Not easy to hear the soft chant of my breath
with the rumble of river nearby.
Even the low water hymn of late autumn
is loud enough to cover the small,
familiar song of inhale and exhale.
Further out is the sharp thwack of hammer
head meeting nail. Another nail. Another.
An elated whoop from the man with the hammer.
And further out, the growl of semi trucks
migrating east on the highway. If I close
my eyes, do I really hear better? Can I hear
into the distant pinion forest, the silence that gathers
there in spiraling trunks? Can I hear
past that into the vaster silence of mesa?
To the vacant sound of sky?
More than the sounds themselves,
something about the reaching stills me,
brings me present until I am more ear
than mind. Not a single thought brays as I follow
soundwaves to the shores of presence.
Such simple practice, attentiveness,
and yet how often I wander away
on paths of should and want. But now,
attuned, I hear it, even with the river,
this small luff of breath, a living metronome
beating here, here, here.
Posts Tagged ‘presence’
When Worry Showed Up Again
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged pond, presence, worry on September 7, 2025| 6 Comments »
It slithered in snakelike, the worry,
and hissed in a sinister whisper,
What if you said too much?
Why can’t you just be quiet?
I felt its eyes measure my long, bare throat,
felt its fangs against my skin.
Doubt in my safety flooded in.
But I did not speak back.
Instead, on instinct, my body
took me to the noon-bright pond
to float like a leaf on my back.
I felt the water lifting me.
Felt the summer-warm kiss of sun.
Listened to dragonflies moving
the reeds as they landed
and took off again. Listened to trees
rustled by wind. The more present
I was in my body, the less strangled
by worry I felt. The more I could see
how worry wasn’t everything,
the easier I could breathe.
Hours later, I marvel how the body,
knew just what to do,
an ancient wisdom moving through.
Of course the snake didn’t disappear.
I still hear its disturbing, insistent hiss:
What if, it insinuates. What if, what if …
But it’s harder now to believe the snake
when I feel more aligned with what’s here.
What’s here? The heart ever learning
to open, to trust. The wonder of having
a voice at all. The wondering what I am
here to learn. Dozens of dragonflies.
Reeds. A slender snake of worry. Trees.
Sun. Pond. Wind.
Just Before We Say Goodbye
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged hiking, letting go, mother, presence, time on July 22, 2025| Leave a Comment »
The song we’ve been singing
is gone from the air.
We walk in satisfied silence now.
And it’s beautiful,
the trail lined with sego lilies
and purple fireweed.
This morning’s raindrops
cling to leaves.
How easy it is in this moment
to believe in forever,
the wild roses
endlessly blooming,
the sound of your footsteps
keeping time in front of mine.
Beyond Patience
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged patience, presence on July 8, 2025| 5 Comments »
If I knew another word for patience,
would it open me to the act?
Perhaps something that invokes the patience
in the zinnias after the first central flower has died
and before the next buds are formed.
Something that speaks to the patience of winter
while the field is greening more deeply every day.
To be patient is to believe there is a moment
beyond now that will be better than now.
So perhaps instead of patience, the word
I’m longing for is presence. The capacity
to be only here. Only now. Here in the garden
where the zinnia row is thick with leaves.
Here in the meadow where it’s warm and
the tall grass tickles my bare thighs. Now
in the week before my sweet girl arrives.
Ah, there it is, back to the anticipation.
Try again. Presence, as in now, in this moment
when swallows swoop and skate and swirl.
Now, when my breath opens in my chest,
opens like a zinnia, many petalled and red.
The Mindfulness Bell
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bell, driving, frustration, mindfulness, presence, resistance 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.
Out of the Corner of My Eye
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged absence, grief, mother, presence, river, son on May 8, 2025| 10 Comments »
Sometimes I expect to see him walking by the river,
to see his tall, thin body move through the willows,
camera in hand. I don’t see him, of course, but I do,
I see him as a young man in a blue button-up shirt,
his hair cut short, his movements doe-like as he
picks his way through the rocks. And sometimes
I see him a young boy, still blonde, still shrieking
with joy at the splash he can make with a big river rock.
And sometimes I see him as the willows themselves,
as if he’s come back in everything—the willows,
the river, the stones, the trees, this woman
who is standing at the window, looking.
Practice in Being Present
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged geese, presence, snow, spring, story on March 18, 2025| 4 Comments »
As it is, I am grateful for the snow today,
though yesterday I reveled in the warm air
and clear blue sky that felt like spring.
Today still feels like spring, but with snow.
The geese still wander the field on foot,
a thick white layer gathering
on the wide gray platforms of their backs.
The swallows still soar and swoop
in tight formations, unbothered
by thick flakes of snow. The red-winged blackbirds
still trill. It seems only right the heart
should still practice how to fall in love,
no matter the weather. I am thinking of
how yesterday Wendy said of herself,
“What, did I think nothing bad would
ever happen to me?” and how just saying
this out loud helped her stay present—
less the story of herself, more herself.
I’m clear it does no good to wish away snow,
just as it does no good to wish away grief
or the tyranny of cruelty. So when thoughts
of grief and fear roll in like a squall,
I try out Wendy’s line.
What, did I imagine terrible things
wouldn’t happen to me? To the world?
The geese are sliding now into the pond,
the snowflakes disappearing
into dark water. With no effort,
I fall in love with the ripples
the geese leave on the surface,
a momentary story of where they’ve been.
How quickly that story disappears.
After Years of Seeking Peace, I Stop
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged peace, presence, worry on March 5, 2025| 7 Comments »
right where I am
and find the peace
that is already here,
notice the way
peace is what
holds all the tension
in the same way
silence holds noise,
in the same way
the dark holds the sun.
Right here. Right here.
An infinite peace,
an unwavering peace
great enough to hold
all agitation, tender
enough to hold
even the most
shattered heart.
Not Exactly Lost Near the Bitterbrush Trail
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged lost, nordic skiing, presence, snow on February 24, 2025| 6 Comments »
In the flat, low light
of morning there
is no way to see
the trail in the valley
of snow, and so,
new to this place,
I let myself not know
where I’m going.
I move more slowly,
let myself be led by
the trail as it appears.
Each moment is like
a new invisible map
that proclaims again
and again
You Are Here.
At the Inner Table
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged inner argument, inner voices, parts of the self, presence on March 17, 2024| 10 Comments »
We actually transform the world from within our hearts.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, letter to Anita Forrer (January 10, 1920)
“But I need to do something to fix this now,”
says the fixer. And the doubter says,
“What can be done from across the world?”
And meanwhile the woman who reads the news
feels a tear fall down her cheek.
And the fixer says, “I don’t know what to do,
but it can’t go on like this.”
And the doubter says, “It’s been like this
as long as humans have lived.”
And meanwhile the woman who reads the news
feels a tear fall down her cheek.
And the fixer says, “Humans also heal.
And make peace. And forgive.”
And the doubter says, “What difference
could one person possibly make
when presidents and diplomats have failed?”
And meanwhile, the woman who reads the news
feels a tear fall down her cheek.
And the questioner wonders,
is she an olive branch? An open hand?
One more promise? One more fist?
Is she a wall? A rallying cry?
A never-ending debate? A rising tide?
And the fixer says, “I will not just stand by.”
And the doubter says, “It’s hopeless.”
And meanwhile the woman who reads the news
feels a tear fall down her cheek.
And who is the one who, with infinite compassion,
listens to each of the voices?
The fixer can’t let it go. “It’s urgent!” she says.
The doubter throws up her hands and huffs,
“We’ll never learn how to be together.”
And who is the one who, even now,
is making more space at the table of the heart,
a table big as the world?
And the woman who reads the news
feels her heart break even wider.
A tear falls down her cheek.