The snow lies still upon the rooftops.
From a few houses
smoke rises in a misty haze
and the streetlights blaze
like midnight suns.
All is silent
except the steady breathing of my toddler
whom I’m rocking back to sleep.
In the upper bedroom
across the street
insomnia reigns
and the blue lights of the television
flash out a noiseless dance.
But the snow lies still upon the rooftops
and silence greets my sleepy glance outside.
Tiny traveller
from the realm of inner space,
you float suspended
in dark warm liquid
upside down
untouched by gravity
tethered by a lifeline
to the mothership.
Outside, tiny blue rivers
run in veins over the rolling horizon.
Your world curves around you
like a constant embrace,
the pulse of your universe
beats reassuringly in your ears.
When you are launched into the outer world
in an epic one-foot journey–
“One small step for mankind”–
you enter a new solar system
where bright light abounds,
but the starlight from your former home
forever twinkles in your eyes.
Tiny traveller,
welcome to the world!
(Image from Hubble Telescope)
Birch tree
stripped bare
like me
No leaves to receive
the rain
Nothing left
to give or gain
Glowing white
in the mist
Twigs too thin
to clench a fist
Birch tree
stripped bare
like me
Suffering friend,
your brightness bursts
through the dark like lightning.
People are awed by your strength and beauty.
They do not hear the cry of your pain–
your anguish always swallowed up by thunder.
They see only your power,
blinded to the pain that rips
your heart in half with such terrible violence.
They do not realize that you yearn
to be a candle–a warm light
shining in cosy concert with others–
the same simple joys lighting up your face.
Gorgeous, devastating lightning bolt,
strike no more alone,
surrounded by the cold empty air
that crashes through your lungs in suffocating silence
while your tears invisibly drown in the storm.
Reach for me,
let me feel the sting of your pain,
absorb some of the shock,
connect with the current coursing through you.
Illumine my ignorance.
Unblind me so I can see with you
the world from the eye of the storm.
Image from https://ignatiansolidarity.net/blog/2015/10/06/student-voices-thunderstruck-by-pride/
Last night it smelled like snow–
when I stepped outside
the air was crisp and icy–
pregnant with promise.
In my garden
the late blooming sunflowers
with their damp, cold petals
looked crestfallen and forlorn
as if thinking:
“I wasn’t expecting this!”
In the early morning half-light
I see the rooftops are powdered with icing sugar.
The kids wake up with excitement
and begin dreaming of gingerbread.
My seven year old starts spouting:
“Snow says Christmastime…stuff has to stop growing sometime.
If flowers never stopped growing there would be vines everywhere
Even in the road, and the cars could hardly go.”
Well, there you go. The seasons explained!
These tiny white tendrils
perched like innocent ears atop a mossy log
listening to the secrets of the forest…
What stories could they tell us, if they had mouths?
For they have heard the early morning trilling of birds
when everything else was silent
save for dew drops dripping from tall trees
bearded with curly mosses.
They have listened to the lapping of water
at the lake’s edge,
the liquid murmurs flowing over submerged logs
soaked with sunken memories
–mine, too–
ones I dare not extract from their watery repose
lest I tumble in and get absorbed by their somnolence.
These little glowing ears…
they could tell of green and growing things,
of red and rotting things,
and of the perfect patience of trees
which live and die and even in death
keep giving life.
Remember when there’s a storm in your heart
and everything is cold and steely grey,
the chill will pass–
a more beautiful sky will come your way.
The tempest carries off the dirt and dead–
washes away all that’s not genuinely you–
when morning sun pours into your soul
you heart will soon bloom anew!
What makes the lights dance in the mountains
when I’m up with the baby at 4:30 am?
Why do they twinkle like orange stars
nestled in the mountainside?
Do my sleepy eyes create an imaginary heatwave
to make them shake and shimmer?
Or is it the night faires dancing–
flitting invisibly back and forth
above the city?
Some people might doubt the impact on the world of a person who never saw the sun. Or even took a breath. What could such a person possibly have to say? What could a baby who died in early labour have to teach the world?
Love. Unconditional, perfect, unending love. The kind that doesn’t have to be earned. The kind of love which created us all. Rather the Love Who created us all, and to whom we return. Losing my baby Josephine three years ago today has ripped open my heart and exposed it to this kind of love. I have been honoured to share it with many other beautiful people who have lost little ones as well.
Through my daughter’s silence, I found my voice. I had the courage to speak words of sorrow, of brokenness, of hope and of consolation. I wrote book of poetry spanning the first year after her loss, and in this past year have been able to send almost 250 copies of it out into the world. Less than a handful are left and I’m planning to order more copies of unexpected blossoming: a journey of grief and hope this coming week. If you know someone who has suffered the loss of a baby through miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss, and who could use some words of encouragement and solidarity, please let me know.
Every now and then I get an amazing email from someone who has found an echo of their heart’s sorrow in my book. It’s a consoling reminder of the beauty that can come from shared suffering. I hope those ladies won’t mind if I share a few of their sweet words… One friend who suffered a mid-pregnancy stillbirth told me “Your poems express what I felt but couldn’t describe…they made me feel less crazy about my grief.” Here are a few more responses:
Your book – your words- have been so therapeutic and healing. I really enjoyed it and I am so thankful for you for sharing it with me.
For many weeks I worked very hard at working through and processing my feelings and my grief. It is difficult to face pain head on, but so necessary.
M.S.
I really wanted to take a moment and let you know how truly touched I was (and am!) by your vulnerability to share your story through your creativity. I cried like mad as I read the book from cover-to-cover in I hid under my blankets while the baby was sleeping and the 2 eldest were watching a video! I treasure your words, and please know how profoundly they have touched my heart and surely helped me along the road of healing. ❤
E.D.
I’m sharing these with you not to applaud myself but to rejoice in the impact my little daughter has had…the powerful healing she helped bring about by uniting me with other babyloss mamas and affirming that the depth of their grief comes from the profound depth of their maternal love.
So Little Jo, on your third birthday, know how incredibly proud I am of you and all the good you do from Heaven. May it be the icing on your cake of heavenly joy!
This afternoon after snack-time
as I take a moment
to put up my feet and read,
my toddler arrives–
attracted to the anomaly
of his mother being silent and still.
As I read about art and contemplation
and the creative necessity
of perceiving reality
without a mind cluttered by distractions,
he discovers the delightful idea
of using my legs as a slide.
So I stop to observe him
and weave him into my prayer–
his mischievous face crowned
by a golden mullet of impetuous curls
as he climbs up and down, up and down
to do it again and again–
seeking even in this interruption
to find “a deeper and more receptive vision […]
a more patient openness to all things […]
the abundant wealth of all visible reality.”*
*snippets from page 36 of philosopher Josef Pieper’s beautiful little book on art and contemplation, “Only the Lover Sings.”
Just East Of Crazy Land 