Somewhere between dreaming big
and living in small, ordinary moments,
I am lost without a compass.
There are fleeting thoughts of
huts suspended over water in Bora Bora
and jeweled palaces in Jaipur
and a horizon of tulips in Amsterdam.
There are visions of grand stages
and published poems
and changing lives in
profound and important ways.
And yet, there is now
which holds none of those things,
and perhaps real life will never
fill out those imaginary lines
with strokes of true color.
Now is the routine of
wake up and make breakfast
and make lunch and
race kids out the door
and drive to school and
blow hurried kisses and drive
to the same coffee shop where
the same guy who knows my name
and my everyday order
makes my iced mocha.
And work and patients
and picking up children
and activities and homework and
no clue what to make for dinner
and reading bedtime stories and
checked out runs on the treadmill
and scribbling in the margins of journals
and scattered sleepy meditation
and falling into bed before
doing it all again.
Which is more glorious?
Which is more real?
Perhaps this daily routine of regular life
is just as beautiful because it is true,
true in ways that I can touch and hold
while big dreams promise to wait.
And in the meanwhile,
I search for ordinary love
and glimpses of magic
in my coffee and words and
in four warm bodies within
the four walls of home.
Living and breathing in the sacred space
again and again and again
until another moment calls my name.