This does not have to be a hard life to love. There is not enough time to let it stray too far from my hands.
SCHUYLERThis does not have to be a hard life to love. There is not enough time to let it stray too far from my hands.
SCHUYLERHold me here, where I feel less like a stranger to my own laughter. Where it’s easier to believe things happen for a reason or maybe, at least, out of a thousand winding roads my life might take, I will still find one that fits me.
SCHUYLERThe world will be loud again. I’ll notice the loneliness less.
SCHUYLERFor now, I’ll bring what I can to my own four walls. I recognize the purpose, the promise of this: a church is made by its space, by its practices.
SCHUYLERI will still live like a ghost in the mornings; walking, listening, pouring coffee to finish sometime by the afternoon, when I’ve had enough of watching the world and do all I can to live in it.
SCHUYLERPlease come here, but not too close.
SCHUYLERI’m remembering again, how loneliness has always made me brave.
SCHUYLERI’ll craft a haven that that cradles every joy and sorrow, but doesn’t hold them to keep.
SCHUYLERThere will be a time where this hurts less and it will not mean it didn’t matter. It means that in the face of feeling something precious slip in my hands, I will always find a way back to myself.
SCHUYLERI know I could be an astronomer of this swooning.
SCHUYLERMy love lives in my cheeks – gives me away by the first smile. all the lines from years spent laughing, warm with extra freckles in the summer; a poker face that doesn’t keep once my knees fold.
SCHUYLERI still know the fabric of where I begin and end.
SCHUYLERI’m writing about moving again, and when I write about moving, I really mean beginning. I’m beginning again.
SCHUYLERTake me back to the evergreen trees; to the sunlight through the leaves, the bending ferns and fronds. The pitter of the rain, the smooth rocks sleeping under moss. Take me back to the life I know before this body.
SCHUYLERWe’re in spring and I have learned how to be gentle and sharp; strong bark on budding trees. Hold out your hands. I’ll leave a pink kiss and a pocket knife.
SCHUYLERHow radiant you are, waiting by the window, watching for the sun to grant you more time to dance beneath it. You’ve let yourself dream again. Even if its in bites, even if it’s in a different voice than it used to be.
SCHUYLER