1. |
come sit by my garden
03:01
|
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let my gardens speak for me when i am gone. let them speak in colored whispers of all the beauty i have seen. and felt. and lived. let them speak of how much death had to find me; how many hard seasons it took to make me a living, breathing thing. let them speak of my seasons of growth and abundance but let them also tell of my seasons of loss and decay. let the soft, wet earth be a reminder of hardness that didn’t win. of sadness that didn’t calcify. of surrender that triumphed over resistance. and let the glorious, fragrant blooms speak of my life and its greatest lesson: that the beauty we make never dies.
// come sit by my garden
|
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2. |
||||
what will become of this story
inside my chest?
will i excavate it from my bones
give it light
and water
and air?
let it bloom into
a garden of flowers
in your name?
or will i let it stay
and let you
bury me?
this is the question
i am always asking myself:
what will become of my stories –
gardens
or
graveyards?
// the photosynthesis of healing
|
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3. |
mothers
03:01
|
|||
there are millions of mothers
that live inside my chest.
i speak to them in quiet moments
under night skies
and in my dreams.
we are the keepers of a forest full of hearts.
the tenders of its fertile soil
the readers of its leaves
the guardians of its wild territory.
sometimes,
we dance together
drunk on the perfume of
a thousand blossoms of love.
sometimes,
we rub honey on our ribs,
broken from a thousand lifetimes
of heartbreak.
sometimes
we rest
and forget the weight we carry,
just for a moment.
i meet these mothers in secret
but they teach me everything i know.
// mothers
|
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4. |
summer bones
02:00
|
|||
i was born
in a soft summer
rain.
i am most
in-season
when the sun is
high
and warm.
when the day is
long.
when the peaches
are ripe.
when the soil is
soft
and forgiving.
my body
is a house
of flowers –
i am most fragrant
in june.
// summer bones
|
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5. |
birth
02:36
|
|||
you built a life. under ten moons, you were a house of water. you held a second heart in the arms of your rib cage, dreamed two sets of dreams. merged the rivers of your bloodlines under your skin. and then, in the early hours of a spring morning, i watched a piece of you leave, swallowed in the pain of your shattering. you broke, and the rains of new life poured out of you.
you are now the mother of that dawning ground. the guardian of its soil. the mender of its aching. the gardener of its joy. this is your work now.
you were born in your dying. you were delivered to a new life as you birthed one into existence.
you are utter magic.
building that mountain.
// birth
|
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6. |
||||
make peace
with all the women
you once were.
lay flowers
at their feet.
offer them incense
and honey
and forgiveness.
honor them
and give them
your silence.
listen.
bless them
and let them be.
for they are the bones
of the temple
you sit in now.
for they are
the rivers
of wisdom
leading you toward
the sea.
// i have been a thousand different women
|
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7. |
wild
01:59
|
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let the wilderness in.
grow a forest for a heart.
make your very blood
a salve
of pine
and open sky.
be the air
that birds come to sing in.
the water
that even rivers seek.
// wild
|
||||
8. |
impermanence
01:55
|
|||
i watch pilgrims
offer flowers
to the river.
the flowers become
the river.
the river
becomes
flowers.
they both
float away.
// impermanence
|
Trevor Hall Los Angeles, California
Trevor Hall and The Great In-Between. the new chapter. out now.
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