Author: Saoirse Charis-Graves

Day Four: Wilderness

~ Saoirse Charis-Graves ~ 2 Comments

a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)

In the wilderness
I hear the voice of wisdom,
the One who sees me.

***

No cars, no convenience stores,
no latest episodes to consume.

Stones, and tiny alpine flowers,
a rugged Bristlecone pine,
scarred by wind and sun.

A broad, flat rock
for spreading out
beneath the startling blue sky.

I am a stranger in this place,
come from hardness,
seeking refuge, an escape
from all the noise
I’ve left behind.

I wait.

I stand in the sun’s light,
eyes closed, 
breathing. 

A voice whispers in my ear,
calls my name,
offers the tender embrace
of one who loves me, sees me. 

“I am here.” 

We wander in the wilderness,
together in the quiet,
comfort for the wounds I carry,
honey for my soul.

Day Three: Frost

~ Saoirse Charis-Graves ~ Leave a comment

a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)

White crystals etched in 
wood, in stone, in tiny tufts 
of new grass, in me.

***

Warm air caught
in the chill
of what lies beneath.

A temporary frost.

As the warmth of day
seeps into the ground
the etchings disappear,
a bit of damp left behind
until that, too, is gone.

A pattern etched
in my heart,
the chill of fear
and shame and guilt —
and loneliness.

I breathe,
await the warmth of 
“being with,”
of trusting.

I am not alone.
I am beloved.

Day Two: Sunlight

~ Saoirse Charis-Graves ~ Leave a comment

a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)

It would be better to write about sunlight
in the sunlight,
than in the gray overcast skies of afternoon.

But I remember
how the light changes as I wake
and consider moving downstairs.

And once there, how the light
stirs the birds to sing,
calling to one another,
“I am here!”

I remember the warmth
on the back of my very old dog,
how he stands, his head up
as his hips relax.

The sunlight in morning
smells fresh,
invites me into the day,
reminds me to notice —

*now*

because in the next minute
something shifts
and we are into the mix
of-it-all.

Day One: Sustainability

~ Saoirse Charis-Graves ~ 2 Comments

a poem a day in the month of may
The Liminality Journal — Kaitlin Curtice

It’s the little bits.
Sustain-ability is
done in small, slow steps.

Having turned 71 last month, I’ve been focussed on “a year of healthy living.” I’m not counting steps or calories. I do not own a scale for checking my weight. I’m not looking at macros or banning carbs. (My system, however, does not tolerate dairy or gluten.)

I do check the pedometer on my Apple Watch but not because I’ve set a goal for a certain number of steps. It’s more like checking my pulse. More a question for me to monitor: How am I doing with movement so far today?

I am also keeping a food journal. Time of day, general description of what I’ve consumed, precipitating event, sensations in my body, thoughts, feelings. Not attempting to change anything. Just noticing what’s happening and look for patterns. I’ve discovered much of my eating is unconscious, without actually tasting or enjoying the food. And that’s something I aim to change, as my intention for healthy living is to enjoy the food I eat and feel good afterwards. 

I’m also logging other health factors, mainly because I want to support my body in living a good life over the next few years … because I’ve finally learned that caring for myself matters … because I’ve finally learned I am worthy of love, no matter what. 

It seems that caring about myself in these small moments of movement and savoring my food and supporting my body are part of living well. Of loving myself well. Now and in the time to come.

New Morning

~ Saoirse Charis-Graves ~ 1 Comment

First, the joy of a new morning.

Pay attention, 
My waking dream says,
Pay attention.

Notice the bird singing,
The morning’s particular glow,
The closeness of the dog-body
Resting on the hard wood floor
Because you are near.

Then, the news.

Another city,
More death, more injury,
More bullets piercing skin,
Piercing hearts,
Piercing lives.

Another broken human
Taking what cannot be given,
Bullet velocity screaming
His pain.

A new mourning.

Loving me

~ Saoirse Charis-Graves ~ 2 Comments

“I want to be the best version of myself.”

I’ve read it, heard it, nodded my head in response.

Yes, of course I want to be the best version of myself. 

Recently, however, I’ve wondered. Do I?

What does that mean, “best” version? Would it be acceptable if I were the truest version of myself? The most vulnerable version of myself? The most spontaneous version of myself? The most present version of myself?

What if I just showed up, steadfast in simply being who I am?

Sometimes I am exceptionally intuitive. Brilliant, even, in my insights. “Wicked smart,” someone told me. (I quite liked that comment.)

Sometimes I am exceptionally dense. Dull, even, in my mental fog about a topic or a person or a situation. (And honestly, if you told me I was being rather dull today, I don’t think I’d be saying thank you for your truthfulness.)

Am I a better person when I am tuned in to my intuitive nature than when I am absorbed in the fog of past trauma? Do you like me better? Do you run away from being in relationship with me when I am furious to the point of ranting and raving for at least 20 minutes?

I no longer care to be the “best” version of myself. It implies another side of me that might come across as the “worst” version of myself. 

Today, I am a little bloated. It’s possible my waistband is a little tighter this morning. Perhaps I’ve enjoyed more helpings of certain foods lately. Does this mean I have indulged? Is this a sign that I must quickly restrict myself from further enjoyment of a particular food, even to the point of suffering? Am I a better person if my waistband is not so tight?

Lately, I’ve been considering a different set of questions. I don’t enjoy feeling the tightness of my waistband. I prefer a little more ease in the fit of my clothing. I could offer myself some time to inquire about this. 

Food has been a source of emotional comfort to me in the past. Have I been feeling a need for comfort lately? Is there something troubling me? Something I have been ignoring? Even avoiding? 

Have I been taking care of what other people need from me to the point of ignoring what I need from me? And if I recognize the “yes” in response to that question, then what do I need? What have I been ignoring? And how might I offer a time of listening to that being within me that is feeling sad or ashamed or afraid? 

I don’t need to start restricting my calories in response to my tightened waistband. I need to take the time to listen to the younger version of myself. The one who needed solace in a time of deep distress, the one who felt she was alone, the one who tried to do better in a world that measured her worth by being good. 

I am not alone. I have nothing to prove in order to be loved. I can be here for myself, standing alongside that little one who needs solace. I can solace her, until her breathing slows and her heart softens and the darkness dissipates.

I do not need to be “better” than I am. Or to be the best version of myself. There is no better version of myself than the person I am this very day, this very moment.

I am already all I need to be. Yes, still becoming. Still learning to find my own belovedness in the midst of life as it is. Sometimes bumpy. Sometimes confusing. Sometimes a little disconcerting. 

In the light of self compassion — authentic self-care — the tightened waistband is of little concern. It is a signal that I am needing something more. More time, more rest, more art perhaps. More listening. More noticing. I might choose to wear something with a different waistband for a time, while I settle into who I am in this very now.

I don’t need to be the “best” version of myself. Only the most loving toward the parts of me that need my attention. 

Fluffy snow & singing birds

~ Saoirse Charis-Graves ~ 1 Comment

I’ve been wandering this morning. In and through and around words, thoughts, imaginings.

There’s a part of me that is feeling dreamy, not unmoored but also not anchored. I feel drawn to many things … a book, a blog, a podcast, a poem, a list of unfinished tasks, the promise of time spent making art …

We had a snowstorm last night. I was outside, walking back from our early morning meditation in another building, seeing neighbors scooping up snow. While I am always appreciative of the labor of my neighbors in clearing snow from our pathways, I noticed the ease with which they were tossing the snow up into central piles. This was not wet, heavy snow but rather light and fluffy. As I took all of that in, I heard a bird singing in a nearby tree.

Fluffy snow and singing birds. There might be a haiku in that. We’ll see.

I notice in the midst of the wandering, I feel happy. Light, like the fluffy snow. Joyful, like the singing bird. My heart feels both peaceful and jubilant.

Sometimes, I imagine peace as the cessation of anxiety. Calm in the midst of worry. Today, I think peace is this moment.

Snowflakes fall slowly,
Drifting onto fluffy piles,
Nearby, a bird sings.

steadfast

~ Saoirse Charis-Graves ~ Leave a comment

I took note of a “Breath Prayer” by Cole Arthur Riley. She describes a breath prayer as: an ancient practice that connects short, memorable phrases with deep breathing. [Note: I’d highly recommend Cole’s book, now out in paperback, titled “This Here Flesh.” It’s transformative.]

INHALE: I am not who I was.
EXHALE: I will honor my becoming.

I am not who I was.

I do not reject my past. At best, I hope to honor who I was, remember what it took to survive, to remain in a world where I’d lost what I thought was the anchor of my being. And to learn from it. Recognize that who I became in order to survive was brave and determined to forge my own path. I learned to stay. Maybe not always gracefully. There’s a reason I was labeled as a “rebel” by some of my teachers, why I was blackballed from Honor Society. I did not suffer fools gladly. Nor did I tolerate anything or anyone that tried to diminish me. Today, I understand the price I paid for my rebellion. But really, I admire the spirit of that girl. So, no, I don’t reject who I was. I simply understand that in my survival, I devised a strategy that in the long run disrupted my ability to forge the connection I so deeply desired. Love me, I dare you!! Defiance works on one level as protection but not in the soft underbelly of love. And so I found myself “safe” but often alone.

I will honor my becoming.

Finding a home in myself has been a process of becoming vulnerable, of risking ultimate exposure to what I most fear, of trusting I am no longer that young girl who had no choice but to “armor up” in the face of dragons. Finding a home in my own body has been — and still is — difficult. In reality, it’s as easy as stopping to breathe and to notice. Not.Hard. Five minutes max, most of the time.

However, this body is so programmed to work hard, to find the “should” in every moment … I should be good, I should look good, I should do better.

Even more difficult has been discerning how to care for this being I am in the process of becoming. To do the regular things of daily life, like making my bed, sweeping the floor, washing the dishes. Finding and keeping a home for myself because I care about the person who lives here has been a life-long struggle. Now, after months of work (and a fair chunk of my savings), everything has a place where it belongs. Taking the time to “tidy up” and keep things in their place is still an unfolding process. Clearing out the clutter — really, the detritus of an unlived life — was the beginning. Taking the time to be with myself, to love the-one-I-am-becoming enough to sweep up the leavings of life — that’s an everyday practice.

It takes a willingness to stop and notice, without judgement, what is happening in this moment. To notice what is happening in my body. To breathe as I notice. To honor what is.

Can I be steadfast,
unwavering, resolute
in this care-of-self?

May it be so.