Knee Deep in Change of the Same Old Thing September 28, 2019

To say

Amy Lynn Reifsnyder

 

Not much to say

Too much to say

I’ve sung this song before and before and before and before

And yet this time… like last time… this is where  I draw the line

Not this time like last time

I am done drawing lines

Every time I do the earth shifts its shoulders and the line moves

Waves in motion and I am no where near the shore

Tired

Boxed up

Surrounded by chaos

You chose the city and you feel the same way

I chose the highway the beach the mountains the ocean the desert and I feel

Too much to say

Your silence says it all

But still I miss you

Coming Home September 22, 2019

Grace Cottage
Autumn Equinox 2019
Amy Lynn Reifsnyder

for Morgen, Duncan, Maeda, Hannah, Glorianna, Nala, Elliott, WOL, Mr. Louis, Grace, Jasmine, and all the miles between us.
Happy Birthday, Kim, wherever you are.

Grace Cottage, Autumn Equinox, 2019

I’d like to tell you what happened, but when I begin to speak, I also begin to cry.
My brokenself is finding its way to healing
Because I stopped to see the ancient lava flow on my away from bridges I thought were burned
And were
And were rebuilt
Because she wanted to say good-bye and I wanted to say hello and the road between us finally merged like the highway lines a way in the distance.
Blood, tears, death, destruction, and a phone call from Mom – and the New Year began among friends and family and distance away from my dreams.
Two months of walking around in circles and finally, the walls fell down – Joshua and Jericho and trumpet swans
And aliens. Don’t forget the Aliens. Aliens from Out There, from Down There, from I Don’t Know Where I Belong
Aliens.
So I came back.
Again, I tell you, there is no such thing as death. Lava becomes yucca becomes pollen becomes hummingbirds who come to my bandana to bless my head my face with the whirring of many wings.
But there is no such thing as Death.
Walter said hello and welcomed me into his failing arms. I could stay until the rains began and then even Walter, Aunt Jane and Uncle Bob’s ‘Water’, let go and I am on my way away – again – into onto part of a Circle
This one leads me to a cottage remains of a woman I would have loved.
My furniture is already there – the table I left in Pennsylvania; the dressers I left in Massachusetts; the clock from my Aunt Shirley; the glassware of my mother; the antique ware I left with my marriage.
It’s already there. Quilts. Crafts. Even a treadle.
I am in this house as if the woman who lived there before me gathered the broken abandoned pieces of my life and stored them under her roof, in her heart, until I found my way home.
The Holy Mother I pray to. The Woman I knew as Libby, Florence, Louise, Shirley, Mom.
And Michael – you know, the Archangel? Grace – You know about Grace, right?
And then this house is mine. Dirt. Dust. Antiques. Projects. A yard. A garden. A home.
Because I know a woman who prays. And a woman who loves. And a woman who wondered if she could come to visit her family in my house.
The house I will move to next month. Next week. Next time. This time I have found a home, and it is between the mountains and the desert, under a sacred Southwest sky.
Come. Lookit. This. Here. Come. Welcome Home.