Jeanne Hewell-Chambers

+ Her Barefoot Heart

Tag: poem (Page 1 of 2)

A Remembering

September 12, 2025 / / 0 Comments
An older woman with gray hair and wearing a shirtwaist dress made of cotton, her left hand resting on the shoulder of an adorable (if I do say so myself!) little girl with a bow in her brown hair, wearing a yellow and gray organization dress trimmed with white lace and embellished with a poufy petticoat holding an overflowing Easter basket stand in a field of unending red clover

Young Jeanne and her paternal grandmother stand in an unending field of red clover one beautiful Easter, with Jeanne holding her Easter basket filled to overflowing with brightly-colored eggs she found at her material grandmother’s house mere hours before her daddy took this photo.

 

Click the triangle to listen to Jeanne read A Remembering

A Remembering
by Jeanne Hewell-Chambers

Silently
her fingers touch every
wrinkle
every freckle every pore
of my face.

Her exploratory adventure
begins with my fingers
turning them into a treasure map
as her cute, chubby fingers
trek over my fingernails and knuckles
to my palm
my wrist
up to my elbow
and around the bend to my shoulder.
From there
her pudgy, inquisitive fingers
meander across my collarbone
to the base of my neck.

Up, up, up they go,
using my chin
as a home base,
her index and middle fingers
walking my jawbone
first to my left ear
then to my right.

Her curious fingers dip into the
pools of my ears
and skip around the rims
as though they’re an amusement park.

She moves slowly
taking her time,
knowing I will honor her curiosity
with patience
and possibly this poem for
the daily journal I keep for her.

My cheekbones
provide a bridge to my nose
which she explores thoroughly
from the edges that hold it in the space
above my lips
to the smallest part
between my eyes
(unless you count the nostril caves
which she thankfully
chooses not to visit!)

Her fingers slide down
freom the top of my nose
to the bottom,
and from there
it’s a short hop to my lips
which plant themselves on her face
and knees and toes and heels
and hands and shoulders and fingers so often,
they need only the most cursory
going over.

Back up the nose
then over to my eyes
which admittedly makes me nervous.
Will she be gentle
or will she poke me in the eye
and push them out of the socket?
Is that even possible?
This 2 year old would know.

Up my forehead then across my hair,
her fingers climb
to the
tip top of my head
where decades ago a fontanel existed
giving my brain room to grow.
She lingers longest here atop my head
right in the center.
The crown,
some call it,
where wisdom,
divine connection,
and clarity
is fostered.

What is she doing?
Is this a hands-on anatomy class
or something else?

No sounds are uttered
and I wonder . . .
If I can be still enough
for long enough,
if I can avoid interruptions
of people needing something
of the to do list tapping its foot
or the timer clearing its throat
to let me know it’s time to switch the laundry,
If I can manage that sizable miracle
of quiet,
might my fingertips –
through their nerves
and muscles
and haptic intelligence –
remember a night when
2 year old me shared a pillow
with my grandmother,
tracing her face,
intently memorizing what even then I knew
I’d never want to forget?
Might my fingers remember
my grandmother’s 2 year old fingers
tracing the face of her grandmother
and that grandmother,
as a 2 year old,
memorizing the face of her grandmother?
Through some enchanting mystery
might I remember
generations of love
through my fingertips?

 

~~~~~~~

A note read by Jeanne explaining the 10-day gap between penning and posting.

On September 1, 2025, I began a daily writing practice. This poem, while penned on September 2, is posted on September 12, 2025 because such is my life. The 2 year old and her boundless curiosity live with us. Enough said about the 10-day gap between penning and posting. Thank y’all for reading along.

Journey

September 3, 2025 / / 1 Comment

a pink and yellow flower with a big bloom at the top and cubbies making their way to the roots

Jeanne reading Journey (with a touch of frogginess from lingering seasonal allergies)

 

JOURNEY

Today I praise
the multitudes inside me
the girl
the teen
the woman
the mother
the daughter
the friend
the wife
the student
the teacher
the fledgling.

I praise
the questions
the doubts
the wonderings
and wanderings.
I praise
the light
the darkness
the fallow
the storms
the harvests
inside me,
knowing it takes all these elements
for seeds to grow and bloom.

I praise the Committee of Jeanne
The Child who knows the value of play
the soft whispers of The Wise Woman
who says things only once
because that is enough.
I even praise
the stern, sure, booming voice
that has something to say about everything
and declares and decrees with great authority
from the end
of his wagging finger.

I praise
the chorus
that creates pitch (im)perfect beauty
when my heart, hands, brain, and soul
sing, stitch, and scribe
hymns of
words
cloth
paper
movement
silence.

I praise
the deep ever-replenishing well
of knowledge
wisdom
curiosity
creativity
tenderness
anger
fear
humor
vulnerability
confidence
that resides deep inside,
creating the Cartography of Jeanne.

With great exultation,
I praise the occasional gumption mustered
to tug on the zipper
of the invisible bubble I call Home
and turn myself inside out,
letting my face
my body
my entire Being
feel the sun
of being genuine.

~~~~~~~

Poem 1
September 1, 2025

Let’s begin with the what and the why of it all . . .

NOTE: Today (well, technically, 2 days ago – such is my life!) I begin writing something every day. Some days it will be a poem. Other days a story. Some days it might be editing and revising a previously written piece. Why am I doing this? Because I can no longer not do it. The words jangle and knock around inside me, and finally one taps their watch and looks at me with a look that clearly says – no words needed – It’s time.

An so it is.

Living Vicariously

June 4, 2024 / / 1 Comment

Bubbles, Alison, and Ava Jeanne leave the hospital to begin our lives together! (Note the beautifully smocked - if I do say so myself - dress Ava Jeanne wears home. The bonnet Ava Jeanne wears was worn by her mother when she came home from the hospital.

Bubbles, Alison, and Ava Jeanne leave the hospital to begin our lmulti-generational together! (Note the beautifully smocked – if I do say so myself – dress Ava Jeanne wears home. The bonnet Ava Jeanne wears was worn by her mother when she came home from the hospital.

Sounds of
Tiny hands slapping watermelons
and joining in with applause
until she knows an A+.
Boats making their way
through the deep water of our backyard.
Birds melodiously conversing
with birds of different feathers.
Wind chimes singing a duet
with clacking palm trees to the tune of gentle breezes.

The feel of
Really cold ice on her tongue.
The tickle of peach fuzz against her chubby cheek.
Heavily mayonnaises potato salad
squishing through her tiny fingers.
Ephemeral bath bubbles on her arms
Ocean waves stealing the ground from beneath her feet.

Scents of
Roses and peonies.
Heavy hot air of the Lowcountry summer.
A watermelon busting open.
Bubble gum flavored toothpaste.

Seeing
Her mother’s face when she enters the room.
The vast ever-changing ocean.
Her bedtime bottle.

Slowly
slowly
Sometimes taking one step forward
and thirteen backwards,
The shroud of grief is pierced
at least momentarily
and she reacquaints me with
wonder
delight
and hope.

~~~~~~~

Notes:
~ Ava Jeanne is a year older now than in this photo, but the computer wouldn’t cooperate and upload the photo i want to use.
~ My mother took her last earthly breath last fall, and still I grieve. Hard.
~ This was written as granddaughter Ava Jeanne took her 2-hour nap this afternoon in my lap. I know, I know. I shouldn’t be rocking her at this stage . . . but one thing I know for sure: I won’t get a second chance to do this.

real

January 6, 2016 / / 2 Comments

If It Is Not Too Dark

Iool4 27

Go for a walk, if it is not too dark.
Get some fresh air, try to smile.
Say something kind
To a safe-looking stranger, if one happens by.

Iool4 28

Always exercise your heart’s knowing.
You might as well attempt something real
Along this path:

Iool4 29

Take your spouse or lover into your arms
The way you did when you first met.
Let tenderness pour from your eyes
The way the Sun gazes warmly on the earth.

Iool4 30

Play a game with some children.
Extend yourself to a friend.
Sing a few ribald songs to your pets and plants –
Why not let them get drunk and wild!

Iool4 31

Let’s toast
Every rung we’ve climbed on Evolution’s ladder.
Whisper, “I love you! I love you!”
To the whole mad world.

Iool4 32

Let’s stop reading about God –
We will never understand Him.

Iool4 33

Jump to your feet, wave your fists,
Threaten and warn the whole Universe
That your heart can no longer live
Without real love!

~Hafiz

~~~~~~~

In Our Own Language 4:27-33

Nancy, my developmentally disabled sister-in-law draws.
I, the woman who flat-out loves her, stitch her drawings.

breadcrumbs

February 1, 2014 / / 2 Comments

Evidence01feb14i

meet Evidence, the hymn of cloth that documents this year of my life – the year dedicated to building a body that works and a body of work – beginning on 11/15/13. (because every day is new year’s day, right?) it’s color coded by what elements constitute, for me, a day well spent:

red = moving (as in walking, yoga, etc.)
orange = making (stitching, mostly, but also collages and photographs)
aqua = marking (writing, as in journals and books and blog posts)
purple = laughing (as in the surprises and wonders of the day that don’t go unnoticed)

Evidence01feb14m

i was filled with excited anticipation when i started work on Evidence back in november, and decided to use my sewing machine (a christmas gift from my husband 40 years ago, bought and paid for with winnings from a radio show contest) instead of stitching it all by hand as is my standard, my preference, my love. it quickly turned unfun, though, on account of the bulk. and if all goes according to plan, the bulk will become greater and greater.

Evidence01feb14d

today i pushed up my sleeves and set about getting caught up. with the walking foot on the machine, i put an audio book on and started, telling myself that i would not abandon this project and i would make this enjoyable and worthwhile. period.

as i sewed, i noticed that i had a tendency to push and pull the fabric in an effort to speed things up. sewing was much easier and more enjoyable when i relaxed and worked with the machine instead of against it. ditto when i quit disregarding and underestimating the flexibility and forgiving nature of fabric – when i let it be what it is instead of trying to make it something else, like a glass or an egg. this may be a transferable epiphany.

///

later, along comes this David Walcott poem titled Love After Love sent by my friend tom:

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

which is what often happens when you capture and preserve your life stories . . .

a doorway

May 29, 2013 / / 13 Comments

Iris2

“There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”
Zora Neale Hurston

At long last, I’m reconciling with prayer. For so long, I’ve avoided thinking about it altogether, avoiding it like the plague, actually. Probably has something to do with the missionary telling the young teenage me about the man who came into her storefront church and how when she called on him to lead the prayer, he stood up and with his eyes kept open, spread his arms wide and said something like “Hey God, it’s me, James” then just started having a conversation. Having grown up in the world of men (and only select, special men, mind you) leading us in prayer “with every head bowed and every eye closed,” this story was a breath of fresh air. The missionary, however, was absolutely appalled and said she cut him off mid-prayer and asked him to leave. Banished.

Now, Sugar, you need to know that I love being a Southerner, but as a woman living in the proverbial Bible Belt, it’s dangerous to use words like “prayer” lest they confirm the stereotype (that in my case, is not true) and get the dreaded label attached to your forehead. It’s something that’s hard to wash off.

So yes, prayer and I became estranged a long, long time ago. But then one day recently, I sent a letter to prayer by way of my journal and asked Couldn’t walking be a prayer? Yes, came the answer. And Do we have to call on men to lead us in prayer? First there was a chuckle, then a sigh, and finally a No, absolutely not. Anybody can pray, anybody at all.

After a while, my intense dislike of prayer began to wane, and I came to decide that among other things, prayer is a way to give the brain a vacation . . . or at least a day off. Seems to me that prayer is paying such close attention to Small Things that you can’t help but feel Something Big.

We’re not completely There yet, prayer and I, but we’re working on it.


PRAYER IN MY BOOT

For the wind no one expected

For the boy who does not know the answer

For the graceful handle I found in a field
attached to nothing
pray it is universally applicable

For our tracks which disappear
the moment we leave them

For the face peering through the cafe window
as we sip our soup

For cheerful American classrooms sparkling
with crisp colored alphabets
happy cat posters
the cage of the guinea pig
the dog with division flying out of his tail
and the classrooms of our cousins
on the other side of the earth
how solemn they are
how gray or green or plain
how there is nothing dangling
nothing striped or polka-dotted or cheery
no self-portraits or visions of cupids
and in these rooms the students raise their hands
and learn the stories of the world

For library books in alphabetical order
and family businesses that failed
and the house with the boarded windows
and the gap in the middle of a sentence
and the envelope we keep mailing ourselves

For every hopeful morning given and given
and every future rough edge
and every afternoon
turning over in its sleep

says Naomi Shihab Nye

Amen
says me.

133

October 26, 2012 / / 0 Comments

We work hand-in-hand. Nancy draws:

5 133 1 erased

Then I stitch:

133

When You Come to Love
by Ann Fisher-Wirth

When you come to love,
bring all you have.

Bring the milk in the jug,
the checked cloth on the table—
the conch that sang the sea
when you were small,
and your moonstone rings,
your dream of wolves,
your woven bracelets.

For the key to love is in the fire’s nest,
and the riddle of love is the hawk’s dropped feather.

Bring every bowl and ewer,
every cup and chalice, jar,
for love will fill them all-

And, dazzled with the day,
fold the sunlight in your sheets,
fold the smell of salt and leaves,
of summer, sweat, and roses,
to shake them out when you need them most,

For love is strong as death.

Tickled to be here today. Thank you, Ashley.

~~~~~~~~~

She is my developmentally disabled sister-in-law, Nancy,
and I am Jeanne, the woman who flat-out loves her.
Go here to start at the beginning.

Blue Morning Glory

August 22, 2011 / / 6 Comments

Bluewave4

Voracious, yes. But when you see it,
shy blue flowers blaring like trumpets in spite of themselves,
center star shaped and yellow; when it startles you,
early in the morning, all over a white picket fence, say,
in Massachusetts, you might think “triumphal,” “prodigal,”
“awake.”

Of course you don’t want it in your rose garden
among all the pruned, the decorous bushes. You don’t want it
in the vegetables, for it will romp through the tomatoes,
beans and peas, will leave no room on the ground, or even
in the air, for the leafy lettuces and cabbages soberly
queueing up in their furrows. It will hog all the sky it can get
knowing as it does what enormous thirst is satisfied by blue.

Father Michael says Follow the God of abundance
Says we hurry from the moment’s wealth
for fear it will be taken. Think of this:

the morning glory has been blossoming for so long
without permission that in some gardens it is no longer censored.
What does that tell you? See how it opens its tender throats
to a world that can sting it, how, without apology for its excess,
it blooms and blooms, though even yet
it seems surprised.

Anne Pitkin

(I want to be a Blue Morning Glory. Just so you know.)

((The photo is actually a Blue Wave Petunia, but you get the idea.))

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