Poetry 116: Cleaning House

Cleaning House

For my dear friend S.

Cleaning House

I wake. 

As if from a dream (a nightmare)

in the middle of the night. 

The harsh wind swirls around me

pushing hard against my pale skin.

Is it cleaning me out?

Making room for the new. 

A whoosh.

A gush.

A tight panic in my chest 

as a tree limb breaks;

as the patio umbrella
is painfully yanked out
and blown across the lawn.

The sound is frightening and calming at once. 

God's own voracious lullaby.

Will the house I know be blown away?

Or, will I be swept up 

to the Emerald City?

Complete with mythological monsters

and all.

Yet,

crazy though it seems,

I want to stand
in the middle of the storm. 

I want to rid myself
of all that is un-wholly.

I make the decision. 

(Or the decision makes me.)

Alone,

I walk to the center of the earth
in prayer-

in devotion. 

I stop,

and stretch my whole body wide.

North. East. South. West. 

4 balanced points of intersection
with that which is real. 

Legs rooted, 

arms extended beyond my reach,

the sensation begins. 

A mighty rush of hot breath and air 

begins to build and blow through me-

I shake. 

I cry. 

I  am offered new life

as I let go 

of that which no longer serves me-

maybe it never did. 

Holding still-ness,

I squeeze my eyes shut 

and let the words of god

cross my lips. 

May you be safe

May you be happy. 

May you be peaceful. 

May you live with ease. 

May it be so.

-Me