Sacred Moment
Sometimes we startle the
heron as she stands at the
end of the pond, and she
spreads her mighty wings
and flies away, afraid of
our company. Today I was
not present, not seeing,
but worrying about so
many things. And then,
from a hill above the
water, I saw her framed
between two bare trees,
tall, regal, motionless.
With no camera to record
the perfect photo, I was
disappointed …. but then
again, perhaps that one
sacred moment was only for
the heron, my dog, and me.
.
For just a few seconds
as we stood at the
end of the dock,
it was so very quiet
that I held my breath
and did not move.
Even the dragonfly
glided by soundlessly
and the geese were
hushed. Then the silence
was broken by a car’s hum
and the tree frogs’ calls.
But there was that one
moment when all was still.
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.
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
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.
On a dusty trail framed
by woods, there is a split.
One can choose to go
to the right or the left.
In the triangle formed by
the split are the ruins
of an old log cabin. The
stone chimney still stands
tall and a stone foundation
outlines the room. All
else is gone with no trace
of its former inhabitants.
I wonder who lived there
and when? Was it a
family or perhaps a
bearded hermit who
loved his solitude and
discouraged strangers
from approaching? Or
perhaps there was a
girl who ran wild and
barefoot in the spring
and summer marveling
at the wild flowers and
learning which plants
soothed a stomach ache
or a sore throat or brought
a fever down. I’d like to
think her parents whiled
the dark nights of winter
away telling her tales
about times past. Perhaps
there was a traveling librarian
who came by on her mule
and loaned her books to read.
I picture her curled up
by that old stone fireplace
at night totally lost in the
words on the page. What
happened to her? Did she
grow up to be a medicine
woman or maybe a traveling
librarian herself spreading
her love for books to other
young girls. I will never know
who the inhabitants of that
old cabin were or when they
were there, but my imagination
enables me to make up a
story that lights up my soul.
You dash from the fir tree
to the sideview mirror
of the big red truck by
the lake. You hover, steal
a look, then flit away,
in your excitement,
leaving a memento of
yourself on the door.
On and on you peek
and peck, then dash
away to a branch.
Are you really that
vain or do you see
a potential partner,
shying away when
she gets too close?
I wonder how long it
will take before you
see your error, or will
it end when the fishermen
take out and load their
boats and drive away.
In that moment will
you lament the loss
of a possible love or will
you recognize that you
were seeing yourself?
Rolling in, rolling out,
breath of the earth,
heart of the earth.
From your depths
life first emerged,
and in your waters
is life still unseen.
You were there
before we existed,
and you will be there
after we are gone.
Rolling in, rolling out,
breath of the earth,
heart of the earth.
Calm and peaceful,
violent and rough,
serene and flat,
white-tipped and choppy,
murky and sandy,
clear and blue.
Breath of the earth
heart of the earth.
untangling the web 