Anne Heck

Inside Out

As I've navigated periods of confusion in my life, I've found myself looking outside for the ballast needed to ground within. Though I know all I need is within me, it's helpful to remember that my outside experience is simply a reflection of the inner. Listening intently to the critters who visit my yard, seeing who shows up in my daily flow, paying attention to the words that come across a page ~ all these offer clues that help me gain clarity on my path. I wrote this poem to express this interplay between my experience of the inner and outer worlds. Enjoy! 

Your greatness was my mirror;
My own in me was lost.
I looked outside to find it;
I kept my fingers crossed.

Hopeful that new friends I made
Or a book in my backseat
Would guide me to that place where
I felt myself complete.

The power of your spirit,
A feeling in my heart
Each to the other called;
I knew it from the start.

What in you inspired me
Was the greatness I now own;
Through synchronistic meeting
A seed of light was sewn.

This creative force within me
Once longing to be heard
Now harkened from the outside
It cannot be deterred.

Sweet irony – our greatness
Is contained in all we know,
Yet we cannot see ourselves as that
‘Til we’re starring in our show.

Though, if I heighten my awareness
And tune in to what’s around
What I see and hear and taste and smell
Is certain to astound.

As it all is full of beauty
And it all contains the key
To unleash what’s been invisible
To let me be what I now see.

So out my spirit flows
Just as natural as the tide;
No longer is its mystery
Hid somewhere deep inside

Now it’s everywhere around me
Just like the color blue;
There’s no accident that I’ve found
That greatness within you.

All the beauty, wisdom, greatness, joy
Whatever’s amplified
Is simply a reflection
Of what’s going on inside.

So, to perpetuate this cycle
That so far has been a win
I surround myself with all things good
And take the outside in.

Honoring Grandma

My grandmother Virginia Rose Hector Reeder was born on this day in 1905. I'm grateful for her presence in my life.  So many wondrous memories of being by her side.  I wrote this in honor of her ~

Grandma’s hair was white
And sparse
Like a thin blanket of new snow
That lay ever so gently
Atop her large forehead

It drew back from her face
Like flakes that
Magically melt away at roof’s edge
And invite you to stand
Beneath the cover
And watch the world drift by

The beauty shop
Made her curls tight and
Tame around her face
When they relaxed -
loose and unruly
It became her

She had large framed glasses
That sat comfortably on her
Jagged nose
A wholesome smile
That made you want to
Squeeze her bulging cheeks
And full life-loving laughter

Grandma was built small
But full of strength and spirit
She bedded late
And rose early
And was not a sound sleeper
She liked her coffee dark and tepid
And was fine with leftover – slightly re-warmed
And for breakfast
One egg sunny-side up

She always served me a banquet
A fine selection of tiny cereal boxes
Would stand in a row by an empty bowl
And pitcher of milk
Sides of applesauce and cottage cheese
Were standard fare
And then eggs and sausage
White toast with jelly
And orange juice

In the oak church pew
Her voice was strong and blustery
She carried herself straight and proud
Her wrinkled hands held hymnals low
For me to follow her finger with the notes

We often sat on her porch glider
On hot Sunday afternoons
And ate ice cream sandwiches
Or drank iced coca-cola
And spoke of nothing
But listened to church bells
And ladies heels
Clipping down slate sidewalks

Every January, Grandma started a new journal
The year printed in fancy white numbers
On a brown faux leather cover
She filled pages daily
With black ink and secrets
My grandma never knew 
She inspired me to write

I remember our last visit
She in her worn brown-cushion chair
A blanket across her knees
Not as sharp as always
But her smile still true
And comforting

The day I said goodbye
She handed me a 20 dollar bill
That smelled of
The musty safe in her basement
She told me to buy myself a milkshake
We laughed

That bill still resides in my car console
Sealed in a plastic bag to preserve the smell
The last memory I have
Of my grandma
Besides her hair
Laying on a down pillow
Loose and unruly

daffodils passed

I remember being struck by these words -- daffodils passed -- years ago when I was in graduate school.  At that time, I walked or cycled 2 miles to get to class everyday and observed the changes of the seasons more closely than the drivers who whizzed by.

I was grateful for a closer glimpse of the natural world and my connection with it.  I was certain that the changes I observed in nature were happening just as often within myself and wondered what I might observe if I were able to observe myself more objectively on a daily basis. 

I wrote this poem in the spring of 2005.

Daffodils passed, a remnant of
their playful yellow costume
lingering on the forsythia.
I laugh at how year after year,
these joyful plays of early spring color
have opened my heart to the beauty and
possibility of what lies ahead.

Then, the trout lily, hidden
in the nourishing damp soils,
adorns the streamside with its
dainty blossoms and polka-dot pants –
a joyful celebration of the fertile soils
I’ve nourished over the years.

High bush blueberry subtly bears
secrets of the fruits to come;
I heighten my awareness.

The redbud speaks to me in deep,
rich crimson buds. I am reminded
of my power and the ease with which
it emerges as energetic pink explosions
against a bright blue sky.

The tulips process in all
their royal colorful garments –
a powerful message of the
importance of my role.

And the honeysuckle, now beginning
to permeate the air with its sweetness.
I can taste what is to come and am
grateful for the fragrance of each moment.

None more elegant than the iris,
which emerges as a messenger
of its silent but obvious pride.
I feel my breast expand with the knowing
that I, too, am Spirit in form.

Now, the tiger lily bears its buds,
lurking in the wings, knowing
the surprise and awe it will bring
when its presence is fully known.
I anxiously await my cue.

As I contemplate all this wonder
in the silence, it dawns on me
that I need await nothing,
but only need to express
the ever-expanding beauty that
I am in each moment.

And so I express my sadness
as the bleeding heart,
my joy as the flowering quince.
I am, at times, the crabapple and,
at others, the peacefulness of lilac.
I am the curiosity of wisteria,
the abundance of the peony.
I am filled with the exuberance
of the flame azalea and the
relaxing wonder of wild phlox.

Oh, sweet eternal blossoms;
my magnitude is beyond imagination.

creek dream

sweet-smelling
creek waters
seep
into fertile banks
which like a sponge
soak up
the ever-giving flow of days
days filled with leaves
afloat
in whirlpools of light
gurgling voices amidst
rock outcrops
dreams suspended

Moon Seed

In honor of this beautiful full moon time and of the richness of the seeds we carry as women, I wrote this piece ~

Moon seed, nestled in rich belly soil
Seeking a place in which to uncoil
Fertile thoughts gone now, allow you to flow
Wise woman’s wisdom with your stream does grow

Moon seed, sweet source of maiden fruit
Shine upon me, so my soul will take root
Illume my dreams, sweep shadows aside
Come, christen me in your crimson tide

Moon seed, your blessings so full
Drip slivers of wisdom in my heart pool
Lift spirit veils on my dry river bed
Come, let your tendrils across me spread

Knowing my harvest will soon be past
I cling to your tears as if they’re my last
Moon seed, flow top my rivers deep
And take hold, so your light I may reap

I'd Like to Die in Springtime

Several years ago, I wrote this poem for a class on death and dying. Recently, it has come into view again with the passing of a dear friend's father.  I hold much gratitude for the flow of words, for how these words speak to me and for this glorious life-giving season of spring.

I’d like to die in springtime
When the world is full of bloom;
It’s when I’m most accepting
Of each sweet moment’s tune.

It’s in spring I feel hearts open,
There is no one I need please,
I let go of all resistance
And sway gently on the breeze.

Nature teaches every moment
Just how I am to be.
I uncover what has always been;
It is this that sets me free.

Wholly present in the moment,
I embrace what comes my way.
I am grateful for the gifts
I’m blessed with each and every day.

To carry springtime’s wisdom
Through the seasons of the year
Is to live without the burden
Of my image’s veneer.

It’s to sing the song of freedom,
It’s to love life’s mystery,
It’s to greet the morning’s sunrise
Upon a bended knee.

I’d like to die in springtime
When my being opens wide,
And the Allness that I am
Is somehow magnified.

It’s in this sweet awareness
That I feel so alive;
And it’s in this place of Truth
That I will choose to die.

Yes, I’d like to die in springtime
In a sigh of joy’s embrace;
Let my Spirit float upon the wind
And shed the seeds of grace.

 

Imagination vs. Will

The truth of our dreams manifests with ease when we release the resistance of a strong will.  In other words, instead of trying so hard, choose easy; easy is found in your heart.  I've been reminded of this teaching in the past couple weeks.  I wrote this poem a few years ago to speak to this; it's entitled Imagination vs. Will 

A spider does not will its web,
A tree does not its leaves.
Though a child’s magic dream transpires;
He creates what he believes.

I cannot will the clouds to part
Or sun to shine above.
Though imagine I my world
Full of peace and joy and love.

And through this conscious imagery
Dear Providence moves too
And my world and yours is better
As I hold this vision true.

What power has that which hearts create.
Which minds know not the way.
Each synchronistic episode
Is Spirit’s sweet foreplay.

The wood thrush echoes sweet and strong;
It sings its heart’s desire.
Only our imagination
Can set our souls afire.

I cannot will my destiny
Though power’s in my hands
I must instead consult my heart
And disregard my plans.

I willed myself to wholeness
But found I wasn’t there
With gritted teeth, determined pushing
‘Til I became aware

That to will works not with nature;
It keeps rewards in future’s hands.
Present limitless creating
Is for he who understands

That to imagine opens up the door;
It puts us in the flow.
Sweet Spirit whispers to our heart,
And that is how we know

That the path we see unfolding
Is not leading us astray.
The timeless wisdom Spirit shares
Is just showing us the way

To lives of limitless potential
Birthed from that imagined place –
Our heart’s sweet destination which
We now meet face to face.

Passion

I've been tucking in during this windy cold of winter and am grateful for the inspiration to keep the flow of creativity moving within me.  Though that seed that yearns to sprout is snugly nestled, it's still most certainly being fed with the vibrancy of life. 

As I work with textures, mold colors, add beads, buttons, ribbons and lace, I'm reveling in the lusciousness of seeing my current passion take form.

And as it manifests as tiny stuffed hearts, it also manifests as these words . . .

Passion

So full
Boldness flows from my being
Like leaves from the maple
On a windy fall day

Strip my soul
Unveil my innocent branches
That I may sway impassioned
Vital in my vulnerability

Open to life's mystery
With potent honesty
Tapped from my heart
Sweet flow of wisdom

I who have censored
Pure essence
Now robust
In my innocence

I am the voice
Worthy and clear
In this forest
Listen

Creative Constipation

I've been feeling a hint of resistance to my natural creativity lately and my dear friend Elizabeth challenged me to come up with some creative expression of this.   This is my creation . . .

I’ve got oodles of fabric
Hand-dyed yarn and bright floss
Colored pencils and ink stamps
Metal foil to emboss

I’ve got brushes and journals
Pastels and some beads
No art store on earth
Can supply all my needs

Ideas, dreams and images
Fly all about
But I can’t seem to get
Even one of them out

I’ll try this new pattern
I’ll study her art
Oooooh!  there’s inspiration ~
 . . . One petite fart

Just this one bit of movement
Can influence, ya know
So I’ll sit myself down
And I’ll visualize flow

I can feel the twinge,
The restriction and pain
I will sit here determined
This can’t be in vain

Okay, I can see it
And its color is wood
I can feel it emerging
And it’s gonna to be good

Running into my workshop
Now surrounded by stuff
There I stand feeling freer
There I stand in my buff

In this naked free place
I feel myself drawn
My creative expression
Is like the sun at its dawn

I will no longer hesitate
No more hint of “I can’t”
Out with the laxatives
They’re not for Rembrandt!

A Precious Gift

Children offer such heart-warming reminders of the really important things in life.  My 9-year-old son Joseph was asked to write a poem over his holiday break about a gift that was precious to him.  I wondered if he'd write about Star Wars Lego or, perhaps, his new adventure belt with all his survival tools in it.

I was touched by what he wrote --

A Hug From My Parents
by Joseph Heck

a warm blanket
wrapped around
me
a rainbow
of colors
up next to
me
the taste
of candy
fills my mouth
I smell
the
scent of
mints
sparkly
like a
bee drawn
in by a
flower
like a
purr
of a cat
on my lap
sweet
warm
special

Heart Power

In the fall of 2004, I began sitting with a Cherokee medicine man  whose teachings have led me to look at the signs and symbols of my life in a new way and to open to the infinite possibilities available in life.

I've observed myself over the past four years move more fully into operating from a heart space rather than from my head, which is both refreshing and powerful.  I wrote this poem in the winter of 2004 and am still moved by its words.  It's entitled  Heart Power.

Sunrise from the mountaintop
Dense earth between my toes
Standing ‘neath the mighty oak
Sensing wisdom it bestows

Talking with the animals
Conversing with the wind
Knowing in my heart
Things my mind can’t comprehend

I’ve hidden behind intellect
I’ve scoffed at how I feel
I’ve asked so very many times
If all of this is real

I listen to the silence
Hearing voices soft and clear
Telling me with confidence
There’s nothing I need fear

And so I trust the silence
Putting heart before my head
‘Cause I know it’s in this spirit
That we all are surely led

I need not have a reason
Only know I made this choice
It’s with this step of faith
I find power in my voice

And as I speak my truth
I sense movement with each word
With this power mountains shift
I cannot become deterred

Now I ride upon the wind
Whisper secrets to the crow
Talk openly with angels
‘Cause in my heart I know

That I create the heavens
Right here upon the earth
Through my imagination
I continually give birth

‘What’s real?’ ‘s not the question
‘What’s possible?’ is mine
Shall I dance with lady slippers?
Drink the nectar columbine?

Shall I float on leaves carried by the wind?
Drink raindrops off the grass
Shall I brush my hair with sunshine?
Weave a web of clear blue glass?

I’d like to fly with eagles
Releasing hold on all I know
I stand upon the cliff’s edge
And feel the breezes blow

Without a thought, I take a step
Sweet spirit carries me
It’s all that I’ve imagined
My heart has set me free

Scapegoat Complete

I've been laboring over my Scapegoat doll for 2 weeks now -- journaling, sketching pictures, feeling really uncomfortable with the process, losing sleep, spinning my wheels.  And I've  completed her.  She's nowhere near eye-candy, but I connect with her in a deep, heart-felt way. 

This week I discovered a part of me that feels it's been frozen for years.  At age 26, I had a perception of being invincible and all being well -- I really trusted life's process, albeit in a naive way.   When I was raped, my sense of true joy and freedom became unreachable -- hidden behind my fear of experiencing pain again.

My scapegoat is named is Mesh Mess. The interplay of empty and full have been ever-present in this process.  The wire mesh represents my feeling of missing out on being able to hold any essence of fullness -- it's my feeling of emptiness.  I've made a smiling mask on half of the face to show my exterior mirage of all being joyful - full of life, while my interior landscape is that of unworthiness, lack and shame.  I whisked some paint onto the mesh in colors that felt appropriate and I stamped words on clay, fired them and glued them to the mesh surface.

She does seem a mess and yet has already shown me that she's really just needing love and compassion.  This is not a doll I'd hold as the wire mesh is very prickly and hurts my hands, but I'm certainly connecting with her through my heart.

Yesterday morning I journaled with her and she sent me this poem:

Playmates

Emptiness and Fullness came together for a day.
Bleak, silent void of Empty did not know what to say.
Overflowing with abundance, Full grabbed Empty by the hand;
And led her off to play in her imaginary land.

Drained of joyful emotion, Empty sat down in her path.
This, of course, seemed funny and Full began to laugh.
Tears welled up in Empty's eyes; her chest began to heave.
So Full sat down beside her, allowing her to grieve.

Full held Empty in her arms, watched the tears that had no end.
Then she realized the irony she saw within her friend.
Why, Empty wasn't empty, she was really FULL of tears,
And just needed to express the pain she'd held for all these years.

And she needed Full's compassion at this time when all seemed bleak.
So Full held Empty close and wiped her teary cheek.
At this moment, Empty melted in the kindness she received
And found that she could feel not so heavily aggrieved.

This healing moment gifted Empty with a valuable life tool
And it helped her to know that she too could feel full.
The sad unworthy feelings Empty now could rise above
Because she was connected with what she knew was love.

Artist’s Counsel

A day of wind or rain
Will surely draw this color
To the base of my canvas

Oak arms and maple fingers
Will stand still and proud
Against the cool clouded sky

Shall I prepare my palette
For that splendor
Or perhaps when

Raccoons scuttle nose to tail
Through dry leaves
Seeking food and

Crow sounds above
“NOW, NOW!
Capture this moment”

Don't Make Spirit Too Small

Don’t make Spirit too small
Lest It become hidden amidst books
Dog-eared and dusty high on a shelf
Or as the sun fades
Forgotten against the backdrop of night

Don’t make Spirit too small
One flowered stem of beauty
The magnificence of which is
Absorbed into life’s landscape
Overlooked as the boy’s finger
That holds the dike

Don’t make Spirit too small
Our cares overshadowing
The Omnipotence that breathes
Life into the newborn child
And dreams the magic
Weaving of a snowflake

Don’t make Spirit too small
Like the mud-filled puddle
Which soils our shoe
While the mighty tide pulses our being
Bringing infinite treasure ashore

Don’t make Spirit too small
Like the lone song of woodthrush
Drowned in the chatter of mind
Its sweet morning reverie
One piece of the orchestra
Embraced only by the rising sun 

Don’t make Spirit too small
For as you magnify Its essence
You become blinded by Its Brilliance

Hidden in Years of Mothering

Barren as my daughter’s cradle
Her quilt still folded neatly
I contemplate my reflection
Eclipsed by kitchen light

As I sift through piles of dishes
And memories of dinner blessings
And holding hands
Hands so small and soft and full of life

I take in my world through timid eyes
Squinting for fear of being seen
Like a child who hides her face
And wonders where you are

I find myself
Hidden in years of mothering,
Still as the doll perched on the dresser
Waiting to be found by those searching

One morning I discover myself
Draped across the sun-dappled sheets
Exposed as the unforgiving colors
Emblazoned on a white canvas

Remote treasure now unearthed
Wild vines spring forth
Boasting tender full berries

Awaiting hands to set them free
Lips to exploit soul’s yearning
Such voluminous flow
Overcomes the page, the portrait

Still life no longer still
I open the bedroom door
Into a new day