on letting go of what is gone.

the silver birch

and

the oak,

called me into the woods

today.

.

.

i carried with me

all the things

that i have ever lost

.

. and never let go of.

.

.

and the weight of it all

was counted

in fear.

.

.

and

i sat beneath

the bare arms of the birch, reaching up.

.

.

. always up,

despite her season

of nakedness

and loss.

.

.

and we sang a lament

together.

. an ancient song

of letting go.

.

.

and it was hard.

.

.

loss,

can scrape the joy

right

out

of your bones.

.

.

and that,

which i never wanted to give up,

.

.

brought life,

. in the end,

like

. dead leaves

on the woodland floor.

.

.

and the silver birch

and

the oak,

sent their roots down,

.

.

deep

. deep,

down

into

the earth,

.

.

and asked for more.

—on letting go of what is gone.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

.

.

Photograph by Skitterphoto.com

a new year’s song.

the year is dying in my hands

and

. i am filling my apron

with a feather

. for hope,

and

tiny bits of tumbled sea glass

. for courage.

.

.

when the waters rise,

. they will not wash over me.

.

.

a pinch of faith,

. you only need a little,

and

a quilt of mercy

to warm my heart

.

that

at

times

has

loved

so coldly.

.

. i will guard the spring.

.

guard it fiercely,

so that only

love

will

flow,

. but i know

that i am cut from rough cloth

and

grace

is the bread that keeps me alive,

.

and you.

.

so

i will give

. and give

. and give,

until

we cannot see

who we once were,

. for all the love.

.

that,

is how they will recognise us.

.

.

the broken ones.

.

not the knowledge.

not the perfection.

not the raised eyebrow,

.

but

the

love.

.

it’s how i recognised you,

when

all

i had known was failure.

.

you loved me first,

and

never

stopped.

.

and i will not worry about

my hips

or

my wrinkles

or

my yesterdays

or

my tomorrows.

.

i am held.

.

and because i am the one,

.

that

one,

.

who deserves an entire parable.

. yes.

.

the one

who wanders

and

strays .

into thickets

. and

thorns,

where others see the danger,

i will remember that i was searched for

. over and over,

every time

and

i too will

. search

when others get lost.

.

i will not be the pointing finger,

but

the open hand that says,

. here i am.

.

let me be

a light in a glass jar,

. shining

in spite of it all.

.

.

—a new year’s song.

.

.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

.

.

Photograph by Martí Pardo.

.

.

Friends,

.

.

I wish you a peaceful, spacious

new year.

.

.

Know that you are held

and that though they may rise,

the waters will not wash over you,

.

.

liezel

this story, ends well.

in the late afternoon,

i light

a candle in my kitchen.

the visible hours

are

few

this time of year.

my eyes

and

my heart

both

struggle to see

clearly

in this season.

there is so much

in the air

that

hides

the ache

inside

and

this longing

for

all is calm

all is bright,

is overwhelming

at times,

and

perhaps

your

star is hidden

this year?

and,

when children sing,

you,

only

have

the memory

of

what

once

was,

to unwrap

and

the edges are frayed

and

the past

is

all

that

still

breathes.

and the past

might be

your (only) present.

and,

the nights are silent,

and

dark.

sometimes.

yes,

some seasons

are not

always

merry

and

bright.

i know.

but

we

keep

moving

and

clinging

to

the

hem

of the one

who heals.

so,

i carry this small flame

through

doorways

and

heart-spaces

and

i watch it

soften

the every-day

scratchiness

of the hallway

and

heart-ways.

ready

to welcome

anyone

who should knock,

seeking.

and,

tiny lights have done

this

deep

work,

forever.

this,

keeping the dark outside,

and

holding the night at bay.

bravely.

this little light of mine

flickers

and

sometimes,

fails,

but,

it fights.

oh,

it does.

turning fearful places

into

a place of hope,

high

on

top

of

a hill,

and

you can trust

that

your light

is still

enough.

enough

to

warm

hope

so broken

and

grief,

so fierce

it would rip the fabric

of

your

being.

but it won’t.

it won’t.

although it will try.

and

we will light

(our)

tiny flames

and

we

will

breathe

in,

and

out.

in.

and.

out.

until

we return

to where we

lost

the precious thing.

where we lost our hope,

and

in the end

we will

be ok.

our stories might be

broken,

but,

stories full of light,

always

end well.

just keep burning.

— this story, ends well.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Photograph by Inna Lesyk.

Amidst all the lovely chaos of family and Christmas preparations, some of us

get lost and get tired from trying

to hide sadness and grief.

Your story might have broken bits written into its chapters,

but hold on — stories full of light, always end well.

liezel