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
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.
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?
When the world makes no sense
and I am weary of its horrors,
I close my eyes and imagine myself
in the Blue Ridge Mountains, see
the purple and pinks of its sunrise,
the shadows in its ridges.
I imagine myself where Native
Americans once lived, respected
the earth and its animals, and
I see the wildflowers and plants
used by wise women as medicines.
I look up and see a hawk slowly
swooping in circles and floating
lazily among the clouds. My
body relaxes and my soul is fed.
There is this:
Another shooting by
an angry young man,
bombs falling in Ukraine,
more books banned,
a decision reversed by
men who have never
been pregnant,
acts of hate increasing,
and a budget that
cannot be settled by
pontificating politicians.
And then there is this:
On a cool morning
gentle rain is falling,
soft moss surrounds
an old tree in the woods,
a magnolia blossom
graces a tree on the
side of the road, and
the wood thrush’s throaty
voice calls among
other birds twittering.
What would it be like
to start each day with
beginner’s mind? To marvel
at a body that functions
without our control,
that feels and sees
and smells and thinks,
that communicates in a
language developed
centuries before our
births. What would it be
like to see each sunrise
and sunset as a miracle,
each wildflower with
new delight, each
redbud as a wonder, each
bird as a new marvel?
What would it be like
to wipe the mind clean
of all thoughts and opinions,
to see the spark of the
divine in everyone and
everything we meet,
and act from a place
of love? Just imagine
what it would be like
to start each day
with beginner’s mind.
Inspired by the daily meditations of Richard Rohr
Sun low on the horizon,
daffodils shimmering,
grape hyacinths opening,
lily leaves pushing through,
yellow forsythia flowing,
swish of pine needles
on the path, chill air
on my cheek, jingle
of the leash, the quiet
of a Sunday morning.
Delicate tendrils of
weeping willows,
white petals of
Bradford pears,
ripples on the lake,
and the redbud
producing beauty
off its gnarled branches.
Raucous voice of
a lone crow, soft
peeps of birds
foraging, the feel
of my foot as it
hits the ground,
rat-a-tat-tat of
a woodpecker
topped off by
the heron who
flew majestically
up as we neared.
Like ballerinas in a gentle breeze,
light green tendrils moving,
curving, swooping, dipping,
at one with the Universe,
with all matter and all beings,
part of the sacred circle of
starting at the end and
ending at the beginning,
filling my heart with hope,
rejoicing instead of weeping.
Photo by David Veksler on Unsplash
The earth was hushed
that morning and a light
snow was falling, uniting
ground and sky, the still
and the moving, brown and
white. Pine needles on the
path were covered by snow
highlighting an intricate
design like a fisherman’s net
or spider’s web, an encounter
between life and death.
The cosmos was showing off
its artistry in twisted bare
branches, in an ethereal
light on a skim of ice, in
things seldom observed.
Nature was sparking the
imagination with the
magnificence of creation
with no intention other
than to simply enchant.
untangling the web 