Three years and seven days ago, October 17, 2003 to be exact, I watched the stars set from the inside of a barn-red box. Winter had come early that year, and so I spied on the tree across the street, which stood naked on the cold and blue, starry morning. Sitting there, wondering about the skeletal tree and the stars, I scribbled this on a napkin:

winter exhaled

her breath froze my roots

paralyzing all color

paralyzing all fruit

winter robbed my branch

she blinded leaves asleep

deep, dark they fell

naked I weep

naked as ice:

frigid, scattered, rigid, shattered

bare branches bend

a starry-eyed skeleton

glass skin

artic within

winter made solid my blood

ceased flowing

numb heart

dry flood

weak-kneed I wander

withered I wait

wait

for tears to melt soil

wait

for roots be found loyal...

I've been reading Madeleine L'engle's Walking on Water, in which she repeatedly emphasizes the importance of an artist listening to the art. She explains that if one listens to the work (the poem, the painting, the story, the floor-plan, the design, the song, the pottery, the life) then the work will be true. By listening to the work, I gather she means allowing our mind and heart to hear that which we would not usually hear or see, that which God whispers to us. I reflect on her words and I remember the tree and the napkin. I never intended to write this poem, but I could not help but to write it. Three years later, it articulates better than anything ,the journey I have been on. In retrospect, I am amazed at what God whispered to me that morning with the stars and the tree and the cold, october sky. This poem is not fantastic, but it is the most truthful thing that has left my fingertips.

Indeed, I have been exhaling. Facing pain is my least favorite color. And re-learning my past has been cold and often dark. Many days I feel robbed of the joy and hope I have always possessed. Many nights I feel stripped and alone. It has not been as easy for me to converse with people in the silly manner that my friends have become accustomed to. Sometimes my words are frozen. It is so bizarre for me to read the words I wrote. As if I wrote the poem today. Oddly enough I have been struggling to express how I feel and these words continue to be a gift to myself. Winter is neccesary and beautiful in it's white and blue and black. Winter is full of hope and thankfulness for that which will be. I've finally been able to journal again. For a girl who used to journal several times a day, it has been depressing to pick up a pen at night and not be able to complete a sentence. Even better I have been wanting for the last three years to continue this poem into spring and finally I know that I can.This week i've realized that things like forgiveness, grace, healing, wholeness, and love take time, a life-time even. Pleading with God to give me again the gift of joy last night, he whispered to me "Crawling back to Spring". It may seem childish, but that simple phrase has filled me with a bright yellow joy.

This season of my life has been challenging. But surely, I am crawling into spring.