top of page

growth

Growth is measured in so many ways.


A ruler

or scale,

the tick-tock of a clock.

Counted footsteps, carefully walked 

toe to heel

to toe

across the sand.

An inch on a map =

five hundred miles on land.


Pencil marks on grandma’s wall--

feet flat, shoulders back

stand up straight.

Every year

a bit higher

never scrubbed away,

a smudged reminder of where we’ve been.


Growth is measured in 

numbers

letters

grades (plus! minus!) shoved in pockets of backpacks.

Hours spent in front rows on church pews.

Pounds gained

inches lost

trophies, ribbons, medals

hung around necks, displayed proudly on our walls--

nails bending, necks heavy with the weight of our own accomplishment. 


But

what about the growth we cannot measure? 

The most important growth.


What if there isn’t a 

formula

or calculation

or trophy case of the soul?


What if no one is keeping track? 


How do we know

that we

have grown?


How much dirt did we wash off our hands at the end of the day?

How many hours did we go without shoes--

the earth soft and warm beneath our feet, 

slowly

growing

our roots.


How many mornings did we wake with the birds,

dress ourself in morning sun 

and sit in the silence of 

what seems to be nothing

but really,

might be

everything? 


Have we shared kind words today?


Have we planted

a seed, 

a thought? Have we taught?

Have we questioned,

then learned something new?


Have we slowed down? Have we laughed?


Have we felt 

the awe

of the simple

and mundane?

Have we looked at the overlooked?


Have we rested,

and then opened our eyes,

felt something new

deep

in our SELF?

An unfamiliar space

for light to shine.


We don’t have the tool to measure

these things.

A ruler won’t reach,

a scale isn’t big enough.


But try 

not to worry…


Feet flat,

shoulders back,

I think--

I KNOW

we are growing.



Recent Posts

See All

my life, in 24 hours

Most would just use a calendar, measuring time as the years pass, one by one. But I feel like my life has flown by in only hours. The first hour I remember my earliest, I’m laughing; gasping through g

love is...

What is love? It is needed, right now, I do know that. Love can be the usual-- the candy and the hearts and the flowers, though this has never been my favorite kind of love. Love is cliche. Love gentl

Comments


bottom of page