Second Home

I’ve been thinking about the connection between the mind, the body and ultimately its relation to our soul; I’m trying to make sense of their overlap, of the space that lives between them.

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Second Home

by Regan Smith

• • •

My mind has vacated, withdrawing up into the sky, to watch the world as a spectator; 
as the rain pours onto the earth below, I meditate in the heavy haze. 

Lungs lined with dew, skin saturated like petals in the morning; 
the bottom of my feet are met with sure footing by the absence, freedom found at this elevation. 

And as my body settles back with gravity, I steal a slice of this space, 
holding a reality that surpasses a daydream.

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Photography is by Farrah Emami.

Columbus

Ricky and I transitioned back to Ohio, two days ago, after living in Nashville for almost four years. We left with nothing but gratitude for Nashville, and it forever has a piece of our heart. Now in Columbus, my mind’s capacity is filled with the current day, this current joy. I’m so thankful for this place–my once called home, now called home again.

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Columbus

By Regan Smith

• • •

Columbus met me
with full yellow blooms
and weepy grey skies.

She was once my patient mother,
when I had first arrived,
and called her my home
six years ago.

She was gentle,
stroked my hair,
let me cry as I
healed from hurt,
and purely listened.

She watched me
get married,
taught me how
to steady my lifestyle,
and would sing me
lullabies in the thick
of the forest bed.

She let me leave,
sending me with
nothing but love.

During my absence,
I learned discipline,
firm teaching that
truth and love
should never be
untwined; rewarded
with strength and
responsibility.

And now,
four years later,
I cross state lines,
landing back in
my mother’s arms.

And while she’s
thankful I’m coming
home, she knows that
I’m not returning solely
as a daughter,
rather a mother myself.

I’ve fallen pregnant
with dreams and visions,
the beginning of a
lineage that will stretch
across the world;
and now I wait patiently
to give birth, saying
a prayer every morning,
preparing my mind
and my home.

And again, she’s gentle,
as I ask how to nurse and
nurture these newborn
dreams that will
come to fruition,
and take full form.

Unveiling

Joni Bonney is a dear friend of mine. We connect weekly over muggy cups of tea and read excerpts of books aloud to one another. She is my counterpart in co-hosting Poetry Nights, and we are currently planning another for July. She truly emulates the heart of Christ in every fashion; she's always reminding me to be mindful, for gratitude abounds when mindfulness is held. These virtues are laced into her writing and linger in my mind for days. 

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Unveiling

by joni bonney

Existence, experience and the need to feel.

Interlaced progression

Underneath my calm state of being.

I see myself as a memory
Dancing in the fine lines that show across my cheeks.

I see myself hidden in the evergreen
Invisible to what I could previously see.

Brushed up gently to everything that could be.

Instinctively melting into you.

Soft conversation and slow-paced walks
Stirring connectedness.

Whispers and hair brushed delicately to the side of my shoulder.

I can breathe easy
I inhale the breath you have exhaled.

Out of nothing, I am created once more.
Fostered by love.

Focused on a time and a place

I exist in the moments between rain storms.
Slowly, I allow my face to soak.

I lift my arms and finally live in all corners of myself.
Drawn in, graciously, no part withheld.

Undergoing a change in speed, but not in direction.

Deconstructing habitual motions.
Extending my exposure.

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Joni Bonney's goal is to spread love and to emphasize the beautiful things that we miss most of the time in this life.

She grew up on the East Coast and is now living and growing in Nashville, Tennessee, and always planning trips to places around the country. She walks forward as a wanderer through this lovely journey called life and hope to grasp all she can. 

Joni is the author of Songs of Her, and her work can be found through her site, Lovely Wanderer. 

The Unknown’s Known

Today is the day,
littered clouds, bare branches
with bright crimson cardinals—  
thankful for all preceding, 
the stretching, a solemn swallow, 
yet dancing with their song. 

In quiet prayer, 
gazing upon my future, 
equipped and encompassed by grace.  

Sun high, with sidewalk steps, 
I will be standing in the subsequent, 
a slung smile and weathered skin,
beaming back on today.

Uncapped

September 30, 2017

I wrote this letter a few days back for my husband, Ricky, as we approach another marriage milestone. Each year is a milestone, in our era, where the divorce rate is a heartbreaking fifty-percent. There is no couple that experiences only the sweet drops of honey, without encountering the sticky moments, too. I wanted to share this letter, with the permission from my love, along with some old disposable-camera photos I sifted through earlier this week. I couldn't be more thankful for our growth and the beautiful love that we reflect and ricochet, a mirror-facing-mirror. 

. . . 

I’m seated stationary on the big block of concrete that overlooks the green ivy leaves and the dingy downtown river. It’s our favorite urban escape, where we bring our twenty-pound pup on our thirty-minute lunch breaks. 

Tomorrow is our third year of being married to the other—a momentous occasion. Though our dating year was darling and the newlywed hours beautiful, this past year holds paramount. We stood together, against all odds, fighting for each other rather than opposed. A deep, saturated love is birthed when it is a committed choice, rather than a happenstance feeling. For feelings flee faster than a lightning strike, vanishing in an instant, revealing its true selfish state.

But commitment and engaging to love through all endeavors is where true love runs, rich and pure. This is the love that refines every atom, our makeup challenged and tested. How a partner acts within adversary is when honest intentions are uncovered. 

I have had both these types of love with you. 

When we got married, during the golden hour’s amble, I didn’t think my selfish love capacity could increate any further. As the breeze which defines evening from afternoon nipped at our lungs, I was wholly smitten. I was naive in the art of loving through commitment—as all those who have not pulled a witness to sign, expressing direct vision of oath and vow. 

These past few years have been heart wrenchingly beautiful, exposing and expunging all that does not mirror our maker. You’ve never stop trying to, either—the greatest trait that I unknowingly own in a husband, life partner, three years ago. It’s rare to hold a loved one who consistently strives towards conviction.

I'm thankful that you found that in you. 

You have been patient and gracious with me, honest and true. I’m thankful for this endless transparency. My heart still sings when I’m with you, and you join in—together singing praise and giving thanks. 

Your transformation as a human is unparalleled. You are my home, the recipient of all love letters, my greatest joy on this temporary earth; we hold a love no capacity can climb. 

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Airplane

August 27, 2017

I went to Atlanta a few weeks ago, for a business trip. We boarded onto a tiny eight-passenger plane, an intimate aircraft where pilots told us to tap their shoulder if we needed anything and where strangers conversed with others. For our flight total duration, we trailed along the sunset–shifting from Nashville to Atlanta. It was magic. I scribbled a short poetic note on the flight, and I wanted to share it with you. 

Airplane 

Ears popping, my eyes scanning the pesticide track patters within the circle and square lots below. My eyes meet the river lines—their origins and their outpour. The clouds, watching the drops percolate through the weightiness of the world, creating something beautiful for bystanders below. 

I’m thankful for the view, snapping a few photos every moment or so, naming the thanks even in the small things: this book on my lap, the forty-thousand foot view, the gentle drops of the aircraft, the chatter of one stranger helping another. 

To the right are a plethora of beautiful billows, foamy and frothy. To the left are the cotton ball clouds lay beneath the aircraft, wind-raked and lightly packed, transparently texturing the sky. I hold on to this moment.

We drift along the sunset. In the distance, I see a series of clouds that remind me of those shared in view with my husband on our honeymoon cruise. I don’t wish to go back, though. Eyes hang in the thick of the fog, unmarred by nostalgia’s notorious spill. Every while further from the last provokes deeper understanding, prolongated past with each mile leveling a closer parallel to the sun’s stage.

 A deeper, richer color saturates our love—kindred to the day’s finale.