A wounded tree on the bank’s edge
leans precariously,
seems ready to fall.
Slowly it stretches its roots
across the creek
and hugs another tree.
The bridge between the two
seemed impossible at first,
but those two trees
could teach us a thing or two.
Periwinkle on the side of the road
elicits childhood memories.
Family hikes on Lewis Mountain,
walking like Native Americans,
heel toe, heel toe.
Fairies hidden under rocks
and in the roots of ancient trees.
Mounds of leaves to jump in
and tall bonfires with smoke
winding through the neighborhood,
marshmallows toasting on sticks.
Bicycle rides from the top
of the street to the bottom,
all with no hands, such
a feeling of freedom!
Listening, listening is his
key to learning,
said my grandson.
He is just 12.
How do you balance the sins of
the past with the
evolving now?
Forgiveness, he
said. He is only 23.
Young people with
a passion for
social justice
do the hard work in public schools,
synagogues, and
non-profits; mindful
meditation and
compassion classes are expanding.
In this world of
ugly tweets, blame,
do we dare hope?
Inspired by a conversation my son had with his son and by the program at the 25thanniversary of the Chrysalis Institute, now The Center for InnerWork.
Seeming like a blanket of white
flowers, it is
a field of pale
purple splendor,
seen only when I bend down and
look closely. Each
beauty has six
petals around
a yellow center, threadlike
lines splitting each.
So delicate,
so exquisite.
Perhaps if we took the time to
really see those
we pass, we would
glimpse their beauty.
For this I know, there is a light,
an essence, a
center in each
of us, just as
there is a center in each of
those lavender
beauties waiting
to be noticed.
The archetypal pattern lies
deep in your bulb,
waiting beneath
the earth’s surface.
The primordial force pushes
you up through the
layers of soil
as you spiral
skyward, drawn by the sun, fed by
the gentle rain,
unfolding leaves
and soft petals.
Have you ever eaten
a blackberry mindfully?
Or a blueberry or strawberry?
Close your eyes, take one bite
and your taste buds will
explode with delight.
Savor the sweet, sour taste,
roll the berry with your tongue,
feel its texture, its shape.
Grind the seeds with your teeth.
Let it stay in your mouth
as long as you can,
cherishing each sensation.
While I work,
she softly sleeps
on the tan couch,
head on its arm,
paws touching,
a parcel of
brown and white,
curled in a ball of warmth.
I wonder what she is dreaming.
Is she sniffing her way around the pond,
testing the thin ice on its edge,
pausing to smell a cedar tree,
jumping when a heron takes flight?
Or is she in the dog park
cautiously greeting other dogs,
racing around the perimeter,
stopping occasionally to
make sure I am still there?
What a comfort to know that
when I move,
she will open her hazel eyes
and track my every step,
waiting to see
if it is time to follow.
What more could the world offer
at this moment, this very moment?
There is no Other, we are one.
Hatred is a heart disease, it
can be cured and
it must be cured.
We can cure it.
11 innocents shot down and
13 bombs mailed.
Thousands marching
Just to be safe.
One young woman living in a
sanctuary
church, unable to
enjoy Fall’s beauty.
Hatred is a heart disease, it
can be cured and
it must be cured.
We can cure it.
There is no Other, we are one.
Inspired by Ruth King’s keynote address for the Chrysalis Institute
Fiercely protective of
his territory and brood,
a male bluebird pecks on
a downstairs window,
attacking the enemy.
He flies up and
begins anew on
an upstairs window,
seeing the image only
as one who will do him harm.
Even though we understand
the mystery of a reflection,
we are much like this bluebird,
unable to see who
the real enemy is.
As Pogo said, “We have
met the enemy and
he is us.”
My husband and I and our dog Luna drove into the city yesterday to hike across the new Potterfield Bridge and then through the woods and back across the James River to Belle Isle, an island located at the fall line of the James with a beautiful view of the rapids as well as Hollywood Cemetery and the Richmond skyline. The day was perfect for a long hike—cool and sunny after several days of rain. Many people were out to enjoy the water and the fresh air — young and old, black and white and brown, dogs and children.
Belle Isle has not always been a happy place. During the Civil War it was an open-air Confederate prison camp with minimal shelter. The facility was built for 3,000 prisoners but reports say that this number was doubled or tripled at times. This overcrowding resulted in multiple health issues and the heat in the summer and cold in the winter added to the prisoners’ problems. A sign on the island says that 1,000 Union soldiers perished while there.
As we sat on the rocks at water’s edge refreshing our tired feet in the cold James River, Luna nearby, I could not help but wonder what the 1,000 Union soldiers who died on this island would think if they knew people were still fighting the war for which so, so many gave their lives.
untangling the web 