Remembrance Dawns

Early morning rain; 
creates soft, gentle light, and
I am reminded how still 
you are,
offering up 
your warm lap. 
Ever here, 

you sing "Come,
come, rest your constant
worries and need for doing.
Snuggle your cheek 
against my chest. I will 
tell you stories
of the many ways
I've loved you 
since before time." 


- Carol Barrow, July, 2017

And We Danced

We moved most of the furniture out of our living room and into our screened-in porch, rolled up the rug, hiding it in the garage. We looked through all of the music Michael has collected, and chose the best dance songs, trying to cover varied tastes. We had already sent the invitations. They carried this quote: 

"While I dance I can not judge, I can not hate, I can not separate myself from life.  I can only be joyful and whole. 

This is why I dance." 

- Hans Bos

Then, some of the most glorious people on the planet showed up. And we danced. We could not judge or hate or separate ourselves from life. We could only be joyful and whole.

It was beautiful.

Starstruck

With sticky, putty-like stuff, I stuck glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling above my bed. A year or so ago, I had bought these stars for a creative endeavor, but my idea hadn't worked out. Last week I decided I either needed to throw them away or put them on the bedroom ceiling.

At night I look at these stars and wish that I was motivated enough to stand on the bed and move some of them. That one would look better over there. I don't like the pattern those four make. But I don't get up. I leave the stars where they are. I could form a constellation with them, but I'm not all that interested in that. I wonder if God debated the location of each of his stars.

I remember waking during the first night of my first wilderness quest. Alone out in the silent desert, I looked up at the bits of light strewn across the immense night sky, and I wept. Until that moment, I hadn't realized how much ceilings, windows and walls separated me from life. As I took in the silent hugeness of the night, I remembered who I was — a creature connected to all life. I wept in sadness for all the years of forgetting, and in gratitude for that moment of remembering.

My last quest was in 2011, and I have not slept outside since. The stars above my bed, though a fun addition to a blank ceiling, have no depth, no life. They don't inspire awe. I sleep surrounded by walls and windows, under a roof that holds in the heat. We animals are not made for this.

Excuse me. It's dark out, and though the city lights remove all but the brightest of stars from my view, I think I need to go listen to the night sky and, once again, remember my place in this universe.

Singing Beauty

Songbird sings its wake up song 

outside my window the morning

after news reports informed the world

that we had bombed a country whose

refugees we refuse. Do we dare

sing our song when so many 

suffer? Yes, we sing beauty 

even more, like a mother 

tenderly soothing her sick child.

Carol Barrow

April, 2017

innocence

child-like joyful innocence
hides beneath the storied 
costumes of adult, soldier, politician.
we get caught up in our stories

and forget what is real.
all there is, is This,
right now, woman types
on keyboard, furnace hums 
its song, words are read,
thoughts are thought

innocence loves this moment
stories want more
more excitement
more purpose
more attention
more gadgets
more friends
more comforts
more
more 
more

child-like joyful innocence
hides beneath the storied costumes.
let's undress and dance
see? we're safe 
and huge 
and free



Carol Barrow
March, 2018

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