Weedy Vacant Lot

I read this poem last week, after a friend shared it.  
It called to me from deep places.


Praying

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

~ Mary Oliver ~


I live in the weedy, vacant lot.
It's not pretty.

I am learning, ever so slowly, 
to not be in a hurry to transform my lot of weeds into a bunch of blue irises.
That is my first inclination.  
Hide.  Fix.  Cover. 
Dust off the weeds, even.   
(However futile that might be.)

Then talk and talk and talk so there is no space for silence.
This is true when I am alone or with many.

I am at home in the weedy vacant lot.
I fit there because I am surrounded by dust and grit and brokenness.
Broken things have cracks that leave space...
And what's that line from Leonard Cohen?
"There is a crack in everything.  That's how the light gets in".

I must not be in a hurry to trade in my place of residence.
That is where the truth gets spoken, because it sounds just like who I am....
...and not like someone I'm pretending to be.