more familiar
with the betweens
than with the origins
and destinations
and that, I suppose,
is the nature
of the journey we take –
a conglomeration
of moments framed
by first and last breaths,
by the hopeful fogs
of tomorrow’s mornings
and the dry silences
of last year’s gardens
© Sarah Whiteley
should they ask,
I have gone to blue,
I have gone to green stillnesses,
to the bright-lipped lake
where the reeds still recall
that the wanting is often
greater than ever the having,
and that some days the rift
is only the start
of a different-directioned journey
so should they ask,
I have gone back,
back to the tranquilities,
back to the waters as they were,
and as they may someday be
tell them I have gone to blue
© Sarah Whiteley
it was late November
when I drove toward Maine
I still hear how the wind
tore across the highway,
rattling doors and nearly
blowing that tired red Buick
into the frozen ditch
I had second, third – hell
sixth thoughts on the other
side of the state line,
but I kept right on –
forward was the only
way left even though
the pines all pointed
back the other direction
a body ought to listen
to things like weather
and the wind and when
either one isn’t at your back,
it might be that’s a sign
you should turn right around
and that just maybe somewhere
down around western Mass
a right instead of that left
might not have inflicted the kinds
of change that would alter the slant
of a year’s share of wakeful nights
but winter’s nothing way up there
if not a lesson, and my toes
nearly froze during that storm
when I tried to find my way
five miles on foot up that hill
to somewhere never home
through fourteen inches of snow
in flimsy shoes with branches
dropping shrapnel all around –
a few other things nearly
froze over, trust included,
and it’s a wonder I thawed
out at all and can carry on
as if it was nothing more
than a freak nor’easter moving
through or a turn in the wrong
direction against the wind’s advice
two hundred or so miles back
down east was the only place
I’ve ever had to lie to live
or pick a lock to save my own skin
five degrees below zero –
twenty minutes spent just chipping
at that ice to use a bent hanger –
something I used to think only
worked in the movies but prayed
to God it could be otherwise
in the end hope won out
and I fled west with a new
appreciation for thick soles
and the warnings pine trees
and a good strong wind
might heap at a vagrant’s feet
but these are the things
I don’t speak of
and thank-the-lord don’t often
think of, save now and again
when a freezing wind
rattles at my windows –
some frenzied remnant
fighting to be let back in
and sometimes –
the old familiar ice still
finds a way beneath the sill
© Sarah Whiteley
Know this is outside of my norm, but have been wanting to clean the cobwebs out of this particular closet for a while now. Wrote this years ago and never posted it as it never felt “right” – but have reached the moment when I’ll tweak and peck it at no more. And in return, it will tweak and peck at ME no more!
Five years ago today, one tiny little poem marked the beginning of ebbtide. Five years! Am I celebrating? Hell yes!
I am so grateful for the countless ways in which this little space on the internet has helped me – as an emotional outlet, a sounding board, a source of writerly camaraderie, and a place to celebrate beauty. There has been a (much-needed) sort of inner awakening in my life since I began this writing journey, and so many people have touched me through this medium that I can only hope I’ve been able to do a little of the same for others. So thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for five wonderful years!
Peace,
Sarah
If you’ve been with me for any length of time, you’ll know that one of the main reasons I began this blog was to rediscover my creative side – something I felt I had lost along the way. It’s been a journey. And as with any journey, sometimes you end up in a rather unexpected place. It’s all just part of the adventure, my friends.
Here’s where my journey has led me… the publication of my very first chapbook, No Direction But Home via ALL CAPS PUBLISHING.
I am two parts terrified, and two parts proud – but entirely ready for the adventure. No Direction But Home can be purchased here (or by clicking the picture above).
Want a signed copy? Use the Paypal button I’ve set up below – eventually I will add a page to the blog with access to this option as well. (Be sure to indicate who you would like it inscribed to!)
Also, go and check out ALL CAPS PUBLISHING – there are some fabulous authors ready for you to read and more on the way!
Thank you! thank you! thank you! to all of you for the support you’ve shown me over the past 4 1/2 years. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t in part for your kindness.
And a special thank you to Marian, who thought I was worthy.
Today marks an anniversary for me – one more than just about “blogging” – one much more meaningful. Today marks 2 years of not just wanting to reclaim myself, but of doing something about it.
Finding the courage to rediscover parts of who I used to be, and who I used to mourn no longer being, was a big step for me. And going back to writing was definitely a part of that.
Life isn’t perfect. In fact, far from it at the moment. And while there’s worry and anxiety on a daily basis these past few weeks, I have something more than I used to. In embracing myself, I’ve found such moments of absolute peace and clarity that even though I’m struggling with some big things right now, I’m happy. Part of me thinks I ought to be locked up just for saying that, but those moments of peace are a large part of what helps me to manage the day-to-day struggles right now. And I’m grateful.
Point is – today is more than an anniversary of this blog. It’s an anniversary of my SELF. And of embracing all that it entails. And loving every second of this journey of rediscovery – even the painful, messy bits (of which there are plenty).
So blessings to all who have come and gone through these pages, whether you’ve left your mark or not. You were all a part of the process. And I thank you.
Now as a treat, my cohort in crime, my traveling companion, my ever faithful confidante – my sweet, sweet girl, Freyja.
it begins with a walk
through sweet bee fields
between trees that speak
of mornings beneath
the mountain’s gaze
left far behind
when the wanderer
became the lost
it starts with the tread
of regretful soles
along the streams
where the northern birch
drink the day
and point the way
through the pass
passed by
what feels like
so very long ago
walk soft by the step
where the stone cat rests
keeping her watch
over discarded gardens
where it began with a walk
from the sweet bee fields
from the trees that breathe
an entreaty of home
© Sarah Whiteley
dust off the trail
and waken the winds
bend back the grasses
and point the birds
flying home
unpack the sky
and cast the stars
across the plain
retrace those lines
of our goodbye
leave today
for the beggars
and tomorrow
for the young
it’s yesterday’s gold
that shines
like the dawn
pull out the map
creased and torn
and follow the road
where we’ve
been and gone
follow the path
all the way home
© Sarah Whiteley
for just today then
let’s pretend
my feet have found
the homeward running road
weaving between heart-lands
wide mind-skies
just for a moment
I’ll imagine
the weight of waiting
has evaporated
in the hesitant light
of a newly waking sun
casting my shadow before
long with longing
for a small spell
I will dream
this distance
has become
a beginning
beginning now
the start of the heart
thundering home
for a few breaths
I’ll breathe the peace
of knowing
which way my road goes
which shining horizon
holds home
in which direction
lies reason for hope
ebbtide 