Spread Your Light

 

Spread Your Light


You are amazing.
You stand
splendid and strong,
rooted and reliable,
majestic and magical.
You weather so much,
shed layers when necessary,
let debris tumble or slide away
and land where it may.
Sometimes storms ravage,
other times rains gently cleanse.
You are simply in
whatever is.
Best of all,
you quietly allow light
to enfold your nooks and crannies,
embrace every part of your
uniqueness.
At the very same time,
you spread your light,
the beauty of you,
 to all who take time
 to behold
and reflect.
A stately, steady reminder
 to allow the light in,
let the light out,
enjoy moments when
 the circuit
is complete.

Sarah Carlson

September 11, 2020

A Subtle Shift

 Though I don't know what it's like to be in a pandemic with someone at my side, I think it's important to recognize how tiring and stressful it can be to do it mostly alone. For me, it's the recognition of moments like the ones below that make a difference in being able to continue to find my way through this odd time. Thank you to anyone who finds their way here for a look and a listen. And - if you know people who do live alone, don't hesitate to just give a call and hang out for a bit...:)

A Subtle Shift

With deep, clear breaths
there’s the potential to slide into
a slightly different tempo.
A subtle shift
that can feel so very good.
Like pedaling up a steep incline,
reaching a tableland,
slipping into that just-right gear
for cruising with easy freedom.
Or walking on a sunny beach
accompanied by ocean rhythms,
salty breezes,
playful shadow,
whole body smile
on board.
Or playing with words on a page
as a means to reflect,
transmute
wounds to wellness
concussive jolts to life lessons,
trauma to benefit.
Deep breaths
again and again and again
whenever, wherever there is a need.
Reminders to appreciate
the pauses that present,
gratefully gather
the pleasure of such moments that,
even in the tension
of experiencing a pandemic
largely solo,
are there for one
to behold.
 

Sarah Carlson

August 28, 2020

Ocean Dance

Ocean Dance

Feet sink into soft sand
 partnered with a sense of solidity.
Slowly she scans the ocean,
allows her body to suspend
in its salty embrace.
Every part of her held,
  awareness wide,
she is at once
 here, there,
 everywhere.
She surveys the surface
more closely,
watches the interplay
 of wind and waves and light,
gently adjusts
to the cadence of immersion.
At times she ducks her head,
dives into the cresting whiteness.
At others she turns her back,
braces for impact,
embodies her innate strength and wisdom.
During the in-betweens
she relaxes ever more deeply into grace,
enjoys the absence of fear.
Soaking in the Divinity of it all,
she turns herself over to
the healing power
of this salty dance,
frolics with a fresh, vibrant
awareness of inclusion.
 

Sarah Carlson

August 26, 2020

Thank You ...

Thank You…

Hummingbird hovers by my kitchen window
as I attend to multi-faceted details
of my mother’s estate.
I smile, unease settles
with remembering how she loved to
feed the birds in Waterville, at Sugarloaf,
 by the lake.
Thank you, Mom.
Dragonfly lands next to my hand
as I rest by a rock
 during a morning swim,
Memories stir of learning to row, sail,
navigate Great Pond
from my father,
dragonflies our welcome companions.
Thank you, Dad.
Morning breeze wafts through a window,
caresses my face
in moments of healing.
The same room where I noticed the breeze
and listened to the contented breath
of my soulmate
that last morning so long ago.
Thank you, Barry.
Sureness strengthens as I walk away
from my childhood home
without any need to look back.
I can hear my brother’s words,
“It’s not yours to carry, Sarah.
It’s okay.
 Let go.”
Thank you, Geof.
Serendipitous winged one
visits near my deck.
I’m distracted, but Hawk makes sure
that I look up,
appreciate such moments
as I more and more let go fears
that were not, are not mine.
It is safe and good and right
to feel the fullness of me,
the divine nature of breath.
Thank you, Hawk.
Thank you…

Sarah Carlson

August 21, 2020

The Closing, The Opening

 

This is a gift from a kindhearted, sensitive, deep thinking student of a few years back. It's one that I cherish and that helped me in processing what I write about below. I again write with deep empathy for all who are in the field of education right now and with gratitude that I could step out, take a pause.

 

The Closing, The Opening

The best teachers teach from the heart.
I know that to be true and now,
as I adjust to retirement,
I can more clearly
honor that within myself.
Not only did I teach from there,
I live from there, too.
Most teachers I know do.
We are not just bodies in a room,
though it seems, especially now,
that can be how we are treated, thought of.
Yesterday I closed on the sale
of my childhood home.
After the closing I went to order
a headstone for my mom
that will match the Veteran’s stone
that my dad wanted for his grave.
The love of a daughter,
of this human,
was front and center all day long.
And that love, included me.
When I returned to my own home,
my place of refuge,
I was greeted with
what felt like a coldhearted letter
from the school district
where I have worked for over 30 years.
It informed me that my retirement letter,
written with care several weeks ago,
had been received,
with reminders to make sure
I turn in any school property
(which I already had),
and that my school email
will be deactivated so I should
‘plan accordingly’.
I will admit that I had
 fleeting moments of sadness,
which were gently replaced by
 gratitude for my ability to teach,
recognition of my giving and receiving,
peace with my decision.
The closing of a home,
the closing of a career,
the opening of possibilities,
to places and spaces where I will not be
just a body in a room.
Thank you, Sarah,
for teaching from your heart.
 

Sarah Carlson

August 15, 2020

 

Pause

 

I feel so grateful to be in a place, at a time in my life where I can choose to step back and away from the world of education. But, it's not at all an easy thing to do for one who truly loves to teach. One of the things that has crystallized for me is how very empathetic I am by nature. I'm feeling so much for all those I do know, all those I don't, who are struggling with what is happening in and about schools right now. 

For me, experiencing remote learning largely solo was tough... and exciting. It was a time when it seemed like education could change. A time when we could have reevaluated, re-imagined, reworked. Through those difficult days ran threads of hope and promise. Amazing things happened that could have been celebrated and woven into how to move ahead. And, perhaps that will still happen. I tend to be one who hangs on to hope. But, it feels to me as if it's more that educators are being asked to revert to all that was and try to make this totally new and extremely challenging situation fit into the structures that were. It is so very troubling that opportunities are being lost due to that having to try and fit. This is not meant to cast blame. I just feel the need to put voice to what it has been like to be in the trenches from one who just climbed out.

A month or so into it all, my mother died. My story is just one among many of educators who dealt with personal challenges while finding new and creative ways to stay connected or reconnect with our students. That should be celebrated, too.

I wish the world of education could have reaped the benefits of the powerful pause that was thrust upon us. And right now, I just needed to write this as a reminder... to allow comfort with the pause that I chose for my self.

 

Pause 

 

Smooth waters slide
softly along her body
as a morning swim
revitalizes her being.
Genial clouds roll across familiar hills,
reflect in the pristine lake
that holds her body afloat.
She welcomes the enlivening
brought about by
physical momentum
in such a beautiful place.
At the very same time
she notices an underlying fatigue
that wends its way in

without clear patterns.
A sort of fuzziness
within which she can’t seem
to find clarity.
She takes a breath,
settles in once again
to the in-between.
Ah, there it is –
the suspension,
the pause.
Right there, right then
she gets it.
She doesn’t have to know
why or when or how or what.
She can miss their presence,

  feel whatever goes along with that.
She can honor her own courage
and tenacity and accomplishment.
She can allow guilt
 and wrongness and doubt
to let go.
She can and should simply,
at least for now,
 let the pause be.

Sarah Carlson

August 11, 2020

In the Depths of You

I took this picture on July 1, 2020. I remember that because it was the day after what would have been my 41st wedding anniversary. It was also the day after my childhood home was listed for sale.

Taken during a morning swim when the sky opened up, I remember that I got the giggles because the up-drops tickled my nose. I also felt a sense of connection, which I often get when I'm near or in water. Delight, peace, oneness, and gratitude all at once.

Later that day I crashed on that slippery bridge while mountain biking and, though definitely improving, I'm still recovering. I think back to that day often as it contained so much and, truly, the time on the bridge and all I've learned from it has been life changing... including making the very difficult decision to retire from teaching.

I heard two important ideas this week as part of my healing. One came from my osteopath and the other from my spiritual director. They are the idea of inherent Divinity and the fact that some of my early childhood experiences, especially in church, were like concussions to my soul. And, my recent concussion is teaching me that it truly does take time to heal and that rest is important. I'm so used to forging ahead. Though I'm still adjusting, it does feel good to have the time to rest.

This piece is from me to me. Good ol' Coach Carlson kicking in. But, maybe readers will find their own coaching within the message.

In the Depths of You

You’re no stranger to grief.
Widowed at 45,
you’ve slowly adjusted to that shock
 with both grit and grace.
Maybe you wish you’d done a few things differently
after he died,
but that’s because you now have the wisdom
that comes with being 63
and from exploring your inner landscape,
courage, vigor, hope
ever present.
You thought you had mourned the loss
of your only brother so very long ago
and your father after that.
You understand the reasons
why there’s more to do
because now you’ve lost
your intrepid, complex mother, too.
And you’ve cleaned out the house
where so very much happened,
found evidence of joys and sorrows,
confusion and clarity,
separateness and connection
from each phase of your childhood.
And then, of course,
there’s the fact that you reluctantly
retired from a vocation that you love,
one that kept you grounded
through so very much.
So when they come,
those tears that burble and trickle,
or rush and gush,
or take your breath away
 just before they erupt
from your depths,
it’s okay.
Sit with them,
learn from them,
let them soothe and soften
as body and soul revive.
There’s nothing wrong
in admitting to fatigue.
Allow yourself to rest, renew, mend.
You will keep finding what fits your now
as you continue to twist the lens,

recognize and embrace
the Divinity that also resides
in the depths of you.

Sarah Carlson

August 2, 2020

Celestial Energy

Celestial Energy

She lays back,

feels the warmth of the sun

on her aching body.

She notices a healing energy

making its way all around

and through,

particularly in her hips

and core.

She absorbs, connects,

feels her fluidity rearrange.

At the very same time she wonders

how it can be true,

this sense of openness

and freedom from suffering,

even as discomfort is present.

Slowly she realizes that this

is yet another twist of the lens.

Just because one has been wounded,

witnessed and felt suffering,

learned to take on the distress of others

does not mean that is how it must be.

Her profound

sense of unity with the sun

is true and real.

As the pain from injuries sustained

in her tumble on the bridge

once again gains footing,

 she understands that,

though it is valid,

she doesn't have to allow

perceptions anchored in her past

to be in play.

In fact,

she can use this experience

to continue to dilute their strength

more and more and more.

She smiles with a knowing that

all vessels below have opportunities

to connect with,

reflect on

celestial energy from above.

It's right there all the time.

She feels so grateful

for another lesson learned

along her way.

Sarah Carlson

July 30, 2020

Novel Ways to Shine

Sunrise over Lower Shin Pond, Maine - July 20, 2020

Novel Ways to Shine

Evening waves lap onto shore
as loon calls echo.
Bullfrogs engage in deep debate
as I slowly settle
into night’s slumber.

Morning light seeps ever so quietly
over the now-still pond,
rocky sentinel peeks
from behind and above

 flowy clouds.
My eyes open,
heart soon follows,
mind drifts
to the decision of yesterday.
Only a day,
and I awaken to such newness.
I walk to the dock,
sit, watch the changing scene unfold.
I breathe… deeply,
allow it all in,
all out.
I feel the truth of me expand,
with a knowing that I did the right thing,
difficult though it was.
My own light will not diminish
because I had to let go –
for me.
In fact, I do believe that,
just as the sun makes is way
into each uniquely new day
and morning light widens,
 I will find
novel ways to shine.

Sarah Carlson

July 20, 2020

The Familiar is Gone

The poem above was a gift from one of my amazing students the year before last. It's been hanging in my home since then. Yesterday, as I was contemplating what I've been hearing and reading about my profession, it begged my attention. I'm pretty sure that moment happened as I watched a press conference about moving toward in person instruction that was being held virtually.
You see, I've been slowly and reluctantly moving toward sending in my retirement letter. This wonderful child's words helped me see why, in part, that has been so very difficult.
I'm not really ready to stop teaching. I love what I do and, as I read this, I realized a large part of my hesitancy is that I don't want that spark to diminish. The fact that she noticed and reflected it back to me is/was such a gift. It warmed my heart in so many ways. And she knew that. That's the beauty of teaching from the heart. The connections, the time shared, the lives touched - including your own.
Reading this also helped me see that there are other ways that I can connect. I have boxes and boxes of my second book that need a home. My spark is in them, too. And, I think my own radiance will find other ways to shine through. I'm going to have to trust in that.
I wrote the following words yesterday as a Facebook post and am including them here because they have resonated with many people in my beloved profession. My heart is with them and all teachers who are faced with decisions being made right now that deeply affect their well being.

I keep hearing about how well the state of Maine is doing (which is wonderful) and how we must stay the course, so to speak. How important it is that we are using masks, maintaining distance. How there are wildfires burning in so many other states and how those fires can infiltrate our state within a matter of days. At the same time I, a veteran teacher, hear about how important it is that we get back to in person instruction. That part of that will be a need to check the metrics every so often. 'So often' being undefined at this point. And then I wonder these things:

Do the people making the decisions about in person teaching realize how many teachers are out here wondering how in the world that can even be being considered - because of those wildfires? Teachers who care and would love to be with kids, but, really... with the fires???

Do they know how incredibly stressful teaching had become - before COVID-19? I say that as a fact, not a complaint. I actually love finding ways to help and connect with amazing beings I work with each year. But things have changed a lot... and now...

Have the policy makers really stopped to think about the implications of layering the stress of the many uncertainties that COVID-19 brings on top of the aforementioned stressors?

Are they fully aware that everyone in education - students, teachers, and absolutely everyone else - suffered varied levels of trauma last spring? That some of us have dealt with our trauma, while others have not had the time or the support or the chance?

Do they understand that for some of us the last time we were touched by another human being might have been a hug from a student as the day ended on Friday, March 13th?

That we've been maintaining physical distance since then?

And now you want us to be immersed in people? With wildfires burning all around?

Can you really imagine being in say, a fourth grade classroom, with any number of students who may have fearfully ridden a bus to school and then will be meeting someone who is behind a mask and can't come near them? Though teachers will do all we can to make students feel welcome and safe - how can that truly happen with those wildfires a part of our lives right now? I value truth with my students - from me to them and from them to me. How can I truly make them feel safe when no one really knows if it will be?

How is it that we are in the middle of July and we have no clear direction? I know there are lots of unknowns, but seriously why do we keep hearing such mixed messages...

We're doing great.

It's still dangerous.

Keep your distance, stay home.

We'll keep meeting virtually, but we need you to be in school ASAP.

Why haven't we looked at other alternatives like being outdoors, talking about what really did work during remote teaching, how we could connect with our new students in a staggered schedule outside to get to know each other at a distance and then go remote until we know what really is the truth about safety?

Why are we constantly inundated with the message that schools need to OPEN when we really didn't close? I know that I was more wide open than I have ever been. Once I felt safe at home, after the week or so of knowing that change was coming, something bad was happening - I, like so many teachers, opened up to brand new ways of doing the job I thought I already knew how to do, but had to reinvent. I didn't miss a beat. Well, maybe one or two. But it didn't take long to get creative and dive into making things work. I just don't know how I could make in person work just now. And I (again like most teachers I know) am pretty darn good at making things work. But.. the fires are burning and probably will be for some time.

The familiar is gone. It cannot, will not be the way it was. Why is that truth being overlooked?

Why?

Above

View from Casco Bay Trail, Wolfe Neck Woods State Park, Maine

Those moments on the bridge (see In Between) continue to teach.

Above

When I fell on that bridge
and could not go on,
it was life changing.
Like that bridge,
I’ve borne a load without question.

That day, those moments
on the bridge with my friend
opened me up
ever more deeply to me.

I’m realizing now
 that my span is magical, too.
In pain, dizzy, breathless, unsure –
 somehow I had a sense
 of being above.
I knew there was more to it
than just the fall.
Both in the midst and
above the fray once again.
My body let me know
 that I simply had to sit, wait,
let the in between be.
I needed that lesson.
As the pain of my injuries slowly subsides,
I realize once more
 the things that matter
are not that complicated,
 come naturally if we let them.
Love, Health, Connection,
Empathy, Trust, Peace.
All part of our make-up,
marvels of engineering that we are.
More evidence that in stopping
there is movement.
Like soft summer clouds
above gentle ocean waves,
accompanied by the whisper of a breeze
in evergreen trees,
there is a freshening
to being neither here nor there,
to allowing time for suspension.

Sarah Carlson

July 17, 2020

4 Roberts Avenue

Drawing of 4 Roberts Avenue by me - 1967

I remember drawing this picture of my childhood home. It was for an art project in 5th grade. I'm pretty sure I had put if off and by the time I got down to business I had to hurry because of incoming rain. I can actually remember the drops starting to fall and running for the breezeway. I don't think I even had time to put my beloved black bike into the garage before the downpour came.
My parents loved this and it hung in the house from the time I brought it back home from school until I took it down a few months ago as I cleaned out the house.
Today this piece came as I process the sale of the home that my parents bought just before I was born.

4 Roberts Avenue

My address from birth to 18.
The key was ‘hidden’ on the second shelf
of a corner cupboard in the breezeway.
On the left was the door
to the funky garage that housed
Merry Meeting Black Jack’s kennel
and my brother’s darkroom,
but never, ever had room for a car.
Breezeway and funky garage
no longer exist,
except in my memories,
replaced by a large entryway,
heated garage,
and not-quite-finished addition.
On the right was the door to the kitchen,
once a sort of disjointed affair,
but redone, made more open in 1971.
The wonderful screened-in back porch
became a lovely sunroom in 1986,
but the rest of the home didn’t
change much over the years,
at least not its solid structure.
I’m saying good-bye to that house
and I feel content with new people
making its spaces their own.
It most definitely is time for that.
But I miss my family, all three.
Geof, whose bedroom and mine shared a wall,
who was diligent in his studies and his fitness,
who made sure that all his Senior friends
helped out his Freshman sister
at Waterville High the same year
as the kitchen remodel.
Dad, who tucked me in every night
in my little green bedroom,
listening to tales of my day.
Mom, who took such joy 
in the house being ours, hers,
and intrepidly maintained it as home
until she could no longer.
Once the four of us, now only me.
I just miss them.
4 Roberts Avenue,
I’ll miss you a bit, too.

Sarah Carlson

July 12, 2020

In Between

I recently had quite a crash on my mountain bike. A slippery bridge after some rain, a branch that caused a slight weight change as I ducked - and down I went. Hard. Into the rails with my arm, ribs, and head. I was with a good friend who came back and sat with me as I worked to get my bearings. I tried getting up and realized I needed some more time to just sit on that bridge. With my friend. Eventually we made it out of the woods, but not before we had a wonderful talk about some changes we were both going through in our lives.
It's been a week or so now and sparkling moments of that conversation keep coming back to me. This piece is a compilation of some of the gems that came from sitting on a bridge after a tumble.

In Between

A bridge goes from one side
to another.
From here to there.
Yet, when you get there,
it’s actually a new here
and onward you go.
I’ve been thinking lately
that the spans of bridges actually
 have something to teach.
Marvels of engineering,
it is those spans where
the true magic resides
as they miraculously
bear the load.
I think it wise to
pause on a bridge
every so often,
take a look at what’s going on
below, within, above.
Whether a bridge
crosses some muck
on a woodsy trail,
carries you across
flowing waters,
 takes you over a path
that leads somewhere else,
there’s something soothing about
 suspending in the moments
of in between
and being
right where you are.

Sarah Carlson

July 10, 2020

It's Time for Truth

Artwork by a fourth grader who made this poster to help welcome my new class a few years ago

I am taking a bit of a departure and writing in prose. Though I do it with caution, and mindfully, I really needed to put this out into the world just now. Thank you in advance to those who choose to sit with these words.

It's Time for Truth

    It’s time for teachers to share our stories, to speak our truths. Like most educators I tend to quietly weave the intricacies of teaching together to provide a fabric of safety and love for my students. That continued in the shocking change that happened on March 15, 2020 - the day we found out that we were to teach from home starting the very next day.
    We had two days to get materials together for take-home packets and then a few days to begin to figure out what things would look like from there. I live alone and so had plenty of time  to attend the amazing webinars and content specialist meetings that the Maine Department of Education provided. I taught myself how to use Google Classroom and had help from some cohort-mates from an online mindfulness class in learning how to use YouTube. I used that to provide math lessons, moments of mindfulness, and read-alouds that led to nature journaling. And on it all went. I, like so many teachers all over the world, changed the way I approached teaching in a very short time. We really did turn on a dime. I took the words of  Pender Makin, the Commissioner of Education in Maine, to heart. I dove in and ‘fearlessly educated’ my students.
    Though I missed face to face interactions with my students, there was much I did like about remote teaching/learning. I felt safe and free to use my innate creativity to find my way back to interacting with them. Most climbed aboard with the help of their wonderful, supportive families. The ways they did that varied depending upon circumstances, but I welcomed them in whatever those ways needed to be. It wasn’t totally smooth sailing, to be sure. But, with all things considered, it wasn’t a total loss as many people seem to think. We were most definitely not a sinking ship.
    During the time of remote teaching I achieved the goal of independently publishing my second book of poetry and photography. Now, like many authors, I have boxes and boxes of books with limited opportunities to get them into the world. In addition to that I was also trying to find ways to support from afar my intrepid, elderly, visually impaired mother who lived alone in a neighboring town. 5 weeks into remote teaching she passed away. And so began the work of adjusting to that, taking care of a house full of memories, and the many other aspects of dealing with a loss. I did not take any bereavement time because I didn’t want to leave my students adrift. The way our contract stipulated that time had to be taken just didn’t fit the circumstances. So I just kept on going. As the school year ended I was in the beginning stages of planning a way to lay both my parents to rest in the midst of a pandemic. Again, on it all went.
    I share all this because it’s a glimpse into the world of this human being who happens to be a teacher. Looking back I honestly don’t know how I made it though. But now, here we are at the beginning of July with a new school year looming. We’re hearing all kinds of scenarios and possibilities, with many, many opinions about what should happen next. So many of those opinions clearly come from perceptions that are not at all grounded in the realities of the public school setting. And time is in very short supply.
    What’s really true is that we just don’t know what will happen if kids return to school. What’s clear is that our country has not handled this pandemic in such a way that we can feel safe to gather together. What’s painfully obvious to those of us who work in school buildings is that the logistics of physical distancing and the other CDC guidelines are mind-boggling.
    I can honestly say that, as an educator with 30 years of experience, I don’t know that I can ‘fearlessly educate’ in person in my school building. I’ll go further into honesty to say that I don’t know that I even want to try. It may be that I will need to do something that I, along with most educators, rarely do. That being, put myself first. Though I do not feel ready to end my teaching career, it may be that will be the best choice for me. I have to put away feeling selfish or entitled and sit with what’s true. I have selflessly given my support, my guidance, my heart to hundreds of students and families over the years. It may be that I need to offer that to my self at a time and in a society when the feelings and needs of educators are often overlooked. I say that with love. But, it’s true. My hope is in writing this is that others may find a way and a time to share their stories, too. Because it really is time for truth.

Sarah Carlson
July 7, 2020
Farmington, ME

My Mother's Garden

My Mother’s Garden

She devised a seemingly beautiful space
 inside our home.
But, it was outside
where the real beauty took hold.
An open field
that gradually became
a meandering garden
with trees for shade
and places to rest.
She created it over time,
a place for her respite and delight.
I tried to join her there,
but we were usually going
in conflicting directions.
At least that’s how it felt.
Occasionally,
our paths would merge,
but it was brief
and I couldn’t seem to match her step,
 perhaps wasn’t meant to.
I knew to follow love,
even came back to be married there.
The last time I talked with my brother
was right there, too.
The disjointed, confusing
 energy of the place
has been present throughout.
But now as I prepare
to fully walk away,
I can more freely reap the benefits
of other seeds that were sown.
Athleticism, strength, courage,
ability to find hope, no matter what.
I have those with me, too.
I can recognize and allow the blossoms
of my mother’s garden.
I can be me right where I am.
I don’t have to be
there anymore.

Sarah Carlson

July 3, 2020

A World Askew Quiets

A World Askew Quiets

Stepping into clear waters,
 she disrupts the surface,
makes it ripple a bit.
Unsettled sunbeams
wiggle and dance
as her toes sink slightly
into soft sand.
Gratefully, she fills her lungs,
 smiles with simple delight,
starts her gentle morning swim
as cavorting light continues.
Her mind drifts with wonder
at how chaos and calm
can occupy
the very same space,
 images of those interweaving beams
amplifying her awareness.
Buoyant body relaxes,
energy aligns,
spirit enlivens.
The buzzing energy of
a world askew quiets
and she settles ever more deeply
into her lively, loving home.

Sarah Carlson

June 26, 2020

Allow the Clouds

Allow the Clouds

We all know that clouds
come and go.
Sometimes when they
have settled low on the horizon,
they have the potential
to be a bit smothering,
though the waters below
are no less silky.
Their denseness may temporarily
overpower the ease and warmth
of lightness within,
so it is important
to remember that eventually,
no matter what,
they do drift away
with changing winds.
With these understandings aboard
it becomes easier to
allow the clouds
to be whatever, however
they are.
There is always light
above them, behind them.
Whether it be the twinkling stars
and glowing moon of night,
or the gleaming sun of day,
the truth of Light
is undeniable.

 If we do
allow the clouds,
we discover
they, too,
have a necessary
validity

and there is ease 

to embracing it all.

Sarah Carlson

June 23, 2020

On a Clear Day

On a Clear Day

Sliding once again into 

restorative, silky waters

she lays back,

allows natural buoyancy to 

hold her steady and balanced.

So many beautiful 

words have flowed through her 

and into the world. 

She knows they represent

the truth of healing.

With a profound realization
 that she had to fully trust
 her own memories
 of the wound

in order to deeply embody
  those truths,

she again feels something

novel and familiar.

She feels herself.

All the way in,

all the way out.

No need to apologize

or try so very hard.

That's what's happening now -

unlearning the constant sense

that there must be effort 

in order to earn

the right

 to be who she is. 

Letting go the habit of

 waiting with bated breath

to see if she made a mistake

or failed.

Trusting the clarity that's present

on a clear day,

while knowing clouds

will come and go,

but that she didn't cause the clouds.

They are simply there

and will pass.

She can and will continue
to settle more and more
 into the comfort and safety
of being

 at home
in herself.
On those clear days,
any day really,
it's okay to simply be.

Sarah Carlson

June 18, 2020

Let You Be at Peace

Let You Be at Peace

You left so much
for me to sort through.
It's been a challenge,
but more importantly,
 a gift.
It helped me see
that what I remember is true.

The tug of the house
and all it contained was strong,
but the pull of love
has more vigor, warmth,
and radiance.
I knew to follow it,
have done so with
courage and tenacity
that also comes from you.

And so, Mom and Dad,

now it's time for me

 to let you be at peace.

Rest together 

as the struggles
 really are over.

Know that I love you,

always have, always will.

I know you love me, too.
You have my gratitude
and my hope that you
settle into Grace,

be with Love,

rest in Peace.

Love, Sarah

June 25, 2020

This Poetic Me

This Poetic Me

Familiar scenes experienced 

through an ever-changing lens.

Opportunities to explore

that which happened long ago

from the perspective of health.

The unwinding

 of a very complex ravel

without having to analyze

every part of the weave. 

A sense of gratitude 

for things kept hidden away,

though for reasons not fully known,

to be found by a daughter

lovingly sorting through it all.

 Correspondence between

a brother and a sister,

dated September 1964,

hinting at the brokenness

between them.

Journals written by a mother

 infused with deep despair,

detailed descriptions of disquiet.

Letters brimming 

with wisdom and love,

 from an 18, 19, 20 year old me.

All revealing the validity 

of my memories, sensations, 

 bygone distress.  

Sweetly sinking into

 a gentle realigning, 

a truly novel 

sense of balance,

mingled with a recognition

that reflections 

don't have to be fully clear

to allow for the 

peace of understanding

 and the safety of self.

This deep dive into what was

verifies the reasons 

for my careful explorations,

 upholds the exquisite grace

of the images and insights 

that emerge from

this poetic me.

Sarah Carlson

June 13, 2020

 

 

Let Go the Disquiet

Let Go the Disquiet

Her nose wrinkles,

head aches,

chest tightens,

and then something shadowy

that does not have,

or need,

clear definition

goes.

Though wispy and nebulous,

it has a pungent mustiness,

a stale sense of

foreboding.

It curls away in a smoky haze,

taking with it that 

which never really did belong

to her. 

So much harbored in its layers 

wounded her,

and she needs reassurance that

it cannot, will not

hurt anyone else

ever. 

Her wonder-filled wild child 

needs to know

and she's learned to ask

or name or speak

instead of holding on,

holding in,

particularly in this time

of grief and upheaval

 within her being

and in the wider world.

She feels a deep sense of promise

as her beautiful body balances

and she slowly, gently

lets go the disquiet,

hands it over to the Divine,

once again breathes in the

 fresh, clean breezes

 of release, renewal,

and rejuvenation.

Sarah Carlson

June 3, 2020

 

At Home

 At Home

Sorting through a house that 

I don't remember ever feeling much

like a home.

Loaded layers,

varied valuables,

records of ruin,

random, self-serving journals.

Loving, caring, compassionate me.

Gently present as I always have been,

making sense of a tangled mess

that, once unraveled,

reveals truths.

Some that I knew all along,

others that have 

an exciting novelty.

The most important is –

I am safely

at home

in me.  

And, with that on board,

I can forgive,

feel grateful,

 tap ever more deeply into

the Light of Love.

My own gentle presence

lovingly settles 

into the amazing experience

 of being safely

 at home

in me.

Sarah Carlson

June 2, 2020

 

Dear, Sweet, Beautiful Self

Dear, Sweet, Beautiful Self

She breathes deep the gathering bloom,

pushes through the ground,

straightens and

opens to the light of day.

She relishes the feel of

sunlight on her skin,

breezes on her face,

orienting of her cells

to newness.

Even under the cold weight 

of grief, 

she feels her strength

and kindness

and empathetic nature.

She knows these will help her

 attend to her own needs.

It is heavy,

this grief.

It has many angles and facets,

twists and turns,

faces and memories.

And, it surely is 

a strange time 

to experience all this.

A time when there are 

other forms of grief

 in the here and now.

And so she pauses

and breathes,

slowly acknowledges

that she must allow it to be,

that it will melt or flow or wisp away

when the time is right. 

It may make her bend,

cause some distress,

but she knows

she will not break.

She must take time,

be patient and kind

with her dear, sweet, 

beautiful self.

Sarah Carlson

May 9, 2020

 

 

Rejuvenation

 Rejuvenation 

Roots hold fast, 

pull nourishment from 

the awakening ground.

Limbs softly sway,

reach into the warmth 

and glow of the wide open sky.

Inner world enlivens

as trunk aligns,

joints and cells settle 

right where they need to be. 

A breath, a stretch, a gaze above.

Traumatic tensions

 from a long, cold winter

wisp away,

replaced by peaceful currents

 of growth and hope.

Though winter held a beauty all its own

and much was gleaned

 from its presence,

the time has come 

for rejuvenation.

Sarah Carlson

May 5, 2020

Pandemic Peace

I wrote this piece to use as a guided meditation for my Mindful Schools cohort group the Sunday before my mother died. As I re-read it recently, I realized that I also wrote it for her and that it was very present as I talked with her on the phone as things started to come undone just two days later. And, as time has gone on I realize I wrote it for me, for you, for all of us. With just a few revisions from the original piece, here it is:

Pandemic Peace

Deep, deep breaths,
in…. out… in… out… in … out.
Within the solid walls of your home,
and the linear edges of your computer screen,
settle into the soft
surrounds of your body,
If your mind is at first busy,
appreciate your amazing ability to think.
Then, allow thoughts to fade or rise
 or flow away.
Relax your eyebrows and behind your eyes.
Let that sense of ease slide down to your jaw
as you allow it to slacken.
Downward into your neck,
comfort seeps to your shoulders
as muscles slowly and surely
softly, ever so softly, settle.
Now….
drop into your heart space,
that place where you really are.
Feel the expansiveness
of love… and compassion
as they gently swirl
 in and around and through.
Sit with this for a bit,
giving quiet a chance to widen.


As you let your time of stillness
come to an end,
imagine this love and compassion
that resides in your heart space
as a golden glow.
Feel it warm you from within,
while at the very same time you
let it wend its way
into the reality of room where you are,
the virtual space we share,
the wider world
where all of us everywhere
can feel its smooth and silky support.
May we feel this love in tandem.
May we embrace this compassion as a community.
May we allow this peace that can be found
in these currents of quiet
that flow from our hearts
to buoy us and sustain us
as we navigate this pandemic together.

Sarah Carlson

April 19, 2020

The Light of Love, Too

A poem about this topic has been on my mind, in my heart, for a while. There is a poem in The Radiance of Change titled The Light of Love that is also paired with this picture. I've come to understand that Light more clearly over time. What follows was written between a tele-med osteopathic treatment in the middle of the day and some very tender time with my mother before she ended up in the hospital later that night. She passed away the next day.
Here I am a week and a half later, finding this piece in my drafts as I remember the many complex facets of our almost 63 years as mother and daughter.
This is a photo of a very special place in my heart - Campsite 11 on Student's Island,  Mooselookmeguntic Lake, Maine.

The Light of Love, Too

Freedom comes as one opens
to the Light of Love
without reservation or defense.
Its branches and tendrils,
currents and vapors,
are both earthbound
and lofty.
It is ready and available
for giving and receiving,
for the conduit to be complete.

Vulnerable infant,
wide-eyed toddler,
sweet little girl,
anxious teen…
For all those years love
flowed naturally from her
into her world.
It was reciprocated,
but not always by those
who were the receivers,
so she wondered and worried
that perhaps she did not deserve.
Then, her life and his merged
and she couldn’t help but let
the strength of his love in.
It was truly undeniable.
It provided an anchor and she relaxed
in the flow of marriage, motherhood, and teaching.
Tragedy struck and she became
 adrift and unsure once more,
though love still emanated from within.
Her natural propensity to care for others
remained strong
while the sense of possible unworthiness
again took hold in a that deep, familiar place.
Choosing to explore her fathoms,
over time she has learned to let go the pulls,
release the tensions,
allow the full, deep breath
of Spirit to enter,
restore, revitalize.
Slowly, steadily
she internalizes
 that she really does deserve
that Light of Love, too.
Nothing to do
other than continue
to learn to allow it
 to manifest and bolster
her innate vitality.

Sarah Carlson

April 21, 2020

When the Deep Spaces Speak

When the Deep Places Speak

Awakenings –
when things open and unfurl,
fueled by the warmth of
nurturing, golden light 
from above and around
and within.
Surfaces and cells 
stretch, soften,
give voice to all
that has been and
needs acknowledgment
in the now. 
Some things,
long forgotten,
may seep to the surface
or adhere from outside.
This may ache,
 cause some quivers,
or the need to cry away.
There will likely be grief
from things known
and things not.
Another opportunity
to sit in stillness,
 let come what may,
allow it into
  the light of day.
No need to carry,
or hold on, 
or be held back
any longer.
No need to worry,

judge, 

allow concocted wrongness
 to infiltrate.

Roots hold fast,

purity flows,

love supports and embraces

when those powerful and pure

 deep places speak.

Sarah Carlson

April 7-17, 2020

The Grief of Isolation

I wrote this during a recent power outage that accompanied a spring snowstorm here in Maine. Somehow being without what electricity brings to our lives paved the way for many emotions and sensations to surface. I have hesitated to share this, but as I recover a bit from the fatigue that came after 60 hours without power, I realized how important it really is to name what's going on. Especially now. I have come to understand that in order to be with whatever comes, learn from this (or any) time in our lives, we have to acknowledge what's there.

The Grief of Isolation

First off, I do know
that I am not fully alone.
I get it, I really do.
However,
in these days and weeks,
now likely to be months,
of the physical distancing
of Covid 19,
I am isolated, 

spend much of my time solo.
A widow,
one who has worked hard
to explore and learn from
the many facets of loss,
the grief of not having him here
is true.
A mother,
who did her best to be present

with our chidren

after his death,
there is grief to what
shifted between us.
A teacher,
one who thrives
on the inlets and outlets
of sharing in a classroom community,
there is grief in not being with students,
to being unsure as to how to find a new flow.
A sister,
whose brother died long ago.
A daughter,
whose father is gone
and whose mother cannot see.
A poet,
with a book full of her love
and healing,
but that sits in boxes with
nowhere to go.
All these pieces and more
are mine,
are part of me.
There is deep grief present.
I will sit with it, learn from it,
partner it with gratitude for all that is good.
But, I had to name it.
It’s real and strong,
just like me.
I’ll be okay,
but deep grief
 is definitely present.

Sarah Carlson

April 10, 2020

To the Moon

Full Moon Rising from Mosher Hill in Farmington, Maine

To the Moon

Your presence is so steady,
your phases predictable,
your comings and goings
such a delight.
You have the power to pull tides,
shift energies,
reflect the sun’s light.
Your patterns
have a quiet
soothing majesty.
Sometimes being with you
is especially profound,
 resonates deeply,
both within and without.

On a familiar hilltop she waits,
wonders where you are
as she anticipates your full rising.
She sees the low clouds,
but doesn’t realize
how dense they are
until your vibrant light emerges,
higher in the sky than expected.
She breathes, sighs, settles.
As you slowly make your way
into the twilight sky
she feels her own light expand
with yours
as inner clouds disperse.
You gently tug her heartstrings,
allowing antiquated pulls to lessen.
She breathes, sighs, settles even more.
With one more look
she gratefully
turns toward home,
your light,
her light,
leading her
tenderly there.

Sarah Carlson

April 10, 2020