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Archive for August, 2020

Oblivious

Don’t tell the woman

walking on the dirt road

that there’s a large bear

six feet to her right

in the dense spruce woods—

at the rate she’s walking

she’ll be past it soon,

and what she doesn’t know

isn’t hurting her for now.

What good comes

from knowing all the dangers

life may not have in store?  

See, she’s past the bear now.

She’s talking to the squirrel

who chatters wildly above her.

And, looking across the road

at the light glinting off the river,

she’s smiling, not even knowing

just how many reasons

she has to smile.  

*By the way, friends, I DO think it’s important to be prepared, even if (especially if?) you’re oblivious. I carry bear spray with me on my walks, and I really was six feet from the bear, yikes. But we stared at each other and it was disinterested in me, whew. And I hightailed it outta there.

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throwing my insecurity

into the bullring,

dressing it in red

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I didn’t really mean at 3 a.m.

with a the blood curdling scream

of a female mountain lion

caterwauling in the woods,

the violence of branches snapping and breaking

and giant beings crashing in the dark.

Why should I be surprised

that the sound of desire—

a powerful female shrieking for union—

should sound like the worst kind of pain?

The high pitch of yearning,

the strangled wail of want,

it haunts me all day, all day.

All day, primal need screeches in my blood.

I am wildly awake.

All day, no one else can hear.

*

To hear this amazing sound, visit: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pxo8X5uIWRE

(Note: If you have cats, put on your headphones or they will FREAK!!)

*

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The Empty Dark

Answers don’t arrive if you’re afraid of sitting in the empty dark room of not knowing by yourself long enough for them to arrive on their own schedule. 

—Michael Thelen

Oh let me, too, be willing to sit in the empty dark

and let the darkness enter me.

Let me not pretend to know how it will be.

Let me lose my plans, though it terrifies me.

Let me not imagine any better time

to practice than now.

Let me be the bowl that sings when touched,

the bowl that is content with its own stillness.

If I want answers, let me sit with my longing.

If I want lessons, let me find them right here.

And if it is dark, let me not run from the dark,

but lean into it. And if it is light,

let me long for the light. Let it enter me.

Let me not pretend to know how it will be.

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One Survival

devouring the crumb trail

from beauty to beauty—

no going back

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Fleeting



There is no need for temples … Our own brain, our own heart is our temple.
—H.H. the 14th Dalai Lama


Today the temple went to the post office.
Of course it wore its mask. There,
it met several other temples, also masked,
some of them in a hurry as temples sometimes are.
The temples joked with each other
about haircuts and lost keys and ripped old shirts.
All day—while working on the computer,
while making macaroni and cheese,
while taking out the cat litter and feeding the fish—
the temple managed to forget its own temple-ness
and the temple-ness of others
until finally, while weeding milk thistle in the garden,
a bell did not ring and a clarity came—
a brief brush with infinity that lasted a millionth of a second,
and there between the beets and the sunflowers,
was a moment when the temple was temple.
How quickly a thought comes in. Even now the temple
wrestles with its own metaphor, tries to discern its mystery
by disassembling itself into piles of knowable parts—
bricks of meaning, tiles of purpose—that, huh,
somehow, when dissected, don’t resemble a temple at all.

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Perhaps when I’ve lived long enough

that time and I have become good friends,

I will no longer curse at semi-trucks

going sloooow on the two-lane highway.

No, I will simply drive fourteen miles under the speed limit

and happily harmonize with the oversexed songs on pop radio

and notice how beautiful the swirls in the red rock cliffs.

I will not imagine fitting consequences

for drivers who pass in no-passing zones.

I will simply say thoughtful little prayers for them

to protect them on their way

as they blithely jeopardize the lives

of every other human on the road.  

And I’ll be so grateful for construction delays—

how they give me time to sit and reflect

about how happy I am to no longer be

the kind of woman who gets upset about traffic

and all the small-hearted dim wits

who don’t pull over when twelve cars are following them—

yes, it will be so nice to sit there beside the orange cones

with a smile on my face,

not ashamed at all that I used to be so bothered by it,

oh, remember that chapter?

I’ll be so amused I ever thought it was a problem

to creep an inch an minute for an hour and a half—

how lovely the slowness, the pace of patience,

my hands on the wheel, my foot humming above the brake.

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From the Cottonwood

I want to hear the song in the old cottonwood tree

outside my window, the tired xylem, the weary phloem,

the rough hymn of the ancient bark. I want to know

how, despite fatigue, it continues to flourish,

to push new cells through the tips of the twigs,

how it thickens despite long drought.

I want to hear the dark lullaby of the worms

as they move through the loyal roots—

what do they know of persistence?

And the dappld shadow that continues to grow,

what might it teach me of love?

Let me be the student of the limbs

that broke off in the wind. Let me listen

and listen again. There is too much

I think I know. I’ve been singing the same

familiar songs so long I began to believe

they were gospel. Oh, how I’ve loved the psalms of green.

Let me sing them while they last. And then, may I learn

to love the song of emptiness, song of surrender,

song of whatever comes next.

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One Very Quiet

morning sun inclines

my heart toward forgiveness—

still the phone does not ring

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I had imagined we’d see dozens of meteors

   streaming across the sky, streaking,

      flaming, impossibly bright.

         Instead, I lay on the driveway

between my son and daughter

   and we stared into the night,

      laughing and singing and listening

         to the sound of the earth turning,

the pavement hard beneath us—

   and above us, the whole

      starry firmament unfolding.

         Not one shooting star did we see, no, but oh,

how the milky way swirled all around us,

   our eyes wide open, my heart soaring, swarming,

      a small piece of matter burning up,

         glowing, impossibly bright,

never quite touching the earth.

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