Heart Box Studio

This Very First

Late at night, just as the last inclement cloud of worry breezes past my head, they come.

The tender knocks on a closed storm door, their tiny heads of thought just barely reaching the four square window, they come.

These words, the frolicking children, banging pots and pans, opening and closing drawers as I try to find my rest, they come. 

In the swirl of dream and wonder, heaven kisses my cheek, setting every word free, falling from my once closed ears, parachuting from bedposts, free falling onto hardwood planks, chasing nightlight shadows.

And I listen to them giggle and tell story after story; poem, verb, prose, preposition. And they taunt me with waves of surrender, directing me to open journals, reaching for ink stained pens, until obedience, once and for all pulls the covers from under my chin.

And my hand meets the page on bathroom floor rugs and closet lit hallways as these children, these words with feet, find their place between the blank, blue line guardrails of notebook cities.

There are all of these places that wait to be discovered, wait to feel our feet run open and wide, chasing the shadows back underground. And something waits for me to release it, the paper butterflies and one winged birds, waiting patiently for the tiny hands of children to set them free.

So, I make a wide net of courage and hope and stitch everything I know inside of it and wait for the very moment when these new sets of eyes will ask me just what's inside.

This Very first, the words set. This. Very. First. Art Camp. And 26 eyes, fingers, toes and hearts. Their Art Camp. Set between pastures of stops and starts, this ways and thats. And I open every part, every closed door hinged, locked and painted shut. And wait for the wonder and awe these small open hands will paint inside them.

We took the long way home. We turned onto roads that had never once felt our feet run. We pulled onto green patchy pavement and closed doors and listened for thunder over a new favorite that felt like magic each time we pressed repeat....

I dreamt a trail up to the sky,
and my brothers built propellers
just to see how far they'd fly.....

And we bent down low to see just what a sunflower looks like from underneath. And there were traces of strawberries in his kiss. And one petal plucked. He loves me. He loves me not. This way. Now that. Door opened. Door closed.

And our shoes fell from our feet and his toes touched mine. And we rolled to our side to keep the sun from our eyes. And clouds of awe and wonder split open between spells of light and relapse. 

We let the mud fill each crack on the bottom of our sometimes shoes and we waved to the sun our very best hello. Their heads peered out from behind the glass, waiting for exploration to define them.

Wonder and awe. Wonder and awe. Left. Then right. Stop. Now, go. He loves me. He loves me not. And we watched as the sky emptied itself into rivers of orange and translucent gold creeks. Wonder. Awe.

And they each nodded their head as I tried to crawl through the words. Their poetry. Their prose. Each golden head nodding as I sat in the light and waited for the clouds to reach the other side of the street. But they took their time, opening and folding, touching each sunflower head with their light and storm. Wonder. Awe. 

So we travelled through heart shaped holes and found ourselves on the other side, this place where fields of sunflowers show up unexpected, where words like, This Very First, are met with roads never travelled before, roads waiting for exploration to be the paper banner beginning.

So we kneel down and mark a line in the dust of this day. On your mark. And our small words tumble off bent petals. Get set. And we race to the other side, the place left unexplored, the place that waits for us in all of this wonder and awe. Go.

Sometimes, just as the day lays down, finding it's rest between dusk and night, they come. 

Door opened. Door closed. Running through fields of golden light, brushing past the broken leaves and wild weeds grown past shoulders and thighs. They come.

And it feels like the start of something beautiful.

I Will Find You In The Somewhere

There are places in this world that remind us who we are. That time is not best spent planning and worrying, acquiring and gaining. That this life is for shedding, letting go and living in what remains. 

There are these places where the light is delicate. Where the water's cold chill raises our skin to goosebump's refresh. Where early mornings hold the laugh lines, the soft creases of joy throughout the day. And gratitude is the gentle fog that comes in after the rain.

There is this place where God holds the sun in His hand, where He opens His fingers to let the light spread over every field and flower.

This place, this sweet Minnesota cabin, situated somewhere on the thin line of Canada. This sand is my heaven. It's grains, my tiny words, filling journals and secret rooms inside my heart.

 

I will find you in the somewhere,
in the muddy, outstretched sky.
I will find you in the somewhere,
where the clouds kneel down to cry.

I will cover each and every stone,
with hope and strength to borrow.
For when your heart, it walks alone,
through trails of grief and sorrow.

I will find you in the tea stained sky,
in the crooked, broken trees.
I will find you in a harp's soft strum,
in the quiet, floating leaves. 

 

 

I'll rest a finger on the tip,
of fallen houses new.
And battle for the eyes that weep,
for wounds of black and blue.

And seeds unearthed,
by pull and dig.
These blossoms found
in rock and twig.

Hold on, my heart,
that you may know.
The creeks you wind,
the weeds you grow.

These small tributaries,
these hollow lines unseen.
That move through veins of flesh and bone,
for what we wish and dream.

 

 

The sweet relief,
of words made true.
By river's depth,
a quenched renew. 

Our heads submerge,
to quiet the hums.
Untangle the strings
caught in fingers and thumbs.

You whisper, my sweet,
into night's swollen ear,
"Your heart, my found anchor.
This sea, my lost fear."

 

 

I'll no longer shake,
these fingers point.
The skeletal limp
on fractured joint. 

So nestle me closer,
in morning's new light.
These dreams that lay sleeping
in maybe's and might's. 

And there in your hand,
where lines travel west.
A sweetly wrapped secret,
held close to your chest. 

And these eyes that hold,
written scrolls to unfold.
The stepping stones leaps, 
of secrets you told. 

 

 

So sit with me slowly,
to watch open skies.
And listen, sweet berry
to our whispers and sighs.

Soft infant clouds,
awake from their nap.
To lay their heads gently,
upon your safe lap.

And flowers that bow,
and bend at our knees.
To hold the dipped hands
of each leaf on the trees.

 

 

And sweet water dew,
the fog blindly creeps.
Past doors left unopened,
while forests still sleep. 

I'll keep you here,
in wakes of new blue.
In orange bottled light
of summer's sweet hue.

And long, tangled branches,
of straight lined birch.
Each crooked bend,
your heart goes to perch. 

 

 

And the rings of each tree,
mark the days we let go.
The days we left buried,
in winter's last snow. 

So asters, go quickly,
and find your soft bed.
Between the torn sheets,
of words we once said.

And foxglove, there,
lend me your eyes.
My petals grown weak,
from this weight and this size. 

So gratitude, gratitude,
please make me new.
With the soft spun seeds
of too many, more few. 

 

 

And there you stood,
in the light of what will.
Your heart a deep pocket,
to harness and fill.

And the dapper young yawn,
of a prairie wide day.
The white tailed escape,
of a sunrise at play.

This grace is the queen,
with her lace dipped in white.
Weaving mistakes,
with her beauty and light.

 

 

And this place called remember,
steals strength from the wind.
Informing each moment,
just when to begin. 

The stars left unseen,
behind black clouds of fright.
Are stars kept in waiting,
for moments most bright.

And this summer sea,
with it's diamond light.
Lifts the waves to reflect,
these stars back at night.

 

 

This place is a tower,
a hand held last stance.
To bring them together,
this fate and this chance.

And the skin of the birch,
made dark by the storm.
Feels sunlight mid morning,
suspended, yet warm.

And there, at the bottom,
mistakes lost at sea.
The deep tranquil waves,
of this mutiny set free.

I will find you in the somewhere,
in this lake of broken glass.
Where wakes of summer sleeping,
still wait for winter's pass.

 

 

Come home,
My darling.
Come home to me.
Take rest in these arms,
of my broken down tree. 

Found: One Lost Day

I bought him his first piece of luggage last month as we rolled one, oversized shopping cart through IKEA. He spread his hands out and wrapped four small fingers around the bright orange handle.

"This one."

He keeps sliding books and bent cars into the sides and pockets. 

And this open suitcase gets piled higher with broken toys and pens without caps and I harness restraint and curve back into patience. 

We leave tomorrow. Two weeks and golden light, feet dangling softly on an island's clay shore. Lost canoe paddles and spontaneous cliff jumps. There will be quiet and bird calls memorized and soft morning breathing in bunk's scratchy comforters. There will be gentle rain tapping and too high swinging. 

I lost the video almost three years ago, shortly after I sent it to the person I love, this person I dreamed of as I made it. There, with one old camera and unsteady hands. Because this person's hills were too steep and sometimes the road can be lifted by one song's note. Sometimes the moon calls us back just as the clouds pull the curtain closed.

And as I packed and cleaned and shuffled four new journals alongside his red goggles and save-it-for-later candy wrappers, it was there. He found it.

And a four-years-ago memory, the little video I made with unsteady hands, under clouds that travelled past question marks and "I miss you" greeting card longing was found. And a door, made silent somewhere in my heart, was opened again. Just to remind me that promises are kept if we keep them folded inside the deep pockets of hope.

They are four years older now, these little ones. Four years past wrinkles and showers of thunderous days. They stand in a new spring, grown tall in the wild weeds.

 music: sufjan stevens, "sister"