Years in coming
but seen now
in spurts
is that the dance of divine
(just everything
as far as we can see and smell and lick)
is my play dough queendom,
when I arrive at the preschool table
equipped with my able hands
and lively visions.
i sit with my boisterous classmates
and we build the world
side by side
in tiny chairs.
We take potty breaks
and breaks for snacks,
but we eventually learn
to make every moment
holy with our attention.
We have freedom to not,
but also pointing toward,
the serious task of staying loose
with wisdom
to never marry
any moment
nor mourn the loss
of any joy.
Courage is gathering
for holy sleep
and holy tea
and holy walks
and holy talks with plants and chocolate and blankets
and traffic noise and headaches, too,
holy holding still
holy inner smile
bowing for what is here
seen through eyes that work
and a brain that can decipher,
for now,
and a tongue that can stop moving
until the words arrive.
Life as Improv 
I especially liked the end, Marga, “and a tongue that can stop moving / until the words arrive.” I’ve been at a WP standstill for a while. When the words arrive, I’ll put them out there. 🙂
You so widen my inner and out smile 🙂 x
Yes! Holy now. Holy backache. Thanks for the reminder. Such a beautiful poem Marga.
Alison xo ❤
OH my goodness, how did I miss this! ? Sending tea and squeezes for holy backaches. Bowing your direction, which is what way again? xx
Bowing back from Holy Vancouver. The truth arises not as an idea but as a lived experience that there is no one here, nothing but a fascinating illusion of a me living a life, a play being enacted by no one for no one. All is always well. And holy.
Alison xox