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A New Chapter in My Favorite Book

We get double scoops of ice cream, just because we can To taste it on our tongues for longer  we say To celebrate tracing paths of stars Laying on our backs on Lookout Rock Surrounded by fireflies And the possibility of magic Mother & daughter No bedtimes now And only double scoops We dish the tea with our morning coffee Trading tastes of past sorrows and new sunshine The old rules slink out the back door As we stretch our limbs, svelte and luxurious In new skins that fit us better now And order tarts before salad Mother & daughter Dessert before lunch And only nuances now We spend a whole day doing the nothings Enshrined in shared cells and a thousand memories Hunting through stacks of old books And chatting with white-haired ladies selling clunky jewelry At the thrift store down the street We barely noticed we crossed a bridge of twenty-two years On the way home Mother & daughter Twenty-two years apart And now we’re friends
Recent posts

To Women--For Women's Month

   As a midwife, one of the things people most often say to me is "you're so lucky: you get to play with babies every day".  Of course this brings to mind visions of what this "play" actually looks like--moans, sweat, and always so much blood. And yes, in the end I sometimes do get to run a finger over a soft, downy baby head while the mother basks in her oxytocin-glow of victory.  But if all goes to plan, my interaction with babies rarely goes much beyond that. If you are a midwife, who you really love is women .   I have been a woman for over forty-six years now, I have four sisters and three daughters, and have worked with women and heard their stories for twenty-five years.   And today I want to tell you something I have learned about women: Women rise. They do.  They can get out of a bloody birth pool, rinse the sweat off, laugh, and nurse their newborn.  They heal their bruises, find a way out of the abuse, and start a new life.  They c...

The Phoenix

Sometimes love is Oxygen You don’t know it is there Because it has never Been gone Love was Saturday morning Hair tangled  In my sister’s Beside me On the bed Sun streams Through the window Dust glitters And dances in the light At the smell of sausages And the sound of my mother’s  Gentle voice I was beautiful Because I was alive Love was A candle  That went unnoticed  In a room full Of light *** Sometimes love is A silhouette of hope Drifting on black wings  Away, far away  From me Love was Try harder; pray more Be worthy To exist But ever falling, ever sinking Buried.  Darkness, underground Then slowly fading…fading Deep away From the air and sun and light And from the birds The birds Wheeling, rising Free I was beautiful “If” and “but”--the fine print ever changing Love was An ember Shielded in the dark Craving flame *** Sometimes love is The rising sun I’ve known the darkness And I’ve seen The morning come Love is Sunday morning Laughing voices Cof...

Rise

Air currents gently lift me, Rising towards the sunrise. Cool morning mist, Shadows retreat before the day. I rise, And I rise, And still I rise. I am a creature of the air; I own the morning. The sun touches my feathers, Beckons me to come-- Over the horizon, Over the mountaintops-- Still, I rise.

Broken

          I sit in church, jotting a grocery list and doing little to conceal the fact that my mind is anywhere but on the sermon.  These days I am quite the church cynic.  I have been in church my whole life, and there are times when the pageantry of Sunday school and announcements and ladies’ Bible studies feels unbearably shallow.  I don’t think church has changed all that much.  It’s me that has changed.  I am in a season in life where everything seems to shifting beneath me, and I find myself groping uncertainly towards the next chapter, searching for a firm place for my soul to stand.  Yet despite my general doubt and angst, every Sunday there is one part of the service that collects all the rough edges of my faith and anchors them in a deep and quiet peace. The Lord Jesus, the same night in which He was betrayed, took bread; and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, 'Take, eat; this is My body which is broken f...

Big Girl

Big Girl “There is absolutely nothing feminine about me!” I hurl it like an accusation at my mother who sits across from me placidly folding laundry. “I’m a big girl,” I say, in despair.  “I’m so tall, and I’ve got bigger hands and feet than any other girl I know.” My mother looks at me like she doesn’t quite know what to say.  Unusual for her, especially since I am her third teenage daughter and nothing much rattles her at this point.  She nods.  She knows what I mean.  We live in Korea, and next to the Korean girls my age, I do indeed look gigantic.  My mother puts down the laundry, takes my hand, and examines it thoughtfully. “They look like strong, capable hands to me, Phebe,” she says.  I roll my eyes.  Small comfort at sixteen. ***** My patient is only sixteen.  She looks small and scared in the big delivery bed.  I try my best to appear calm and confident, but the truth is that I am a very new labor nurse and ...