(home)body liturgy
Grace Kelley
When my bare feet trace the laminate path
between my whistling copper kettle,
the cupboard where I keep my tea,
and wherever I left my tea pot last;
I know that I am home.
When I smell onions sweetening
themselves in melted butter
in my dutch oven red-as-candied-apples,
the wedding present I didn’t know I needed;
I know that I am home.
When I sit in my comfortably worn
floral patterned wing chair, a book
in one hand, a child in the other,
a shabby quilt over us both;
I know that I am home.
When I lie down beside you
not facing you exactly, but stretching
my calf, my ankle, my toes out behind me
to make a point of contact with you;
I know that I am home.
Here at home
when the music plays
I know it’s safe to let my thighs shake.
I’m safe to spin on the toes of my holey socks
and leap with imagined grace.
Don’t tell me
if you saw me
through the window.
Here at last
I can turn on the tap—
I can open my mouth wide,
tilt my head to the side
and drink deep of the cool freshness.
This is my
(home)body
liturgy.
My home is hallowed
and hollowed—
filled to overflowing with
cups of tea or maybe
bowls of soup;
fitting, filling, warming
my ice cold hands
—just so.
And people!
Lots of people
each an aching beauty—
the words between us
rising as an offering
as the steam
from my cup rises
to greet the sun.
Grace Kelley
Grace is a writer, speaker, podcast co-host, and beauty hunter in the valley of the shadows. Grace lives in a tiny no-stoplight town on the front range of Colorado with her husband and five young kids, where she attempts to balance her love of gardening and tea drinking, with her hatred of folding laundry.
You can connect with her on Instagram (@gracekelleywrites), Twitter (@gkelleywrites), and her podcast “The Rock and a Holy Place.”