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Turning Towards

October 30, 2014


No matter how many times we shed,

no matter how far and wide the heart has soared,

no matter how deeply the body remembers

the galloping hooves of our own horse of freedom,

there are days when we look in the mirror

and see grief, shell shock, the fingers of time

working this face like clay.

There are days we forget our own true name.

The tears come as medicine~

our open hands invite rain, truth, nectar. 


Impermanence topples

all the dreams, even the beautiful ones.

When the bottom falls out

when the foundation shifts

when the seismic quake rolls through

we know we are no-thing

that can be counted,

that death lives with us

in every breath, that the self

is a blessed vessel cracked with starlight.


And how is it 

that just as I release my grip,

just as I surrender to this emptiness,

a sea bird flies in and begins to build a nest,

one stick at a time, in the center of my chest?

Soon there are brilliant jade eggs!

How is this so?


How miraculous that feeling,

sensation, all that is unbearable

swells like a tidal wave~terrifying,

and then washes through like balm

when we turn towards it.

Our willingness is all that is asked~

to allow for our own radical vulnerability,

to tend to what is born here

in the heart of the heart of the heart.


©Laura Weaver

*this post first appeared on

One Comment leave one →
  1. November 3, 2014 4:47 pm

    This poem spoke to me on a very deep level, Laura — I can remember exactly what it feels like when the sea bird flies in and begins to build a nest. Hope, light, and peace do rush in!

    Thank you!!

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