Insignificant

I wrote this poem during a heart struggle, recognizing finally, a deep wound. A feeling of insignificance that colors my interactions with others and brings grief and anger when I experience a slight or perceive someone's greater importance. I called it pride, until my sister, Naomi, suggested pulling up that weed of pride and noticing what lay buried under those roots. The word, insignificant, came to my lips almost immediately, without thought or study. Later that day I was moved to give word to what I was feeling:

Sit in your chair
you ordinary insignificant fifth girl
Behave yourself
Read your Bible every day
Clean and dust; do the dishes
Empty the wash tubs
Braid your hair
Cover your knees
Be quiet, behave, be good
One day you might be a
missionary or a Sunday School teacher
And surely, someone's submissive wife.

There is freedom and release in recognizing one's self. There is love and grace in the embrace of my true self, even those feelings of insignificance. For in the denial of those feelings, are buried the seeds of anger and contempt that fill my gut, and spew from my mouth.

I No Longer Fear

I no longer fear the dropping shoe
They’ve both dropped—or should I say all?

And here I am.

Dropping shoes are a sure part of the journey—

The waiting, the dropping, the picking up again—

Weaves a blanket so incredibly mine

It warms me at night and 

Wraps around my shoulders as I walk through my day.

The bruises and the scars from the 

Falling down and getting up and falling down again

Can be covered with long sleeves in shame

Or worn defiantly like tattoos

Mementos to those dropping shoes that now bring smile to lips

and streaming tears in the telling

For now I know

Or should I say that I am learning

That cracks and broken pieces are the bearers of light and joy

When one sits down on the couch with them

And turns toward them with accepting embrace

And asks what brings you here, or maybe what gift do you come bearing?

Almost 3 years ago I wrote a post Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop. Time passes and our understanding and wisdom deepens. I'm seeing now the connection between sorrow and joy in life; dropping shoes just might be opportunities or invitations to something new. It's a work in process, but inspired by some recent Lenten reading and introspection, I put the above words to paper.

Nancy Perkins

A Cabin Wonderland

Did I like Alice fall into the rabbit hole

I’m in this wonderland of snow and ice

Trees like pencil slashes

Reach into the snow filled sky

I step onto the frozen pond

Like Peter I’m afraid I’ll sink—I won’t of course

In the middle of this lake of ice

I turn and look at the cabin

Cold burns my cheeks

But I still smile

As warmth floods my heart and soul

With love and wonder for this place

This is not a dream

I am very much awake and alive

And this is truly wonderland

Exceeding every expectation

Nancy Perkins

February 2015

Walking Through the Woods on a Snowy Morning

Not a day for a hike

But off we go into the woods

Snow is falling; it’s very cold

I grab the stick my daughter hands me

And follow in her boot prints

Step by step

The creek along the trail

Is not your summer creek

Transformed by snow and ice

My sister’s blue coat and

My pink scarf are shouts of color

In this still life black and white

We talk of summer days—

Playing in the water

Rocks, moss and ferns

All that—the leaves and seeds and flowers

Are here in these bare trees, 

    in our memories

‘Neath the snow and ice

Promises to keep

My sister Elena and her husband Ron, my brother Tom and his wife, Thelma, my daughter, April and I took the Lost Creek hike this past weekend—the coldest weekend of the year. It was fabulous and amazing and a time to treasure.

- Nancy Perkins, February 2015

I'm in Love with the Moon

I don’t remember when I first declared my love to the moon

but I have been a faithful lover—through full and barely there.

I turn a corner and there she hangs

I shout my love aloud; or at least smile if others are close by.

A slice of light, she offers a golden seat in which

one could recline and read or simply gaze at passing stars.

At fullness, a brilliant orb around which I would

wrap my arms and press to my heart.

On wintry nights when she glows especially clear and bright

her glorious light warms my heart and soul.

And no words can describe the harvest moon

when she hangs in splendor on the horizon warm and yellow.

Some mornings she lingers pale and lovely,

inviting the sun to take her place.

And as he rises to his throne, she fades and finally disappears,

a lady-in-waiting for her return as queen of the night sky.

I found this part of a poem by Rumi, and it expresses so beautifully my love for the moon.

At night, I open the window
and ask the moon to come
and press its face against mine
breathe into me...

How beautiful is that imagery. It brings a smile to my face and joy to my heart.
Nancy (March 2015)

Gray Hair

Gray hairs lay like a frame around my face.
I gaze at them with some consternation.
Look at us, they say.
We are your life.
We are grief and trouble.
We are love and joy.
We are your children and your lover.
We tell your story.
We are your prayer.

Beneath the Bark

The bare trees
  with a few brown
  shriveled leaves
Pay no heed to
  their nakedness
  in winter's bitter cold
The branches
  still reach
  skyward
A prayer of thanks
  for what lies
  inside
A deep knowing
  of leaves
  and flowers
  and fruit