I find myself settled on a bluff by the ocean,
Learning the meaning of hold, give, and take.
I listen in wonder with pen upon paper to the
Whispers my soul speaks as each word finds it’s place.

I hold space for my spirit through breath and by listening,
​My mind purposely languid and wandering and free.
By engaging each instant, attentive and wondering,
I feel atmosphere opening, yawning before me.
In the moment I’m grateful for this lesson in holding.
That the harrowing grip which I’ve clutched for so long
Has a counterpart that’s more like summer and wheat fields,
Like cradling a child to sleep in my arms.
I learn holding with love beats controlling. And really,
The truth is the harder we squeeze then we fail
At the one thing we know to be true here - our oneness -
Which I breathe into being each precious inhale.

I give space to my children, freewheeling and lovely,
Floating in water profound, deep, and blue.
I watch through blurred eyes and find only perfection,
Reflections of love - understanding that through
My own silence, my stillness, my trust in their being,
I give space to their brotherhood, peace, and pure hearts.
I learn not to hover, nor expect the next conflict,
That in foretelling a fallout I force them apart.
I learn freeing them frees me. We are safe and unfailing.
I learn that this giving feels like letting go.
This new resonant truth in the core of my being
Pulses warm in my veins urging, “Grow mama, grow.”

I take space with my body, expansive and gilded,
Without an apology, pardon, or pause.
I think not of the should-be’s, the ideals of others,
Or the voices of ego and mind that have caused
My past heartache, past hatred, and self-separation
From the soul that I know as my singular truth.
Instead I stand rooted to this present moment, the well
Which bears knowing, self-love, and sound proof
Of perfection in being just here as I am
In this minute. And this one. And now. Here again.  
I’ve arrived in my body, my temple, my home.
I’m awake now, surrendered to paths yet unknown.
​
Catalina Island, CA
©​Anjale Perrault 2017

​She wrote it down in ink, this day.
Her soul had known, told her it was coming.
Her soul always knew, and she wondered how long that had been so.
Too much static on the line, before.
The noise of her life - a carefully crafted story.
Written by her small self
about who she was
through the reflection she saw in
the many shining eyes
of the world.
It was a story of love
and of adoration
and of beauty
which her tiny mind turned over and over and over again
like a stone smoothed by the tumbling surf.
Smoothed into a polished,
well-rounded
image of perfection
and perfectionism
and then,
“See how I make it all just so?”
She is you.
Or your sister, or mother, or wife.
You know her by her veil.
Or by the worthiness that lingers
somewhere outside
of herself.
Out there,
for the benefit of…
“You, don’t you see?
Yes, my loves, everything for you.
Not for me.”
This is how stories begin,
and where some end.
But not hers.
No, her soul’s dark night
was lit up
by the moon
which rose again
and again
and again
just for her.

She saw it, each time, because
she expected to see it there.
And this time she had written it down,
this day.
Written it in ink because,
her soul had told her,
“The full moon is coming. It is carved just for you.”
On that morning
the clouds padded the sky
for her
and she thought,
“Yes, today I will make myself like a cloud.”
And so she was.
A cloud to filter light,
a cloud to hold the whole of heaven’s heaviness,
and, finally,
a cloud shedding the tears of her story,
her mother’s story,
and the stories of all of the women who had come before.
Her tears fell without traction,
with freedom,
for love.
They landed in pools
at the feet of her sons and
the drumbeat that thundered sang
of wholeness,
of enough.
The boys feet thumped with
wildhood
which leapt into her veins,
like a fire burning away past
heartache, past
sickness, past
fears.
Until all she was left with was
the painfully beautiful rubble of
the present.
Just here.
And again here.
And now.
Just this.
It was in this ecstatic awakening that she remembered
the moon, like a postcard.
The moon, hung for her, would be rising.

She gathered the salt of her tears,
the salt of the sea,
and the salt of the earth
and poured it out into a tall white mountain which she climbed.
At the top she sat,
meeting the eyes
of the moon,
and vowed,
this day,
to trade her ink for lead.
To trade sureness for surrender.
Forego control
for love and miracles.
Her deepest knowing
rooted
to an infinite trust
in the wild and glorious unknown.
She was rocked into slumber
this night
by Mother Earth
who loved her so,
and the song of an old owl, urging,
“Let go,
let go,
let go.”

©​Anjale Perrault 2017