Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apology, gloves, poem, poetry on November 30, 2018| Leave a Comment »
I must take off my gloves—
not the rubber gloves
for dishwashing, nor
the stiff cloth gloves for the garden,
not the wool gloves for snow
nor the leather gloves for stacking wood—
but the gloves you can’t see,
the gloves I wear to protect
you from me. Or me from you.
The invisible layers I think
I need to keep us safe. When
what you really need, what
I really want, is to show up
exposed, bare, to strip off
the unseen covering,
and from this tender place, say
I am sorry.
Posted in Uncategorized on November 29, 2018| 13 Comments »
We are built to make mistakes, coded for error.
—Lewis Thomas
And thank god for mistakes,
our inherent inclination to not do
what we’re supposed to. It’s cellular,
they say. Biological. Evolutionary.
Just two nights ago, my back erred.
Stopped working. Would not stand straight.
Would not sit. No walking. No bending.
No lifting. No twisting. You lay down,
it said. You don’t move. And so for two days,
I’ve watched the sky out the window.
I’ve watched the wall be a wall. I’ve
marveled at the body, how it changes
from go to no in an instant. How
a simple mistake—a lunge to the side—
didn’t seem like a mistake at the time.
And yet, because of it, rest. Because of it,
a quieting. A welcome nothing. The occasion
to know healing. The firm invitation
to learn to say no. How difficult times
help us grow. How mistakes become
game changers, chances for transformation,
the summons to wonder, What am I doing
here anyway? Why am I really here? And
the bravest part of the self steps in to answer.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged frustration, math, poem, poetry on November 26, 2018| 1 Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, ice, inner child, parenting, poem, poetry, winter on November 26, 2018| 2 Comments »
See, I want to say to my son. See
how the pond has frozen in thick,
continuous curves. See all the lines,
how they ring each other, like dozens
of tiny orbits. I want to show him
the marvel of it all, but he is too old
now for marvels, or perhaps too young,
the precise age where beauty is boring.
And so I take the child of myself to the pond
and show her the rings. I resist the urge
to explain how the meltwater formed them,
how surface-tension forces make liquid melt
cling against the lower parts of the ice.
Instead, I let her gaze at the miracle,
trace the concentric bands with her fingers.
How curious the rings are, like frozen halos
that fit enormous angels. How astonishing
in their design. Just wait till I show her
we can walk on it, too. I let her amazement
become my own, our feet slipping
across the smooth surface, our breath
rising in white ephemeral curls.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, momento mori, poem, poetry on November 24, 2018| 1 Comment »
Scent of ripe quince—
how it wholly takes over.
Salt. Butter.
Pure cold water.
Release of carrot
just pulled from the earth.
Purple of lilac.
Playing with words.
Sweet thrill as a note
rises up through the lips.
Kissing, of course—
the sweet red crush of it.
Sun on my shoulder.
Voice of the lover.
The moment before
the moon breaks over
the horizon. Reading.
Walking for days.
Staring at stars.
High alpine skies.
And all the things I didn’t try.
All the unwalked paths.
Sleeping in. Waking up.
Uncontainable laughter.
And the silence after.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged journey, poem, poetry, wonder on November 24, 2018| Leave a Comment »
returning from the journey,
as if the return isn’t also
a journey—
as if this journey called home
isn’t also riddled with wonder, surprise
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apple, apple pie, cooking, daughter, fanny farmer, mother, poem, poetry, thanksgiving on November 23, 2018| 2 Comments »
We begin by talking for an hour
about the kids, her church, dad’s health,
and how we both cry when we see acts of goodness.
We clean the kitchen. Address one mess
before starting the next. Then we peel apples,
marvel at their size—how much larger
they must be than in the time of Fanny Farmer,
who thinks we might need eight tart apples
for our nine-inch crust. Fanny, even a hundred years later,
you are still synonymous with precision,
organization and good food. And, as I recall,
you, too, practiced your art in your mother’s kitchen.
As it is, seven apples in 2018 are enough
to fill two generous crusts. Oh Fanny,
some things have changed, for instance
this Granny Smith, large as my fist. But some things
are exactly the same. A level teaspoon
is still a level teaspoon. The simplest recipes
are still often the best. And it’s still so good
to make a pie with your mother, talking
about all of life’s loose ends, measuring sugar,
filling the crusts, then cleaning up the mess
as the scent of sweetness touches everything.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gratitude, poem, poetry, practice, thanksgiving on November 22, 2018| 2 Comments »
To be grateful not only for flower,
but also for mud, grime,
slug, slime, the dingy,
the filthy, the tired,
to be grateful not only for star
but also for what is prickly, thornsome,
tricky, testy, sore,
to be grateful not only for warmth
but also for the cold that holds it,
the chill, the bite, the nip, the freeze,
the breeze that blows always head on.
To not only say thanks, but live it.
To not only know thanks, but give it.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Bosnia, greeting, hands, poem, poetry, strangers, taxi on November 20, 2018| 2 Comments »
In my country, he said, we take strangers
by the hand when we greet them.
His taxi wove through the northbound cars
on Lakeshore Drive, and I watched his eyes
in the rearview mirror as they searched
the lanes for where to go. It’s strange,
perhaps, he said, to offer someone
your bare hand, but it’s a nice gesture,
I think. In the world beyond the car,
how many strangers did we pass
in one minute? How many chances
to reach toward another and say
Hello, or as they say in Bosnia,
Zdravo? How many chances
to open some small part of ourselves
and trust the other to do the same?
I wanted to disagree with the man.
I wanted to tell him, that’s what
we do in this country, too. But
clearly his experience told him otherwise.
Here, he said, people shake at the end
of a conversation to make a deal.
But not at the beginning. At least
not with strangers.
I want to start a revolution. I want
our country shake hands more.
I want us to extend ourselves
toward those we don’t know,
to offer them something of ourselves,
to be vulnerable, welcoming, kind.
When I got out of the car, I thanked the man
in his tongue, as he’d taught me, Hvala.
I paid with the credit card in the back.
I didn’t reach forward to seal the deal.
I stepped out grateful for what he gave me—
one more way to revere creation,
one more way to honor what hands can do.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged music, poem, poetry, song on November 20, 2018| Leave a Comment »
not just to play
the song, but to be the song—
the leaping melody,
the sullen chords,
the infinite silence inside
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged heart, love, o'keefe, perception, poem, poetry on November 18, 2018| 4 Comments »
Besides learning to see, there is another art to be learned, — not to see what is not.
—Maria Mitchell, pioneering astronomer
Give me eyes that see only what is,
eyes not fooled by veils, by scars.
Give me ears that hear only the words that are said,
ears that clearly translate silence.
But give me a heart that feels into
what is possible, a heart that believes
in goodness, despite reports
from ears, from eyes. Give
me a heart that speaks only love,
that leans toward kindness, that opens
again and again like an O’Keefe petunia—
larger than anticipated, mind stopping,
soul rousing, haloed by wonder
and wholly true to itself.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged accepance, poem, poetry, rain, surrender on November 18, 2018| 5 Comments »
After all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
And so after shouting
and whining and begging
and crying and whimpering,
simpering, weeping and sniveling,
sobbing and blubbering, bawling
and name calling, wailing
and flailing and thrashing
and sprawling, and after the threats
and after the bribes, after
loudly groaning and prostrated moaning,
at last she was quiet and felt
against her cheek the damp,
and she noticed the whole
world a-glistening and she
walked in the rain, hair wet,
clothes wet, and instead
of complaining, she began
listening, listening
to the humble, beautiful
song of rain.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, doorway, meeting the moment, poem, poetry, potential on November 16, 2018| Leave a Comment »
in every moment
a doorway, but sometimes
the door so small
not even my toe
will fit through
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, marriage, poem, poetry, rivers, union on November 16, 2018| 2 Comments »
for Amy and Devin
two rivers
become one water—
sound of ten thousands hands clapping
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged canyon, change, love, poem, poetry, river on November 15, 2018| Leave a Comment »
ever conversing
the canyon and river—
one carves,
one contains,
one sings,
one resonates,
summer, winter,
sun, rain,
both endure
both change
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged growing, learning, mother, parenting, poem, poetry, son, Spanish, tree on November 14, 2018| Leave a Comment »
And though he struggles to conjugate estar
and though his adjectives precede the nouns,
he’s doing it. He’s telling me about una foto
and all its themes—and though the words
are like strange spices in his mouth—paprika
y cilantro—and though he insists he hates it,
there is a tender sinceridad in his voice, like
a tree seed, perhaps, una semilla, that has
some vague idea of its potential, but is still
so trapped in its seed-ness that it is intimidated
by trees. And whatever part of me that is todavia
una semilla recognizes itself. How frightening
to see all that we do not know, to stand
beneath it like the shade of a giant tree,
to know ourselves as small and still stand straight.
My son finishes his descripción, then smiles
at me, and in his smile, I somehow see
the roots, the greening leaves, the trunk
as it reaches up doing what trunks are made to do.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fear, poem, poetry on November 13, 2018| Leave a Comment »
like a child hiding
in plain view with her hand
over her eyes,
fear tiptoes into the room,
a bomb ticking in her pocket
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, dream, friendship, poem, poetry on November 12, 2018| 2 Comments »
Which, they say, is impossible,
but we all know the impossible
happens. If you dreamed
that you died, then I would
slip myself into your dream,
which is also impossible,
but now we’re on a roll
of impossibilities. So while
we’re at it, let’s say that while
I am in your dream, I slip
out of the dream and into
your room, which is really,
really impossible, but
wouldn’t that be cool,
to travel through dreams
into each other’s lives?
And then, once in your room,
I would watch you sleeping
and if you tossed and whimpered,
distressed by your death,
I’d lay my hand on your head
and I’d say, shhh, it’s alright,
You’re safe. I’m here.
And you would settle deeper
into your pillow, and I would
watch over your sleep and hum
a little song about home,
and the moon would hold us,
because this is a poem
in which impossible things happen,
and its long silver arms would
be warm and tender and soft,
and I wouldn’t wake you
in case it means I have to leave
the dream and find myself
unable to tell you you’re safe,
I’m here. I’m here.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Bohemian Rhapsody, champion, poem, poetry, Queen on November 11, 2018| 2 Comments »
And I am again a girl
riding in the front seat
on the school field trip
while the cool kids
bounce around in the back
and We Are the Champions
comes on the radio. I
can only make out the chorus,
and only bits of that,
but when they sing
“No time for losers,” I
am sure they’re speaking of me,
and I wonder what it would
be like to be a champion
of the world.
Forty years later, I
am, perhaps, a champion
for the world. I believe in
kindness, in blossoming
out of brokenness, in
the resilience hardwired
into our bodies, our
brains, our hearts. I
believe in the power
of a song to change
the way we see ourselves.
I believe that when Freddie
sang We, he meant all of us,
my friends, all of us
the champions, rising together,
fighting till the end.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged angel, fall, grass, poem, poetry, rest, spring on November 10, 2018| 8 Comments »
Every blade of grass has an angel that bends over it and whispers, “Grow, grow.”
—The Talmud
Imagine them, all those angels
jostling over the field,
catching their hands
in each other’s halos,
their wings a shimmering
fuss. Imagine the rising tide
of the chorus, how
whisper turns clamor
turns turbulent roar.
Imagine the dizzying pitch
of encouragement, grow,
Grow, GROW, until bam!
a riotous tumult of green.
But what of the song
at the end of the season,
when angels, exhausted,
sigh rest, rest. And they press
their tired cheeks against
each other’s faces, let
their wings dangle
in lucent grace. And the field,
seeded, relaxes and goldens
and sleeps. And the angels
snuggle in sacred heaps and breathe,
and breathe, white robes
like snow, and they sleep talk
between their sonorous snores,
that’s enough, dear one, let go.