Monthly Archives: June 2023

The Grapplers

I want to live with the grapplers, not the knowers.
I want to be open to the what-ifs, not the no-nevers.
I want my feet solidly placed on the green grasses of spring
without fighting against the inevitable browning in fall.
I want to trust what isn’t changing in the rocks below.
I want to take flight in my imagination while tethered
to the reality of Being.

What, my friend, does this stir in your wanting?
Nothing? Or
Everything in between?
Or do you feel a knot in your throat, a stave in your heart so tangled
and hurt that you can’t hear or see your wants,
or your wants as worthy?

Well, love that too.
Love you with or without wants, or worth, or understanding.
Love this in as small portions as you can, or
be bold
and sit at the feast-table already prepared for you
by the Shepherds.
But love.

Love the grappler and knower in you.
Love the scared and confident you.
Love what is under your feet and above your head, and
everything in between because
you are Loved and Love.

*The Grapplers ©twyatt 2023. A peek at a poem from the next book: Rose Petals.

Nods of Love

We have been home for a week today. I am surprised by what memories come to mind, and which images stand out from the nearly 3,700 photos we took over thirty days in France and Spain.

I am delighted to discover some of the sights and feelings have not faded and that, in fact, some show up with an insistent tenderness for notice and appreciation. Like this one: feeding the crows at Jardin des Plantes on our last full day in Paris.

Continue reading Nods of Love

Thirty Days in May (with Les)

My boots plum wore out.

We walked 104.98 miles over streets and up and down subway stairs (much of it looking for public restrooms), strolled through gardens and museums, stopped in at a few churches and said some prayers (please, no more stairs). Oh, and the Parisian cafes! I can’t forget all of the delightful sidewalk cafes and brasseries, bistros and patisseries, and late late LATE night suppers with a few friends. (Too many unforgettable meals to remember!!).

But my boots are toast (and not tasty French toast either). So much so that I am throwing them away in the itty bitty trash can supplied to us in our teenie weenie warehouse-style dorm room at Paris-CDG airport. Au revoir, black suede shoes. You served me well. (Your euthanasia was well earned.)

Continue reading Thirty Days in May (with Les)