As We Walk Upon The Water

 I have just confessed to a beloved friend, who lovingly stood witness, as I spoke of the fact of the aching bones that are stored in my attic in need of healing and final rest. These are boxes of baggage and upset. Some not mine to unpack, but unpacked they must be. Eventually. They are filled with betrayal, short comings, half truths and neglect. They are filled with the rest of the story, unspoken or heard. Never given the chance to be uttered in Soul soothing, Life giving Word. They are made of the bones of my ancestors, leading up to and into myself. All our faults and our flaws and our failings. All the deep DNA of genetic entraining. The ways we concealed and withheld out of fear it could never be healed. But there’s sunlight that enters the Attic, when I hold each small box in my hands. When I look and do not look away, and bless every event that has led to this day. When I integrate all that I’m made of and cast not one pebble away, then the stones become pathways to Altars, w

 I am presently consumed by the needs of my aging Mother. She is haunted by ghosts in the hallways. Ghosts in the bedroom. Ghosts in the  mirror. These are not Spirits that come to guide. Offering Presence while standing in witness and lighting the way  to safe passage. Although they are gathered as well by her side, she is sleepwalking past them. Lost in the dream of redemption denied. Feeling unworthy, unsafe, cast aside. These ghosts are her longings and shadows. Aching for what used to be, never was and forever will not be. These are regrets and withholding. Unforgiving. Relentless.  And wrapped in the ribbons of…”It’s all my fault. I did it all wrong. I wasn’t enough. And why did you leave me.” I try at length to take these  shadows from her. But they have become such familiar landscapes, that she would no longer recognize, or feel safe at all, beneath a canopy of Starlight without a dark cloud. In a way, it has always been this way. In spite of this, she Mothered three children.