Seven and a Half Hours

My eyes open slowly to the day's sun. I look at the clock.

6:10 a.m. My last memory slowly arrives. I was turning off the light.

10:40 p.m.           Where have I been for the last seven and a half hours?

This body was resting in bed, eyes closed, brain for the most part

turned off. That is what I've been told.

I can't prove it.     Where have I been for the past seven and a half hours?

As far as I'm concerned. I have not been. I have not been

anything. Between lamp and sun, there was no I. In no

I, I rested.        But if there was no I, what was there to rest?

This body, surely.

And the need to be someone. This

is the lusciousness offered in sleep: we give up,

we surrender, and our thoughts of selfness vanish. This

is the lusciousness offered when we shed our roles and walk

naked into the day, welcoming without opinion

all that comes.

Carol Barrow

March, 2017

Imaginations

What is "past"?
Can I find "future"?
I look at You 
in the golden morning light, Your 
silent stillness in which 
waking bird songs sing, 
distant traffic hums, 
a dog yells "wake up!"
This now-ness is alive;
There is nothing else. 
Your immediacy opens each moment 
like a rose,
like this breath 
giving way to 
this one, 
now to this one.
Ahhhh...
We are so here, 
together, 
now.
I can't find time 
for imaginations of 
things 
that 
don't 
exist.


Carol Barrow
March, 2017

First Thing in the Morning

I listen.
I listen and wait.
                      I wait.

Silence welcomes day's first light
lapping at my bedroom window.

Skin nests into soft sheets, blanket's weight
snuggles the curve of my back.

Air generously offers itself to every breath
and caresses my cool cheeks.
A thought comes, followed by another.

I remember to listen.
I listen and wait.
Listening listens.
Waiting waits.

Heart beats,
breath breathes.

You are the stillness 
                   inside me, 
                        around me.
I am newly born.

I love these quiet moments with you.


Carol Barrow
March, 2017

Missing You

He was my first love. A skinny, long-haired guy who I dated throughout my junior and senior years of high school. For the last forty-four years neither I nor anyone I knew had any idea whether or not he was even still alive. But last summer he found me on Facebook, and a couple of weeks ago we met for lunch. Over the two hours we spent together, I felt like I found some missing pieces of myself. Still, forty-four years changes things, and if it weren't for common memories, I would have sworn I was meeting a stranger. He had grown up, carrying a responsible position in a large corporation for more than three decades. He was confident. A man.

The "letter" below is written to the beloved who was once my long-haired boyfriend. It's written to the loss of innocence and youth, And it's written to the Beloved who shows up as boyfriends, girlfriends, grown-ups, trees, the sky, everything. So often we forget Who it is that stands right in front of us.

Dear Beloved,

Where were you when I showed up at the deli according to our plans? A nice-looking man told me he was you, but I wasn't sure I should believe him. He was much older than I had imagined, didn't have the mannerisms I expected. Still, I decided to stay and chat. He was friendly. And kind. A lot like you.

We talked for two hours and shared memories that no one else could know. Did you school him on our past? I swear there were times when a familiar look in his brown eyes made me feel at home, and I considered the possibility that the person before me was you wearing him as a disguise. 

With one last bit of hope, I searched for you in the touch of this stranger as we hugged goodbye. I truly wanted to believe it was you. I put my arms around him, breathed in his scent, and felt his cheek next to mine. But my senses found nothing familiar. I had been right all along. You were not there.

I'm grateful you sent such a kind and generous representative. That was a sweet tease. But the next time we make plans, I hope it will be you who shows up. I miss you so much.

Love

Carol

That Might Keep Us Very Busy

A man yells "Get out of my country" before he kills
his brother wearing skin a different shade.
A witness tries to stop him, acts so unafraid
we call him hero,
though he says he did what anyone would do.

I say his act was love.

I say let's spread love by naming it.

Love keeps drivers in their lanes, calls 911
when mistakes are made. Love adopts
the child loved enough to be let go. It flies the sparrow,
grows the corn, and rains the reservoirs full.

Love is a wind clearing the air, promises
kept, an old woman's prayer. Love
is the sun and the quiet of night. Love
for a country can lead one to fight those
who love peace and basic human rights.

I'm not saying it's easy to find love
in the man yelling poison, or the senator
erasing rights of young girls and boys; I'm
just saying as long as we're keeping score,
dividing our lives into what is good
and what's abhorred, let's play fair
and spend our days noticing
all the love that comes our way.

Let's spread love by naming it.

That might keep us very busy.



Carol Barrow
March, 2017

Waking Up

Realizing that sharing my daily writings here means that some readers receive an email each day, I have decided that after today, I will reduce my postings to two or three times a week. I hope the daily emails haven't been too much.





I am frightened.
The days feel darker than 
this February weather.
Questioning if I am enough
for the challenges before me,
I tell you my troubles,
my worries, 
my fears — you 
are so kind to listen like this.

My stories fall through you
like snowflakes through air, melting
into the warmth of your bosom. 
You don't see my problems, but 
you hold me, anyway, 
singing sunshine songs
to wake me up.



Carol Barrow
February, 2017