In lieu of a holiday card, I am instead offering a new poem that seems fitting to help mark the coming winter solstice this weekend, often known as a festival celebrating the birth of a new solar year. Here’s to your wild unfolding, Friends.
Wild Unfolding
If only the rain would
soak through my skin
and water the seeds of satisfaction
in the soil of my soul,
perhaps then,
just maybe,
I'd know I was enough
and wouldn't have to worry
about withering in the slightest breeze
or disintegrating in a biblical tempest,
and instead allow,
make room,
set a place at the table for myself.
If the water falling from the sky
could seep through and nourish the bits
that are jagged and dirty
and that I don't bring out for company,
perhaps then,
just maybe,
I'd end my hunger strike,
put down the knife,
pick up my fork,
and feast.
Just as you cannot rush a bud,
closed tight,
doing the sacred work of birthing itself,
content with simply being
until its time to bloom,
nor can you hasten or hurry
your own
wild unfolding.
Wild Unfolding
If only the rain would
soak through my skin
and water the seeds of satisfaction
in the soil of my soul,
perhaps then,
just maybe,
I'd know I was enough
and wouldn't have to worry
about withering in the slightest breeze
or disintegrating in a biblical tempest,
and instead allow,
make room,
set a place at the table for myself.
If the water falling from the sky
could seep through and nourish the bits
that are jagged and dirty
and that I don't bring out for company,
perhaps then,
just maybe,
I'd end my hunger strike,
put down the knife,
pick up my fork,
and feast.
Just as you cannot rush a bud,
closed tight,
doing the sacred work of birthing itself,
content with simply being
until its time to bloom,
nor can you hasten or hurry
your own
wild unfolding.
