Sunday, January 20, 2019

When You Stand

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

May your feet, here now, know the support of the Earth,
the mother of your mother’s mother’s mother and all
the mothers before her.
May, in this light, you know the guidance of the Sun,
the father of your father’s father’s father and all
the fathers before him.
May you know the sisterhood of women who
will embrace and hold space for your soul’s seed
to break and who, in their own way, pray that because
of this necessary breaking, there will emerge and grow
something that serves others without
demand of reciprocity.
May you know the brotherhood of men who
stand beside you as you stand beside them,
all familiar strangers, dedicated to protecting the ache
of uncertainty, difference, and belonging
so that we may liberate the fears that otherwise
divide, diminish, and destroy otherness.
May you stand in the presence of my gratitude.

Thank you for showing me where blessings are needed.

© 2019/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Bless this Day" (a work in progress)

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Friday, January 11, 2019


Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

We were given bluebirds. Have you
thought about that? Something wanted
us to find some kind of happiness
flitting about in our being. Imagine
the foresight! Humans with our
befuddling ache for something other
than the miracles all around us.


What can you do with a bluebird
other than say, “Oh! This day is so
much better now.” That wasn’t
a question, actually. Because it’s
simply true. True like the branch on
which the bluebird perches, or the fence
post beside the old orchard with tart
heirloom apples.

What if a bluebird perched on your
heart? Yes, imagine that! Imagine
what could become of this
unhappy miracled world.

© 2019/Jamie K. Reser
From “Truth and Beauty” (a work in progress)

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Thursday, January 3, 2019

Something Dark

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

If you have not been visited by something dark,
beg for it. This world needs your active grieving,
to feel into its voids and diminishments and
ache so heartedly for the absent that it has
a chance to appear, that it can remain long enough
to be considered nothing exceptional at all,
rather, an exquisite, glittering normal that bonds
our likenesses.

For me, it was a raven. It had given away its
song and I was set upon the task of finding it.
I got lost along the way and when I called out
to myself in the hope of being found, I suddenly
recalled that the raven is a well-known
trickster. It never had a song.

© 2019/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Truth and Beauty" (a work in progress)

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Wednesday, December 26, 2018

Call from the Kalahari

Art: Mark Collins

Sometimes, we have to make ourselves known,
to perch high enough to be able to chant our
prayers out across open terrain because
to be silent in the scrub would be
to defy something bold and invisible.

I’ve watched birds do this, and other wild
things, and some children who hadn’t
yet lost memory of their true nature. They
make me happy in their way of being
of this world.

I think in each one of us there are words
that we’ve been asked to speak, but not
all of us do. Sometimes, there is just too
much keeping them choked down for too
long and we forget what a voice is for. Then,
grief, like firmly wrapped talons, won’t let go.

There are stories like that in my family tree,
silences where there should have been words.
I’ve learned to be able to speak to them, but
finding listeners isn’t easy.

What about you? What are your words,
and have you spoken them out to the world?
Have you implored people to listen? Please
do. It will change things. I promise.

In the Kalahari, there’s a goshawk on the branch
of a tree rooted in the cradle of humanity,
chanting, over and over again, something
that he wants you to hear.


As I pray that you will.

© 2018/Jamie K. Reaser
For book project collaboration with artist Mark Collins

Saturday, December 22, 2018

Solstice Moon

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

How come no one ever told me her stories?
Never said, “Look up there, see?” Why wasn’t
I birthed into awe?

I spent so much energy trying to shine, to
be the bright object of affection. But, I wasn’t.
And, I grew out of it.

Now I can see the obvious and grieve its
invisibility without a need to claim ownership
of it. This existence is enough for me
to know that I came from somewhere.

In the branches there are memories of birds,
but no birds, yet. Do you understand how
things change?

Oh, how lovely, the solstice moon. She lavishes
me with the bold textures of the face that
looks upon me. He has always looked down
upon me. And, I’m so grateful.

© 2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Truth and Beauty" (a work in progress)

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Touch the Sky

Art: Mark Collins

There’s a first time to touch the sky.
I feel mine coming.


How do we distinguish yearning
from escaping? As I teeter on the edge,
I’m realizing that it is yearning that
lifts us away from that which has
grown too small. There are
once-it-fit-so-well places that we
must depart from.


The eagle banked against the storm
clouds. I saw it out there, but
I felt it in here.

Around and around, caressing the
directions, all of them, with long,
grey wing tips. I knew that it was
thanking some god and yet praying.
It wasn’t done with desire. Not nearly.

As powerful as it was, it became small
to me. I thought, “How does it do
that on those flimsy feathers?”

I was swept away.


Do you have wings,
and is there a sky calling your soul
to journey toward some horizon?

Oh, then, please—you must take
the heavy step across the sill and
rise before the thermals
dissipate at day’s end.

© 2019/Jamie K. Reaser
A book collaboration in progress with artist Mark Collins

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Friday, December 21, 2018


Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

How did the holly know it would need to color grey?
And the oak, that there was good reason to hold
auburn leaves this long?
Who told them of this cold darkness and our
unadmitted need for gods to thank?
This day of this season -
when the long-nights moon gives herself over,
I know how to hear the gasp of all the living things
that have been praying for the return of the light.
What I know too, and want to say, and want you to hear
is that with the sun arises a requisite attentiveness.
What is there, right there, to see?
Can you kneel down, humbled, and act upon a thing?
Can you find yourself blessed by any revelation?
Can you remember the unuttered agreement
that holds you steadfast?
What else is there but what is before us?
Mustn’t we tread this way though now we see it?
Though now we know?
Tell me you will greet me at dawn with joy.

© 2018/Jamie K. Reaser
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