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The First Dialogue:

I speak:

The belly swole with hands and clay

with blueprints and paints and daydream

first-books and night-lights

     all this articulation and song

     all formation ex-nihilo

     mounting like clouds

     about to give way their wealth


like a gray hand at the tip of a roof

heavy and never

drops down window panes


or poised at the mouth of a bony river

but never plump ripples

or broadening shores


just hope, about to touch the ground

her tiptoe never quite reaching


He speaks:

don’t you think it about time

the earth shook?

That water find its way through the creekbed

That we escape almost, and begin spirit


You’ll never be happy

suspended that way over the water

dreaming the taste of salt

pressed against the bars of soon




Let’s birth a new harvest

a fountain of motion

roll out green at our feet

stilt up trees

uncork our lungs and let the sky in


When I was in grad school, poetry was my lifeline, a snorkel that kept me from drowning. It bubbled out of me—all the darkness and trauma and love and fears and longing. I’d say it was the first step in connecting my inner world to the outer.


I’ve spent the vast majority of my life cultivating a rich inner life. Daydreaming, reading, processing, praying, thinking, feeling. It’s been my safe space throughout the years.


When I got my MFA in Poetry it was like my soul had gotten too full. It was spilling out in words all over the place–involuntary, raw, relieving.


There’s a quote I’ve come to deeply identify with in the last couple years by Sandra Cisneros,


“My weapon has

always been language,

and I’ve always used

it, but it has changed.

instead of shaping the

words like knives now,

I think they’re flowers,

or bridges.”


Those compulsory poems stopped after graduation and I didn’t quite understand my relationship to language, I had only known poetry as a spiling of darkness and not a cultivation of joy. I was still on a journey to connect my inner and outer worlds but used painting, collaging, and eventually created Lavish Community.


I’m sharing this poem today because it represents the Lord’s gentle call forward into more.


I haven’t told many people this but this last year the Lord called me to be on a sabbatical–no full time work and a focus on rest. 


My sabbatical officially ended on the one year anniversary of the Lavish Dinner (this last Saturday, May 11th). Looking back, while the journey was uncomfortable at times, it also feels like THE most lavish gift I’ve ever received. The three years prior to this rest were the hardest of my life–specifically because I was in intensive therapy processing grief and trauma. The Lord invited me to be taken care of by Him for an entire year–to sleep late, cook, take walks, journal, paint, drink tea. He wasn’t concerned with what I was producing, how much spiritual progress I was charting, what I was learning–He was focused on my heart.


My husband and I have laughed often because I based Lavish Community on the concept that God’s immense love covers us when we have nothing to offer Him. He used this year to teach me everything I was trying to teach others, but didn’t believe for myself. The grace of this rocks me.


Now I stand on the threshold of a new season and mostly what I feel is…gratitude. I believe this rest in his perfect safety and love has finally knit together my inner and outer worlds. I believe this rich inner life he has gifted me with will be a gift to the world. For the first time in my life I feel ready to pour out and know that He’ll fill me as I do. I feel abundance, overflow. I feel seen, loved, ready. The poem in this post is not made of knives but bridges and flowers, the first of many I hope.

Is it the Velveteen Rabbit that says you become real by loving? Let this be a season of becoming real.