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.
Note: At a recent meeting of my 70+ (now 80+!) group of women, our assignment was to share “keepers,” in other words moments in our lives, past or present, that brought us joy. Mine are in this poem.
There was the time recently
When Luna and I were on
A visit to the County Jail
And she remembered a
Young man from another
Visit and curled up
Against him, and when he
Moved on to another dog
She went over and licked
His ear as if to say, come
Back to me, we have a
Special bond. And he grinned.
And on that same visit I
Can see the tattooed
Young man rolling on
The floor with a blind
Dog who knew him
By his smell and brought
To him moments of
Pure joy and a memory
Of the outside world.
And then there were
Those hours on a
Sunday afternoon when
We celebrated poetry
And women’s friendships,
A gift from my family
That will never be
Forgotten as I see
Each face and hear
Each voice and immerse
Myself in the memory
Of a perfect gift.
Surprised by you this morning
as you nestled among the brown
leaves and pine needles,
I was delighted by your
tans and greens decorating
a broken branch on the path.
Even in winter there is color
and joy. All you have to do
is keep your eyes open and look.
What makes mist gently
move across the pond or
the pond reflect the clouds?
What makes the sound
of the wind, and why do
pine needles fall to
the ground? What makes
the lavender flowers…these
lavender flowers at my feet
or the white ones beside them?
What makes the blue heron’s
neck so long and why does he
stand so still at our approach?
And what about the algae
on the fallen branch or
the orange mushrooms?
You might say that it
is all explained by science.
But what explains science?
Does anyone really know?
Do we work too hard
to make sense of it all
when perhaps we are
just meant to be amazed?
untangling the web 