VERONICA LEE

The moon asked me to lose myself
as she, too, found herself 
eclipsed in the night.

"All of me," I wondered.
Fears of "but what about..."
raced through my mind.
Not my past! Not my identity!
Not my grief!
And I took another surrendering
breath from the blackness.

Without streetlamps or nearby homes
the moon offers tender reminders
of her presence in my woods.

She had been oh-so-bright, 
glowing silver upon the trees.
But now the dark swallowed
all of us.
I found strange comfort in seeing
only blackness with eyes wide open.
There was nothing to adjust to.

"You are releasing all of you," she whispered.
I reached into the void to grasp the
hands of my late husband, of my mother.
Another wave of her eclipse pulled
everything of me farther out 
as I softened into the witnessing me.
A me that was allowing freedom
from a belief in self.

Edges of light assured me that the moon
was still there - that I was still there - as
I walked to the window to check on existence.

As I nestled beneath my covers, 
I felt the safety of warmth and hiding.
But I wanted to seek more.

With a hand placed on my identity, I asked,
"Then what is arising new for me?"
There must be fairness, after all.

I watched as my heart unfolded
from darkness.
"Weakness," I assumed, tinges of
unworthiness ever ready to strike.
The movement and grace of the
heart-dance washed through my 
whole being - the one laying unprotected
in the dark, the one with an outstretched
hand into her past.

"No vision?," I thought, wishing to
use my powers of imagination to create.
"Don't I get to have a say?"

And the moon continued to wash me 
with the softness of my own 
​surrendered heart.

I want good bones,
     the strength of which to
     make the sense of
     security permanent.
Come quake, fire or flood,
     I still want the promise
     of good bones... 
     and be they mine.
Not rented, not wondering
     when a 30-day notice 
     may come.
Not feeling thwarted to
     move bones or any other
     parts or pieces exactly
     where I want them.

Interior design was my thing.
     I had an eye for beauty.
     form, and maybe even style.
I played that out for a while...
     commercial, not residential.
Drafting, copying blueprints 
     and picking finishes - unembellished. 
Not nearly as glamorous as
     I envisioned, but it was a start.

But Motherhood was the true dream
     and my own good bones and flesh
     supported the creation
     of more bones... 
     little humans displaying the likes
     of me and my husband.
His good bones - every one of them - 
     hammered, dug dirt, replaced
     sheetrock and efforted all the
     demanding tasks of building
     and repairing the substantial
     good bones of others.
Along with Motherhood, I longed 
     for homestead... wholly ours.

Twelve years - it's been exactly
     twelve years since we landed here.
A saving place from the foreclosure
     of my mom's good bones that
     held us, somewhat securely, for 
     those strenuous years.
Six people and a band of pets
     cozied into 1000 sf of
     good enough for now bones.
I am grateful for the land - 
     acres of play space and trees
     to comfort the weary soul.

No, I've never believed the bones
     of this home were good - and
     I've repeatedly bitched about
     cold drafts, low ceilings, missing
     baseboards and flimsy walls.
But I must admit they have been
     good enough for now.
They've witnessed children's cries,
     victories, arguments, heartfelt
     apologies and the most intimate
     of life's undulations.

It was here, in these good enough 
     for now bones, that my husband
     and my mom took their last breaths.
Here that we washed their bodies
     with warm water and love.
Here that grief has been honored.

Admittedly, I still complain about
     its shortcomings, and long for 
     owning my own and what I
     imagine to be truly solid
     good bones... often.
And in my contented grief
     I can surrender to the
     comfort, memories, and 
     transformations these 
     good enough for now bones
     have unwaveringly pillared.



     

​Alone.
So often alone.
An only child.
One.
Me.
 
And the striving for
connection.
Am I okay?
How do I relate?
My way?
Must things always
be my way?
 
As a child, yes.
And shamefully beyond.
Me.
Mine.
I want.
Feed me attention,
Mommy.
There was no daddy to ask…
well, so distant and
far between that it was
pointless to yearn.
An occasional
weekend would
have to do.
 
And single Mommy
worked.
A lot.
A lot of alone time
and unfulfilled need.
Likely for both of us.
 
But these patterns unfold
their wounded arms
hoping to catch
some love and
connection.
 
And we must learn
to relate.
To communicate.
To go beyond
me, mine, neediness.
Because that demand
doesn’t serve so well.
 
And then, almost
surprisingly, came the love
that landed… here.
And the learning curve
weighted with pangs
of insecurity.
Softening into the ease of
relationship when - being
so loved and loving
back - obstacles were
climbed together.
 
Our two grew to six.
We adulted as best
we could over family.
He and I meandering
through with tenacity
while our soul shadows
offered us more than
we wanted.
Than we were really
prepared for.
 
So beyond the
interconnectedness -
nuclear sacredness of our
family - our connections
were few.
While adoring grandparents,
ever-available, were
the sparkles
that shone over us.
 
Yes, I had – have –
friends, but so few.
I never really
mastered that skill.
 
Yet hundreds supported
us through his terminal illness.
I shall never be able
to fully acknowledge
or pay forward such
generosity of those
who reached out…
reached into our homes,
our hearts.
 
And then the quietude
of intimate grief.
And aloneness.
Utter aloneness
that cradled me
in protective
never-to-be-hurt.
 
Familiar.
Empty.
Necessary.
Me.
 
But the chill of
isolation has begun
to warm again.
Even in the emptiness
of confusion.
Do I want connection?
Do I need it?
Is alone a sacred
honor, bestowed
on those who
have never found
the right-sized
courage?
 
I’m not so sure
what connection
means outside the tiny
circle that seems
to be losing its form.
Do I want to challenge
my comfort zone
and allow for
more connection?
I trust in the sweet
friendships I have, but
I see, too, that
I have never mastered
the skill beyond
Only-ness.

Of Spirit.
Of Source.
Of All.
All That Is.
Is.

And the names 
unfolding itself
to be seen.

Seen... by whom?
Self?

A fragment of
the whole
witnessing itself.

Finding pleasure in
the connection,
the visibility.
The holding of
the gaze.

A soft gaze, at times.
Fierce and protective
at others.

The soul is deep.
Don't get lost,
a worry arises.

Worry.
The start of separation.
Or perhaps the
mere witnessing is
the separation.

Eye-gazing.
Soul gazing.
Seeking to see
and be seen.
By whom?

​One Self.

   ---

I am of Spirit and 
what I want you to 
know is our hearts 
are one.

Ever connected by
fibers unseen.
Forming in dances
of interaction,
of curiosity,
wonder.

A sleek and
sensual dance
beholding the form
of me.
Soft. 
Round.
Sometimes 
vulnerable in my
nakedness.

Of Spirit and body
fashioned from the 
fibers of love.

Expressed as me.

I want to buy $150 yarn.
One ball.
Golden Autumn, Icy Teal…
I want to touch it.
Qiviut.
 
Never heard of it till that click.
Facebook knows my weakness,
from just a few impulsive clicks.
 
I click on yarn ads.
The patterns.
The temptations of beauty
asking what I wish to make.
 
I can knit, I know. I can buy
patterns to stash and hope.
And I hoard yarn like a
problem knitter.
Or crocheter. But that is too
Granny for me. A secret
side hobby that wants to look
more sophisticated than it
possibly could because…
well, crochet.
So I prefer to knit.
 
But $150 yarn?
Qiviut.
Who knew?
Made from the “fine
undercoat of the Muskox.”
Are those real?
Warm, extra soft, I’m told.
Sold?
Enticed by the blurb next to
the price, as my mind
wraps around the
fact that Muskox
exist in someone’s world.
And someone harvests
their fine undercoat.
 
Imagine – $150 for one
small ball… waiting alongside
my $15 and $30 skeins.
I’m not even sure if I’ve
ever spent $45 on
a skein, but wished on them.
 
I examine the ball shape;
wonder why isn’t it
twisted tenderly as a
luscious skein, soft,
supple, virginal looking?
 
I have only purchased
one skein by mail, and
promptly followed through
by crocheting it into a hat
from the top down –
just in case.
And, as fore-concerned,
ran out of yarn just before
the brim. Almost!
Then the hunt to find a
coordinating yarn to finish.
I had to finish it, as I
have too many incomplete
inspirations that cost
money and time and that
vivid picture of my
end product… beautiful,
boastable, worn.
 
Yes, that $150 yarn would
make a lovely hat.
Or gloves.
Or something.
Or not…
And that is the thing.
 
Imagine Qiviut yarn,
in Winter Berry maybe…
or some shade of green,
and feeling absolutely
no guilt or stress or
pinch of the $150
debited from wished abundance
and not having to do a
damned thing with it.
 
Or luxuriating in
the promised warmth
and softness and
hand-madeness of
whatever that would feel
like touching the part
of me that deserved
$150 Qiviut yarn.