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.

Moment Amassing

Lately, my mind had been clouded–both with wonderful ventures and stressful circumstances. I’m doing my best to hold both with intentionality, whether I’m neck deep in house-showing preparations or on top of San Francisco’s Bernal Heights.

Tomorrow, I know that these moments will pass. I’ll be left with the memory, a lesson, and a greater thankfulness for the day that is before me.

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Moment Amassing

by Regan Smith

• • •

I collect memories,
facts, figures, songs–
storing them safely
in poetry.

I take the scene,
ambling in this atmospheric
slice of span,
and place my pen to paper
transcribing the moment,
to save my mind some space.

Here.

I wrote this poem this morning, when the family was sleeping beneath comforters in various rooms, and the robins began swooping from barren branch to barren branch. Its title is today’s date, though its theme is the name of this post.

Here. Moving past an adverb, this word is a state of presence that tugs at me to stay within the moment. In a time where anxiety can run rampant, this word reminds me to put it into perspective, and take what’s in front of me. What’s here, and find the light in it.

• • •

April 6, 2019

Today, the Colorado mountains
surround me, lungs treated
with rich oxygen, rejuvenated
from the pines, untouched
by man’s machine.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back home,
where my residence’s finale
in this town has only begun.

Then, I’ll be flying clear
to the other coastline,
soaking in D.C.’s museums
and art, and eat guac from a
once-familiar Mexican restaurant,
I first visited a year back.

From there, I’ll become lost
in thought, 30,000 feet
above the ground; traveling
from Nashville to Atlanta,
allowing an hour to breathe.

And while Colorado is not
my home, I’ll return here
in less than 30 days,
leaning against a white wall
looking out the window
into the thick of pines;
limited cell service,
endless writing.

But for today,
I’m in the Colorado air,
bird’s call almost tangible,
their echo lingering throughout
the valley; I wish my
father well, as he buttons up
his coat and shifts his lunchbox
to the other hand,
admiring the sky.

And I’ll watch the deer graze upon
the land–my mother’s almost
emerging flower plants.

And now I admire the sky,
and how it meets the cities,
on all parts of the earth.

Warmth + Gratitude

n o v e m b e r 1 7

A candle flickers in my peripherals, with its fragrance filling the air. Lavender. The same scent steams from my—laced with peppermint leaves. The warmth swirls within my mouth as I relax in to my chair. My eyes are met with a polaroid photo that I pinned to the wall. It’s of my mother and I at my brother’s summer wedding. Even the polaroid photo catches the radiance in her smile. 

I’ve always wanted to emulate my mother, and at a young age defined success as being a mother with many children. But I’ve grown to recognize that it’s her bright spirit I long to mirror, how she illuminates every scene. 

I step into deeper, digressing thought. My features are a fifty-fifty blend of her’s and my father’s. I love that. So perplexing how genes can mix and fuse and swap and join together. God never misses a moment to showcase His artistry.

I see my mother’s strength, and recognize that it’s fortified. It originates in her intimate encounters with The Creator. She’s an incredible showcase of her strength, for it’s in her nature. Her strength is her speaking openly, sharing words, hurt, her testimony–all to help and relate to others–meeting them where they are at, only to bring them to a higher place, bringing heaven down for us to dwell within. I’m so thankful for her golden heart.

During the trip for my brother’s wedding, we visited the California sand dunes. I stole this time to be still within the present, hiding away in the divots between the dunes. Here, I wrote this poem. 

My Mother

Eyes lining each petal, 
the soft and vulnerable centers, 
taking notice of every bundle of hydrangeas, 
black eyed susans and hummingbird sage. 

Your mind sketches them in charcoal, 
paints them with acrylics, 
writes them into a book, 
with a matching movie,
while treasuring this time. 

Your eyes
brighten by the ocean, 
by the mountains, 
by the coming-of-age of the brother of mine. 

Your heart is always heavy for others, 
but forever increases in capacity, 
unbroken by burdens, 
free like the swallows skimming over sand. 

My face is beginning to resemble yours 
with the passing years–
cheekbones prominent,
my almond-shaped eyes.

I pray that my spirit’s maturation, 
does the same.

• • •

n o v e m b e r 2 2

I retreated from the warmth beneath the bedtime covers and was greeted by the morning. Its light gently descended out across our home—spilling across the carpet and cabinets. My body was bathed in peppermint as the cool air brought a refreshing bite to my skin.

It’s Thanksgiving morning. Ricky is in the bathroom—water-on, water-off—brushing his teeth in preparation for his work day.

I read a while, and take Rollie (our little min-pin mix) outside. The frost has melted away, but the air is still pure. I think that’s my favorite trait of the end of year months, that morning’s renewal bleeds into later within the day. It’s free from the scorching, harsh heat, not weighed heavy from humidity. 

I brew some tea and refill the vase that holds goldenrods and peach roses. They were waiting for me in cellophane wrapping when I arrived home from work earlier this week and have since expanded out their petals to full-bloom. 

I fold laundry, the little load of white shirts, towels, socks. I dwell on the day’s purpose–the day of giving thanks. I name all things I’m thankful for, regardless of size: 

The overflow and outpour of Love, and how it spills and splashes about. 
The husband who kisses me before leaving our home for the day. 
My family who generously shares in conversation, despite our coast-to-coast distance. 
These quiet mornings, gifted with the intent for my mind to rest. 
These warm and freshly folded linens.

My heart is full, soul soothed, and my mind is in a posture of gratitude. 

• • •

n o v e m b e r 2 4

The moment I began writing affirmations, the sun debuted for the day. My skin, my shirt soaked up its warmth. After a few seconds, it withdraws, idling back behind the clouds. This cool, autumn afternoon, is to be spent sipping on a muggy coffee drink. 

I move onto the second string of affirmations, and the sun peeks out again. It’s an honest moment, and my hand and pen become a dancing shadow on these bright white, lined sheets.

This simple gesture has shed light on the significance that saunters about. Fullness.