He bought it used. It was heavy and solid like home. Soon he began to peel the layers away. It was painted antique green and underneath she remembered a layer of white, then bright orange. She was not sure what the the other colors were but it had been coated and recoated by many who had different preferences. He spent hours cleaning away paint brushed into the crevices and cracks. It was a labor of care to reach the wood grain underneath all of those years. She watched him work off and on knowing he would continue. He told her it would be hers but her doubt piled up with the days. Through the sanding and peeling of hours of evenings. It was taking a long time, so much time and more than he realized it would. After all of that scraping away to bring the beauty to light, she knew that it couldn’t be passed to another, even a daughter that he loved. It wouldn’t be hers now. Not because it was an antique piano, but because of the time it took him to bring it back to life. When he said, “Yes, of course it is yours.” She was surprised by the love of those hours. It remains with her today.
"Choosing to live and love with our whole hearts is an act of defiance. " - Brene Brown
Join me for Galentine's Day, Write Yourself: Self-Love and Poetry Gathering
Saturday, February 13. here - Eventbrite. (Tickets by donation)
One of the many joys of facilitating writing circles is contributing to the journey of others and connecting women from across the globe.
Renewal Through Poetry: Introductory Writing Circles
February 21, 11:00 am PST register here - Eventbrite.
"The circle is a very special part of my week. I am inspired by everyone, their thoughts, their writings, their words. I never come away without feeling something deeply or being profoundly touched. I am amazed at what comes out of the end of my pen." - Nancy
I want to launch into the air a thousand words of love. Handwritten and in every font, (even the unpopular ones) lines and curves that will rise and carry us forward upon touch, and to accompany these words, send the sounds that bring us alive, like birdsong, a child’s laugh or footsteps echoing toward home. Release them as a million messages to freely be carried by the breezes that reach us all, to land on building tops and crosswalks, to fall in the teacups of the grieving, in the tangled hair of skipping children, to settle on weary parkbench sleepers, cling to the yet delivered news traveling with the sunlight to the next continent, let the words land on the bare hands of the parched and weary like raindrops on the skin of those that need it most.
I pause here to take a breath and now realize you are still listening. How generous of you.