Three dogs met in Deep Run Park. They
wagged their tails, sniffed,
and kissed. One was
brown and white, one
black, and one brown. One was big and
one medium,
one was small. No
exclusion here.
What if, like those dogs, humans saw
other humans,
not color, race,
only humans?
A vanilla latté, a clean
CT scan, and a walk in
the neighborhood
with Luna at my side
makes my heart soar.
The sweet scent of
honeysuckle, the sight
of lavender, the throaty
whistle of a tufted titmouse,
the piercingly sweet call
of a Carolina wren,
a deer scampering
across the road,
hydrangeas adorned with
purple and white blossoms,
magnolias in full bloom,
and the delicate flowers
of coral bells stretching
heavenward. Orange
lilies screaming for
attention, purple clematis
rising up a mailbox,
the resinous smell of a
blue spruce, and last
of all, my climbing
hydrangea snaking its
way across the pergola
on the deck, blooming
like never before.
In the field by
the lake minuscule
purple blossoms
peek out among
tiny, stacked,
heart-shaped leaves,
all on one stalk.
Before today, I
saw only the
blossoms, but
this morning I
stopped, bent
down, and was
amazed. They
say you are a
weed, but edible
and medicinal.
To me, you
are a miracle.
In a wide-brimmed hat
and yellow jacket,
head down, hands on
lap, she sat on the bench
by the lake surrounded
by trees just beginning
to show their colors.
Was she meditating,
was she praying or
was she just being?
We’ll never know.
Luna and I walk behind
her, not wanting to
disturb her moment
of peace and solitude.
Photo created by AI!
Remembering how Olivia
planted crocuses around
a tree before an illness
in an old Walton’s episode,
I too planted them, needing
something to look forward
to. It was a warm October
morning a few weeks before
surgery when I knew the
unwelcome visitor in my lung
had to come out and the
road to recovery would be
long. Now here you are
pushing up your green shoots
and opening your blooms.
I am still here and both
of us have made it through
the dark days of winter
and are turning our heads
toward the healing sun.
Image by 🌼Christel🌼 from Pixabay
After a cleanout frenzy today,
we gave away the wooden blocks,
the ones kept in the big wicker
basket on the coat closet floor,
the ones all three of you used
to build bridges and houses and
roads, the ones that little boy
with the chubby fingers ran
his matchbox cars over, the ones
his sisters used to build towers
and let him knock them down,
setting off infectious laughter.
It was bittersweet to give them
away, but none of you wanted them.
I would like to think some lucky child
will be thrilled when his mother snaps
them up at the Goodwill on Broad.
That child will not see the fingerprints
of our children, grandchildren, great
nieces and nephews or mine,
but they are all there and hold
so many memories of those
precious times when you were
all so young and full of joy.
Photo by Valery Fedotov on Unsplash
As I drove along on
this cold, grey morning,
a flash of red caught
my eye, then three more,
as four cardinals flew from
the middle of the road and
disappeared into the white woods.
Later this morning through
the window during yoga I gazed
at a big tree that has captured
my heart, its snow-kissed branches
stretching protectively over the
courtyard of an old stone church,
filling the space with its gracefulness.
Rustling of dry
leaves underfoot,
sun slanting
through pines,
clickety clack
of a train
far, far away,
Luna sniffing
here and there,
horse droppings
on the side,
pine needles
cushioning feet,
shell-shaped fungi
on downed trees.
Listen and look.
It’s all there
waiting for you.
As Luna and I ambled around
the pond on this clear, new
morning with grass kissed by
frost, I began reciting out loud
as I often do Wendell Berry’s
The Peace of Wild Things.
At the very moment I
reached “and the great heron
feeds,” a great blue heron
flew the length of the pond.
Was this a coincidence,
synchronicity, or divine plan?
The feel of my own sheets.
Soft pillows without
a rubbery covering.
Luna curled beside me.
Blessed quiet with no
beeping machines, no
wakeups at 3 a.m. for
chest x-rays, or a roommate
with the TV blaring.
No tangle of tubes and
no more poking and prodding.
A daughter who took over
communication with family
and friends. A son who experienced
the trauma of post-surgery complications
without alarming me. The Betty Brigade
bringing delicious food each day.
A husband who changed
the sheets. Sleep, blessed sleep!
Daughters and granddaughter
changing my bandages with
calmness and professionalism.
Quiet visits from my circle of women.
And the list continues to grow.
Oh, do we ever take for
granted the small blessings
of this life. I thought I was
aware of them but this
“unwelcome visitor” has
seared their importance
into my very being and
I am thankful for that.
(But not for the “unwelcome visitor!”)
Enveloping darkness,
and then slowly behind
a bank of clouds a
half circle of light
peeks out and grows
into a full sphere,
signaling another
blue-sky day.
Barely a soul in sight,
walking toward the
rising sun, we make
the first prints in the
sand. On our left
seagrass swaying, on
our right crashing
waves and seagulls.
This is creation.
untangling the web 