Holly-berry, moist chalk pyracantha beads beckon from a woody stalk;

small fingers smash the pulp against an orange-striped bowl,
stained from weeks of outdoor kitchen play
amidst mud, twigs, tiny muscari hyacinth,
honeysuckle nectar gleaned from tens of stolen flowers,
camelia stamens and heady scotch-broom sunshine.

From the brick-red playhouse tumble brown legs, round thighs,
slick-mud loving toes, flexing, thirsty-skin body;

Cotton dances on back and chest.
Shoulders burn with sun’s flame.

I revel in the touch of the Mighty.
I feel the beauty of my smallness.

I am small enough to swim the ocean of a twin bed,
deluged by nighttime storms;
And to sleep ensconced in a vast meadow
of sweet pollen and dragonflies.

Small enough to pour the weight of my biceps
into snails and shells,
crushing them, yet never breaking the bowl.

Small enough to feel swells roiling through
when swiped by the tiger’s claw.

I am small enough
to slip past the eyes of God unnoticed,
to speak the language of trees and fairies and ocean,
to hide in the bosom of the Curious Mind,

to fit, entirely, thirty years later, in the arms of Healing,
still smashing, reveling, solitary,
still wrestling, still watching butterflies and ants,
still concocting…

Mud, pine cones, rocks, lavender, and sand,
Round thighs, strong biceps, talking fairies, and earthquakes of the heart,

Still very small and very fine.

I wrote this poem more than 15 years ago. When I think of myself as a small child, before I started my schooling, I understand the part of me that is delicate, not in a sickly or weak way, but in the way a bird is delicate or a sand castle, or a leaf. I remember my gentle explorations of nature and the feelings of ecstasy, tenderness, and utter aliveness that arose in my body when confronted by beauty, symmetry, death, color, sound, movement, vastness, etc. In contrast to this, my upbringing and socialization trounced on me in some pretty dramatic ways, and got me tromping through life, forgetting about the sensitivity and particularity and softness that is intrinsic to my nature. I became impervious, almost solid, protected from further hurt; and this is not entirely true—I tried to become impervious but I could not, and endured so much suffering trying to deal with the pain. I do not blame myself for this suffering and forgetting; it was a necessary and loving way of trying to protect myself. As an adult, reconnecting with my subtle self and operating from that space, moving gently and slowly, being able to cut through the dense forgetting that was drilled into me is a central task of not just my recovery but of my self-creation.

This year, through a women’s group immersing in the natural world, I am exploring more ways that I can honor this delicate, not impervious, self in the context of the earth, learning more effectively to notice subtleties of feeling, sensation, emotion, and thought within myself, and to honor them. This impacts my relationships with my family, friends, the earth, and myself. I feel called to some specific work in the world that requires this kind of awareness: sensing my connectedness and belonging in this time and place and inhabiting my unique incarnation; participating in the healing of the earth; discerning how to change my mind in terms of my place in the universe and reversing the conditioning of modern culture; learning to open doorways for others to experience shifts; claiming my work in the world.

I sense the delicacy of my human life and person and I want to honor that in the most gentle and profound way as possible, while understanding that it is that exact delicacy that defines the magic and possibility of who I am, and so it is to be central to my own effective functioning and my heart’s work.