the old man at the door saw me.

today, on our way to a place

that holds joy for my son, i saw an old house — falling apart, but held together, somehow, by a hot pink camellia bleeding joy, brazenly onto the walls and the front of the sidewalk, and nobody saw this sign, but

i did.

and later, i saw an old man at a door, checking tickets, and i started to breathe the word autism, hoping for more than we need, and he saw my eyes, and my heart, and my fear, and my boy, and he said, aye, you’re alright, and enjoy — in that big scottish way, and he gave me a smile, and his light, that said, see! it’s going to be alright, wait and see, and

my child — barely ten and a few sleepless nights fresh from my womb, stood in the shadow of something that breathed 150 million years ago when the land looked so much different, and

life was more peaceful, i think, and he was in awe at those bones, and i stood there smiling at my cup spilling over, right here and right now, but not everyone can see through the mess, sometimes — these miracles that find me — stars, that guide me all the way home, and

last night when i was afraid of undressing my heart, and my words were more salt, than they were light, a friend said, it’s ok, no need to explain or apologise, your journey home is yours, and yours alone, and i carried her gift all night until the sun rose fresh over my life again.

and people have been climbing out of closets, and boxes, and other locked rooms for centuries, have they not? and still, life breathes and breaks new every couple of hours, but not everyone sees, but

i do.

and i look for the way that God breaks wide open in a face, in a smile, and the way that eyes can lift a heart right out of the mud and the dark, and how so many roads lead home, and i walk them, wandering here and there, and would you know? that,

everywhere i go i find others who hear the same silence, weaving songs from notes as ancient as bone, and who are not afraid of hands that flap and fold like birds, flying up, to heaven and back.

they, who keep watch over windows, and doors, and other ways into a soul — who hold up the walls that are crumbling, with light, and who say, aye, you’re ok, it’s going to be alright, just you wait and see.

— the old man at the door saw me.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Juan Pablo Arenas.

this is (already) heaven on earth.

today, i saw an old man walking with his wife. his turban a flash of bright orange — everyday holiness on an ordinary afternoon, and i saw daffodils — a sea of brazen yellow — just waiting to be noticed, despite the throng of traffic, and tired people chasing lists of things to do, and to buy, and to get through, before they can live, and the sky was a van gogh blue that hasn’t shown its handsome face around here since last september and it made my head dizzy with joy as it shouted hope is here, hope is here. just look up!

and a man with very little money, gave me a smile — he was that rich — and i gave him one of mine as i bought his magazine full of brave stories, and a father was swimming with his little girl and i saw tenderness wrapped in strength and one small heart was safe today, and it was good. and a man from another faith taught my son to swim — gently and patiently, he made miracles happen in my boy’s brain, and later at the shop there were rare, bright jewels in the fruit aisle, although some people call them pomegranates, and the aroma from the bakery was heaven on the breeze, and how i love the way my nose can smell, even though someone once said that it is too big, and unpretty, but i do not care, it works so well, how can i worry about opinions that do not love me.

and another man said this world is going to hell and look at this mess they’ve made, and how can we ever find peace this side of heaven, and i said but look! look — i am wearing my scarlet lipstick and my toes are pretty too, in red — do you know what i have seen and survived to be brave enough to wear these colours, and to tell of joy, and light, and maybe this is already heaven and we need to look up, and around, and sometimes even down, but especially inside, so that we can find the thing that sings in the dark and says, see, it is not too late, take off your shoes on this sacred ground, and all the earth is, you know. and can you even remember how the grass feels under your feet, and just listen to the breath dancing in your chest and do you know how precious that is?

how much it is worth?

just hold out your hands, don’t be shy — and ask for more, and it will come, if you believe.

but you must believe, this doesn’t work so well if you don’t, and neither will you, or your heart, and i am not sure you know this yet, but you are so beautiful, inside and out, and one day you will know it, really know it, when you walk straight into love, as we all will, but until then open the windows and sing.

— this is (already) heaven on earth.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Amin Imanifar.

the holiness of cinnamon, and more.

in the quiet of this morning i made oatmeal, rich with cinnamon and honey’s golden kiss.

i do this every day, and also,

i whisper blessings on the hands that made this and not just mine, no.

all the hands that planted, and watered, and harvested, and packed, and delivered, and the lovely hands that work at the till in the shop where i bought all of this goodness.

all of this light.

how beautiful is this life of mine, i say as i eat all of this love.

and i say thank you to the bees, and the earth, and the trees, and my body, who i so often forget.

but lately, i don’t.

no.

not anymore.

because late one night and early some mornings, when the earth was sleeping, i dared to ask for more.

more light, more God, and truth like i have never known.

and i watered my hopes and my bones with tears, and they were seen.

and they were heard.

so small and so quiet.

but still.

i was heard.

and now i see God everywhere, but seldom where i was told he was before, and now i don’t look for him there anymore.

because he is here in the light that falls on my bedroom floor, even before i vacuum it, can you believe that?

even in the dust, on my floors and on my shelves and on my life, even here.

but dust, is what i am made of and more — little bits of stars and heaven and tears and earth.

and floors are where i have found holiness, and him — yes, God.

and there is more to this, if i may tell — he is in the postman too when he comes to my door, but i don’t think he knows it yet, so i will keep on speaking kindness over him until it blooms white hot in his soul.

and i call him by his name, God, and the postman,

and i say thank you for all that i have received, from Him, and from him, yes, even the mail.

and just in case someone else further back has forgotten that we are all holy, i say thanks for him too, the postman.

the one who delivers my mail with his soul.

it is only a simple prayer.

thank you.

but holy.

holy, with the fragrance of heaven, and somewhere out there in another part of home and earth, someone once touched the cinnamon on my oats, and i bless their hands, and their heart, and their body, and their soul, and for them too, i ask for more.

and this is how i change the world, and this is how i open the windows.

and God finds me here, in the dust, and in the light where it falls.

everywhere.

— the holiness of cinnamon, and more.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Alessio Cesario.

grace, in the everyday.

i breathe

thanks

for the

gifts

as

they

fall

into

my

lap.

a

moment

by

holy

moment,

eucharisteo

for the

seemingly

insignificant

details of

my life.

instead of

relying on tired

memory

at day’s

end,

when

i forget

the taste of the tea,

sweet and milky.

the warmth from the radiator,

always reliable.

candles and apples,

and flowers

from the grocery store.

windows in walls beneath a roof,

and books

that

line

my

walls.

a washing machine that

works.

and food in cupboards,

my daily bread,

given.

and,

i search deeper

for the plain things

that

are holy things

of old.

the water and the wine,

and

the fish and the bread

and

the mud and the spit

and

my breath and my life

and

always

the giver

becomes

the gift

and

it

is

all

a golden

thread

of

everyday

grace.

and

i

breathe

thanks.

— grace, in the everyday.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

self (worth).

does the sparrow

count

her worth,

in seeds found,

at the end of the day?

a tallying of

numbers

lining up

with avian goals

to achieve,

until

the figures

nod

approval to

her

existence,

or does she simply

rest,

content,

with full belly

in her warm nest,

a life

lived.

— (self)worth.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

I have been working on my internal dialogue — the driven personality that seeks to find (my) worth in what I do.

A counting of what I can tick off my to-do list at the end of the day and only once that list is long enough, full enough, allowing myself the pat on the back, the well done.

Today, we are held.

And this,

is the wisdom

of nature,

this love letter

You write

daily

of sparrows

feeding

young

and

woodland orchids

quietly blooming

where eyes seldom see

and death

comes

to

all,

eventually.

Even then,

in musty

decay

there is beauty

left behind

to nourish

others.

But,

today.

Today,

there is

enough.

We have enough

and

tomorrow

will come

holding her own worries

in a basket,

but

today,

we are held.

— Today, we are held.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

There was so much more I wanted to include in this poem. How the continous thread in God’s Word speaks of ‘just for today we have enough’, and how this life can cause us to chase tomorrow’s blessing and worries, but that is for another poem.

Another day.