Things that help me
making my bed.
reading;
scribbling in the margins.
making pancakes,
even more than actually eating them.
painting.
burrowing into a rainbow striped
baby blanket that my grandmother made me.
brushing my teeth.
limiting screen time.
reading, and rereading,
and rewatching and rehearing.
wearing ridiculous clothing ensembles
like a fleece and a bikini
or tights and a sports bra.
painting,
taping things to the wall,
writing down my questions
and pacing in figure eights.
reading out loud,
washing dishes and touching soap suds
while music plays.
pursuing connection with myself
without forgetting our hurting world.
remembering intently our world.
looking closer,
instead of looking away.
listening further,
instead of finding distractions.
examining everything
as if it holds important clues
while taking longer and longer
pauses
and deeper
full
breaths.
the ones that make lips quiver
and chests quake
and take hands on hearts to still.
I am hearing
I am seeing
I am creating
I feel moved by
I am challenged by
I am telling myself
I am talking to God about
Patterns I observe
Names I’m holding close
the contents of my
forming
noticing wall
extending floor to ceiling;
rather carpet to eighth floor creaks.
the place where my attention has turned
and returned
and wanders freely,
and on purpose.