As if the losing makes us more of what we are.
It’s not as if the clouds were parted and
some waterfall of golden light poured forth.
No rainbow smeared its hues across the storm-
bruised sky. No wondrous star. No kings with gold.
No angel choir. The sun did not stand still.
No burning bush. No parted seas. No feast
of fish and bread. Sometimes the aching heart
wants blatant, flagrant proof of holiness.
Tonight it was the swallows as they keeled
and curved, converged, dispersed and re-appeared
that altered me. Though truly, it was not
the birds and more the watching as they swooped,
the watching till the watching self dissolved
and the world was only space and darkling wings.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged birds, blank verse, holiness, losing the separate self, miracle, sonnet, swallows | 8 Comments »
What is unwanted still serves.
—Sam Aureli, “Dandelions”
I was just sitting on the edge of the porch,
but I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe,
I was sobbing and scared and hurting and
I couldn’t fucking breathe; panic surged in me,
my brain screamed red, and I tried to breathe—
why couldn’t I breathe?—as my chest squeezed
and sobs quaked and shook and stole me,
and I couldn’t feel my heart. Wait. I couldn’t feel
my heart? A star-bright awareness sang in me then
like a one-note song I could follow home through
any darkness or density. Not that the terror disappeared,
but in attuning myself to my heart, my physical heart
opened enough to hold the terror. I sat on the edge
of the porch. Just sat. And was breathed.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged anxiety, breathing, heart, heart energy, love, panic attack, unwanted | 12 Comments »
The way my grandmother tended
to her daylilies, that is the way
I want to attune to your words—
knowing how each utterance blooms
only briefly, but when cared for,
the plant itself is hardy, long lasting,
abundant, able to survive both
heat and chill, both loam and clay.
Come love, whisper to me.
I cherish every petal. And when
there is no bloom, I have learned
water and fertilize anyway, to honor
the place where the bloom will be.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged communication, connection, flower, garden, growth, lily | 2 Comments »
To know the self as seedling again.
To push against the home I’ve known
before launching into ecstatic stretch.
To trust again how the slenderest threads
will anchor me to the world.
I had become so enamored with blooming,
I forgot the joy of initiation,
the thrill of not knowing,
the startlement of reaching through
darkness into light.
I’d forgotten the earnest striving
that comes before bud, before petal,
before effulgent perfume.
To be held by it again,
that sacred uncertainty.
To feel the flush of becoming
what I already am.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged becoming, growth, self-portrait | 4 Comments »
for my husband
And we’re scooching on the surface,
and we’re skimming on the surface,
and we’re walking on the crust and
we’re up to our crotches in rotten snow,
sharp crystals scratching our legs,
our shoes drenched, our toes cold,
and we climb out to skim again on the surface
and sink. And skim. Get stuck. Crawl out.
It was, of course, a relief to find
ourselves again on a dry dirt trail,
but it was wonderful, wasn’t it, to flounder
and still find our way, I mean
today, but I mean for thirty two years,
falling in deep and choosing again
to take the next step.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged hiking, husband, mountain, partner, snow, tree line | 4 Comments »
Not only the golden yellow belly
of the evening grosbeak as he bobs
below the feeder; not only
the rich purple flash of the black-chinned
hummingbird charging the air with iridescence;
it could, in fact, be any gray-winged thing,
even, for instance, a cricket, common as grass,
prehistoric and segmented in its armor, yes,
it could be anything—ant hill, moth dust,
soft moss, ginger—anything at all
that makes you, for a moment, pause
to take in the miracle of what is here, and
the attendant miracle that you are here, too,
as witness, and in this pleat of a pause,
you might find yourself stunned with a gratefulness
you could never hope to name, a thanksgiving
beyond the syllables of prayer, a throbbing
thanksgiving for the utter marvel of this life
that none of us did anything at all to deserve,
yes, gratefulness for the pausing itself,
that portal through which we travel
to find everything, everything is holy,
even the pill bug, even the tick,
even the one who cannot stop stuttering
thank you, thank you, thank you.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged gratefulness, holy, lens, nature, pause, thank you | 12 Comments »
A Thursday so ordinary
I might forget it is another
chance to love this world
until the delicate flowers
of service berry bushes
start to throw their lacy white petals
onto the trail as if I’m a bride
walking the aisle—
and maybe it’s a gift
each time I forget the wonder
of Spring because each time
I remember, I’m remade again
by the simple splendor
of May, how tender the green
of the new aspen leaves,
how urgent the rush of snowmelt
as it pumps through the gorge
with its cold, clear song,
how warm the air playing on my face
like a lover’s hands ever so gently
lifting the veil.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged forgetting, loving the world, remembering, spring | 4 Comments »
As many chairs
as humans.
No way to refuse
what we are served.
We choke on
the courses.
How is it they
nourish us?
Beneath the table,
we hold hands.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged connection, grief, loss | 2 Comments »
Long before dark
a single bat zig zags
and dips, its erratic
twisting and diving
so unlike the smooth
loops of swallows—
it’s like when forgiveness
grows wings before the mind
is on board, moving inside us
with its own mysterious
intelligence. More agile than we thought,
surprisingly flexible, wild, clearly blind.
How strange to see it fluttering
in the light, something we’ve been told
is improbable.
We couldn’t say it’s beautiful,
yet we can’t stop staring.
How humble it is. How hungry.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged bats, forgiveness, humility, surprise | 6 Comments »
In every moment, there is a car
and an infinite hill and the chance
you will roll down that hill. With no brakes.
Backwards. When grief first yanked me
into its old beater, I was too stunned
to try to stop gravity from doing what
gravity does. Mostly, these days,
I forget what can happen. Mostly,
there’s a rope attached to the car
that keeps it from careening, a rope
made of friendship, of family,
of trust in the self that has grown over time.
The rope is a lovely illusion.
Sometimes I fool myself into believing
that the stability I feel is because
the brakes are fixed and I’ve become
better at parking, even in the steepest zones.
I fool myself into thinking the rope can’t be cut.
That is why, perhaps, it’s so surprising
when I feel the lurch, my stomach rising
into my chest. So surprising to see loss
is sitting in the driver’s seat looking
at me with its uncompromising gaze
as if to say, No, sweetheart,
that seatbelt won’t do you any good.
If you pray, now’s a good time for that—
but don’t bother to pray for the car
to stop. Pray to be able to laugh
as we speed down the hill.
Pray that as the world blurs by,
while terror squeezes your throat
what is most alive in you also notices
how radiant the sunset, how briefly
it shines, that tender pink.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged beauty, car, control, grief, safety | 10 Comments »