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She masters her cage.

She masters her cage.

There was a poem throwing itself around in my blood.

Something about a bird and a cage.

Ah, yes! Don’t they all work birds into their masterpieces, their sonnets?

I don’t care. Sometimes a poem finds you out and it’s about something borrowed, something blue. Perhaps we should hand the skepticism of our own minds over to the depleting work of rigor mortis. Just be honest. Just write.

I told her she was free.
Re-mastered the lock, dissolved the key.

“Don’t be stubborn, you’ve not had a good home.”
Her heart kept a boring tempo – an unkempt metronome.

Occupy the space in the sky!
I’m giving you a voice, another try.
Lift yrslf with the flaking dead skin.
Transcend the roof of my home. Be bold – know no whim.

She shuffles her claws in linear motion.
Neither phased nor impressed with my clean notion.
Opens her cracked beak
And violently speaks,

“I’ve only known this rusted tin and you, always watching me.
Now you loftily proclaim I’m released from gravity?”

In an attempt to explain,
“Bird of my house, don’t be alarmed. I bring wisdom from above.
This is not some trick, this is love.”

Then the cage dissipates.
The bird gone, a fake.

A Voice deep inside,
“That bird is not real, the bird is a lie.
In her parables you hide.
In her bleak feathers you confide.”

“You march around, so confidently.
You search for your cage. You seek modestly.”

“Child! You have wings yet you stumble on feet.
Woman! The cage was never your home. You live in me.”

“I bring bright shiny lights from above.
This is no trick. I am Love.”

“In the backdoors and attics of your mind you retreat.
But open your veins, accept a new beat.
You know my voice
You are my sheep.”

“Call me your Love. I’m not just some Sir.
You are beautiful. You’re not just some bird.”


Eh, well…my words, unfettered. Amateur, I know. But I was honest.

Sometimes late at night I go to sleep and think about how much of me I didn’t let be me and how much of me I let Him release. He kisses my cheek, whispers me to sleep, “Freedom you’re given. My daughter, you’ve been set free.”


Fall leavesMy favorite season is fall.

File that right next to, “loves birthday cake ice cream” and “usually writes with a candle lit.”

The clouds are touching the ground tonight. They blur the city lights and announce to the people as they blow by, “Fall is here.”

It’s October 5th and winter is not wasting her time. In the midst of it all, the pumpkin picking and the festive arrangements being laid on doorsteps, there is me. Pacing the corridors of my mind. Slamming closed doors to overworked thoughts, opening them again, then on again with the slamming.

Last fall did not meet me with the joy I usually know.

October 2008 was truly a difficult month for me. I happened upon one of those dreadful nights where my heart blistered and cracked then fell out by way of my mouth, my nose, my eyes.

The details of that night won’t leave me. There is a very specific desire I stammered around and then spoke out loud. I still hope, as much as I did that night, that my words entered heaven with urgency.

This past year of time with Him has been marked by what I let fall from me and into His hands last October, our conversations frequently coming back to “that night last fall”. It’s not referred to as anything else; we both know which conversation is being addressed.

Words fail us in those moments; that’s just how it is. And so much of me failed too. The strength I believed I had, the vibrant trust I was sure was weaved throughout my being. All of a sudden brokenness had a night and a date and a time.

This past September was spent stepping lightly in each day, as I knew October was coming again. And it’s here; I’m in it…an anniversary of sorts.

It seems that my heart was scalped and for 365 days the Lord has continued to poke and prod around. And what a most horrific way to heal a wound! But I hear it’s best to get all the shrapnel out before you close the patient back up.

Through this all there is a bitterness that knows my name and asks for my attention.

“But let us not grow weary!” He beckons my mind, my soul, my heart. Bitterness and disbelief may pound on my desires and ask for me to flirt with them but the Lover does not fool around with such small requests. He asks for my life, in its entirety.

So my eyes stay on Him and He teaches me to love. To be a woman that loves and loves Him and loves well.

Yesterday I made a choice: to embrace October. But not just to embrace this month, to embrace the sovereign Lord within October.

My heart has seen a love that creates a new man. Love that can transform what we only thought could be tweaked.

With my heart I pronounce a toast, “Here’s to the prodding, the exposing and the sorrow that will birth life. To the walking forward every day in His love as it is He who raises the woman up to be able to say, ‘I want what you want Lord.'”

At times, it seems too much but there is always His faint voice, “In who else’s hands would you place this.”

And always the steady answer of my heart, “Only Yours Lord. Only in Your hands.”

“Open up my door Lord, to whatever makes me love you more.” – mewithoutYou

“Lord, I give You permission to cut.” -Catherine Hilger

Probably not what you expected.

"You are beautiful and it is the least interesting thing about you."

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