Sister Story

You ask me how I do it
The children, the jobs,
the studies, the poetry,
and the garden.

I simply place them neatly in rows,
balance them gently on top
of each other
like stones
on a rocky path
up a mountain
pointing the way
to where the view
might take my breath away.

A Sister once told me
that this journey is about putting one foot
in front of the other
in the fog and blizzard,
in rain and in the threatening anger of lighting
and the sound of thunder.

“All of it” she said
“makes you want to descend—
go back to the place from which you have come
looking in desperation for shelter and comfort.”
The uncertainty of darkness
and the cold of alone
will make you shake and cough
and cry out in a fearful Where am I?
Who am I? but we women know now
that there is no turning back.

“Listen to the birds” she said.
They will lift your heart with their chirps
and the fluttering of their wings in the small branches
nearest the path. These announcements of hope
will be everywhere if
you erase the doors of disbelief
from your ears.

If you step forward with the remainder of your courage
that you carry in your belly like a treasure

One day you will you will bump against
the wall of the fortress of your future.

Sister, you placed your hands on me
embraced that busy place of disappearing
day after day
up the steep path
and I am gone.
Free with my burdens.
Joyful at the load of work
and released to make my way
toward that strong wall
above the tree line,
above the cloud banks.


I don’t need to practice
or have you point to the next path.
You have already shown me the way home
and I am singing my way there.