therapy.

in a field

on the farm

that i like

to walk past,

there is a tree.

once upon a time,

i am sure,

she must have stood

tall

and

proud, a

useful

tree

indeed, a

normal

tree, a

tree

that

when people

saw her

they

would say,

in their very knowledgeable

way,

for they know all about

how

to

be

a

proper

tree,

now there is a beautiful tree.

but,

not anymore.

now,

she is gnarled

and

bent

from

her

waist

down

to

the

ground.

a naked

act of worship

to the soil,

that

now holds her

grounded

in root

and

branch.

unable

to

aim

for

the light,

she

kisses

the

earth.

and people walk past her

in private conversation

with each other

and

they

do not notice

how

her

lowest

branches

have

shaped

a safe space

for

the lambs, and

how the birds still

converse

with each other

in her

misshapen

crown,

whilst

they sing

sky

songs

to

her

about

clouds

and

the sun

and what it means to

be

alive, and

not once

do they tell her

to

go

back

to

who

she

was, to

unbend herself

from her

melancholy

and

the thing that caused her

to

fold in

on herself, because

to them

she is

still

a tree.

— therapy.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

(You are) The God of the verb.

And this is the thing

about You.

This great paradox.

There is a rest

in

You,

as much as there is an

active

seeking.

A pushing back

against

the world

and the pain

that follows

life.

The greatest gift

You

give

to

me,

is

choice.

Forgiveness

is mine,

but will

I receive

it

when You

place it

there

in front of my

fractured

heart.

Healing is there,

but I must choose to

ask for it.

Hope is there,

but I must look for it,

even in the dark.

Joy is there,

but I must give it a

chance

to

unfurl.

And sometimes this

is

a life’s work.

Seek Me,

You say.

Press in.

You are the God of

rest

and

the God

of

verbs.

There’s

so

much

more.

But always,

it is my

choice.

To receive.

Or

not.

To

leave

the old

life.

And

search

desperately

for the new.

For,

to

Whom

else

can

I

go?

—The God of the verb.

Song of the grateful.

This

extravagant

gift

of

life.

Wildly

beating

just

a

little

bit

longer.

— Song of the grateful.

Twenty years ago I started a journey of grace and healing after a diagnosis of Severe Aplastic Anaemia (Bone Marrow Failure).

Today, someone I love very much starts a similar journey.

I am reminded, once again, of the beauty of life.

The gift that it is.

Those of us who have known life-limiting diagnoses, and have graciously been granted life, know that every breath is an extravagant gift.

Today, I am deeply grateful for this.