Shamans and Prophets and Miracle Workers

I know shamans and prophets and miracle workers. They use their hands to plant beauty and their feet to run to help. They call down blessings for me and offer up curses when I need a bigger voice to tell God I’m sick of this. They are my village and they are raising me. And they do it while they dress their own babies and feather their own nests and walk through their own fires.

I have incredible people in my life. I knew this before. I have been humbled by their grace, humored by their good will, encouraged by their presence. But lately I have been walking through something hard and I have had my head down, pushing forward, doing the things needing done and while I have noticed the notes and care packages and calls and texts – and have been utterly sincere in my gratitude for every single one – I have been in it and the miracle of it has escaped me. That in this world we can be mashed up against any number of individuals and that I happen to share orbits with these beautiful, funny, kind, thoughtful, creative, light-filled ones.

I came home after two months away and my house was spotless – even the mirrors had been cleaned and the pantry organized and the laundry done to zero. There were flowers everywhere. The fridge was stocked full of food (including my favorite creamer) and someone had even stripped my cloth diapers so I could use them right away if I wanted to.

And I am delighted by the thought of these women in my home – with their babies, swiping crumbs into the sink and smoothing bedspreads. Their hands are God’s hands and they left holy here.

There were surprises for me and the kids on the fireplace. A Survival Kit (my people also know I derive deep and abiding joy from compiled gifts like this) with a leather journal and sea-scented candle and chocolate and coffee and other things that made my heart warm. Someone had gotten a dolphin calendar and some puff paint projects for the kids to play in the Spirit of GoGo.

And notes (because my people get that I am a Words Girl). In lovely longhand. With the kindest words. About my mother, about her daughter, about being here for whatever because they are okay with my not knowing what I need. While away I received texts and messages and cards and letters and a little while ago one of my artist friends wrote a piece for me which broke my heart in the best way. It is almost too much how magnificent that is, how deeply it touches me that I am seen and thought of and prayed for.

My “person” drove halfway across the country just to be around. With two kids she has made her life mobile to hug and cry and stand witness. I mean, really. I don’t have words for that. I’m just grateful.

I have remarkable people in my tribe. People who love loud and quiet, creatively, intentionally. I am surrounded by cheerers and uplifters and dirty-joke-tellers. People who love me in so many ways, not the least of which in their consent to be loved back which is glorious and brave and I learn so much from them.

I am glad to be home. I am grateful to be back among these people. And I am completely in awe that I get to know them and love them and be loved by them. I was born into a family I fall more in love with every day – they are strong, kind, funny, courageous. It seems almost unfair that I would also get friends with the same inheritance. But I’ll take it.

This is my big broad thank you, my shout out because you are people making the world better and certainly making my world more bearable and I hope you know that you are shamans and prophets and miracle workers. I love you.

 

 

 

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