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Posts Tagged ‘frustration’

The Mindfulness Bell

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on May 30, 2025| 8 Comments »


“You might consider your own minor annoyances and turn one into a bell … let it be a bell to remind you to come back, and remember, soon all of this will be gone.” —David Keplinger, Another Shore (May 30, 2025)
 
 
And so today when the very slow driver
in front of me starts going ten miles
over the speed limit right when we get
to the passing lane, I imagine
my frustration is a bell. Instead
of calling him an idiot, as usual,
instead I think, Ding. Can you be
grateful to be alive right now?
Ding. Can you bless this body?
Delight in this canyon? Find joy
in the burgeoning green of spring?
Ding. Ding. Ding. Can you come home
to this moment and realize all belongs?
Even slow drivers who speed up.
Even your impatience. Ding.
Here’s your chance to imagine whatever
provokes you becomes a mindfulness bell.
There will come a time when you think
oh, what a lucky woman you were
to drive these roads at all. Could that time
be now? Ding. Ding. Oh that idio—. Ding.
Please, let him pull over. Don’t honk. Please.
Ding. Ding. Ding.

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One on the Floor

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on November 26, 2018| 1 Comment »

 

 

 

math homework

crumpled and tossed—

one student subtracts herself

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Introducing Prickly Rose

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 20, 2018| 7 Comments »

 

 

 

I don’t remember inviting her along today,

that Prickly Rose, but everywhere I go,

she goes. I watch her pout around the kitchen

as she makes breakfast, her prickers falling

into the cereal, spines in the eggs. And she bristles

her way into the bedroom closet to

put on her clothes, daring to wear the same

outfit as I. She fusses her way to the car,

leaves a trail of bleary discontent,

then drives off in a huff, harrumphing

at beauty, at bliss. All morning, I watch her

from a distance, as far away as I can.

I tell her, “You know, you can choose

at any time to lose those thorns.”

She glares at me, like, “whatever,”

and goes back to her muttering.

“I see,” I say, giving her space.

She smells as if she burnt her eggs.

So I tease her, and make up new lyrics to.

“Miss Prickle regrets

she’s unable to smile today, Madam.”

and “The gripes are high but I’m holding on.”

I marvel at her insistence on holding

on to aggravation, frustration, annoyance,

stress. I mean, look at her now,

snarling there in the seat I’m in,

intent on her own misery. Oh Prickly Rose.

I want to hold her, but she will not

be held. So I watch her, let myself

get curious. Smile as she chooses to frown.

She’ll come around eventually, I tell myself.

Until then, I wonder at how she manages

to hold that scowl on her forehead

so furrowed, so deep, how she glowers

so impressively long.

 

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