Singing can be a kind of prayer. —Ross Grotbeck
Ode to the Moon
Something about you,
Full moon on a clear night,
Something about you
Pulls me to the window.
I bask in your radiance,
Stare up at you and the stars,
Bright lights through
The skeleton trees.
You brighten these
Darkest of nights,
In the cold mid-winter,
Illuminating the sparkling snow.
I bathe in your glow,
A milky wash over my weary soul.
You make me pure anew,
Fill me with Love’s light reflected.
—Joanna Coyle
Grief Walk
I carry my grief around with me like a lump of clay.
At times, it is a mangled, warped mass, beleaguering me as I slip into a dark hole of fear and anxiety. It weighs me down until I am a crumpled mass, tossed to the floor, with tears flowing uncontrollably.
At other times, I realize the clay is still fresh, and I can shape it how I like. I can make it smooth and round, like a ball, and use it as an invitation to a game of catch. I can toss it back and forth this way, with a new acquaintance or a trusted friend, in a conversation that inevitably brings more healing.
My grief feels solid and eternal, though I know, in time, it – like me – will return to the Mother, and be enveloped in her embrace, becoming something entirely different in the never-ending cycle of renewal.
The clay is a medium. It can be worked, transformed into a beautiful piece of art, a Creation, an expression of the Divine.
—Joanna Coyle
Ice Palace Stillwater
Look up!
Is it mountains?
Is it water, the ocean?
Is it clouds, the sky?
Bluer than your eyes
seeking the truth
Or is it a cold heart
Waiting to be melted by hope?
Waiting, waiting – Will the waiting end in change?
It will take a while but
On a sunny day this too shall pass.
-Gail Diez
