itself through our
mortal actions?

And when I am gone, too, will the 
memories fade?
Even our children can't conjure up -
in words, stories, or emotion - 
the exactness of our love.
And now that you aren't here, I'm not sure
I am doing any justice in trying.

Photos, things, stories... all inadequate
reflections of you, but I grasp.
Even in tapestry.

I started a new embroidery project.
A photo of you and Kendall fishing.
An iconic photo.
Your smile, her eagerness, the fishing
line with a mark of something at the 
surface of the river.

Stitch by stitch, I am doing my best to do
it justice.
The strands of gray at your temple,
your form and strength and pride.
I know it is just a rough depiction 
of that tender, yet vibrant, moment.
I know my stitches are hopeful,
verging on the bank of perfectionism.

But that's me. My memories,
my heart, my artistry wanting to convey
just one solid way of how 
love remembers us.

Inspired by a line in a poem by Alison Luterman: "how love remembers us."