The smallest change in perspective can transform a life. —Oprah Winfrey They return arm in arm, linked by elbows and laughter, linked by memories of women weaving and warm fresh tortillas and the girl who begged them to bring her home with them. They are the same girls who left, only more spacious, filled with vast lake and tropical rain and the generosity of the people who live with little. They are more citizens of the world, now, having sat on the earth and around tables with children and elders so different, so the same. Having left in service, they return the richer— oh sweet paradox, how in giving of themselves they are beautifully changed. |
Posts Tagged ‘travel’
After Their Trip to Guatemala I Watch My Daughter and Her Friends
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, girls, giving, growth, travel on July 2, 2022| 6 Comments »
Wild Rose Plans Spring Break
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged mars, travel, unknown, vacation, Wild Rose on April 1, 2021| 3 Comments »
Why would she go to the beach
when she could vacation on Mars?
Plenty of sand there, well, dust, really,
but it’s almost the same.
Wild Rose wants an adventure,
not just a week of sitting on a towel.
Relax? She wants to make history.
She craves things she’s never done before.
Minus eighty degrees Fahrenheit?
She’ll pack down and polypro.
And hasn’t she learned by now to live with cold?
She brings her own heat wherever she goes.
She gives her notice to whatever she’s known,
becomes citizen of her own wild heart
sets her telescope for the distant shore,
so curious, so red, so new.
Going Home
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book, character, driving, home, travel, ullysses on January 31, 2021| Leave a Comment »
Today I am so grateful
we are the characters
who go on a journey
and learn to find the bravest, best
and kindest versions of ourselves,
even when the road is beset
with Lestrygonians driving white Range Rovers,
especially when Charybdis tries to merge
into our crowded two-lane sea
after driving in the eddies of the emergency lane
to bypass the long lines,
yes, we are the characters who learn
that we are responsible for our own soundtrack
and must sing to meet each moment,
must be our own sirens calling ourselves
again and again and again
to crash only on our own shores
then sail on more carefully, more purposefully,
our song all the more joyful,
more determined, and yes, more alive.
A Small Bouquet from Grand Staircase-Escalante and Salida
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged desert, poem, poetry, snow, travel on October 28, 2019| 2 Comments »
Hi friends, I was off camping in the desert for a few days, then travelled to the glorious little town of Salida for a reading, and finally back home … here are a few small poems from the last few days …
hell’s backbone grill—
the mouth begins to thrill
from two-hundred ten miles away
*
in the slot canyon—
knowing myself as water
moving through these walls
*
wind storm in the desert—
even my thoughts
fill with sand
*
this revolving door—
certainty, uncertainty, certainty
uncertainty
*
she sweeps the leaves
from the walk—
red carpet in reverse
*
waking in a blizzard
while in my ears, my scalp
still red sand
In the Airport
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged airport, kindness, mother, poem, poetry, strangers, tenderness, travel on July 20, 2019| 10 Comments »
I wonder who else today
in Concourse A
is traveling to see their mom
in the hospital, who else
has a parent with a surgery
gone wrong? Who else
could use some tenderness—
perhaps that woman in green
on the transporter? Or maybe
the young mother chasing her child
on the moving walkway? Or
the middle-aged man deliberating
over snacks? Today, it seems
so obvious that all of us
need some tenderness—
regardless our story.
And so when the man
in 31 C offers to lift my suitcase
and fit it somehow
into the overhead bin,
I almost weep with relief,
but instead I smile and say
Thank you, yes, I need help.
All day, I think of how
one small generosity changes
the landscape of the heart.
All day, I am met with chances
to be grateful, to be kind.
The Gate
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged airport, beauty, connection, humanity, poem, poetry, travel on June 21, 2018| 6 Comments »
It was Concourse B that altered me
as I ran past old women in sarongs
and young wailing children and men
in red ties and couples holding hands.
At first, all humanity felt like a hindrance,
living hurdles between me
and gate B-14 where the plane
for Seattle was already boarding.
But then, and who can say why,
as I stitched past B-70, B-68, B-66,
I began to notice how beautiful they were,
the ones with dark briefcases and the ones
with strollers, tall ones and fat ones and
slight ones and crooked ones,
all of us constellating in the same place
at the same time, star dust
with dreams and goals and heartaches
and hopes. And as I wove through
the fabric of us,
I felt their blessing as they parted
to let me through,
and I blessed them, too,
with a thousand silent thank yous,
astonished at how different we are,
how very much the same.
A Poem Bouquet from Costa Rica
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged costa rica, poem, poetry, rainforest, travel on April 22, 2018| 1 Comment »
path through the jungle—
so much has to change
to stay the same
*
zipline so fast
even my shadow can’t find
a place to land
*
hanging bridges
above the deep chasms—
panic disguised as hope
*
a fourth star
in Orion’s belt—
in fact, a firefly
*
love starved—
instead of catching the bigger fish
eating the bait
*
dismantling the gate
at the chambers of the heart—
using the wood for a bridge
*
pouring out from the tree’s thorns
and army of fire ants—
nearby the ylang ylang spreads perfume
*
diving into the waves—
if only all chaos
had a trapdoor
*
beneath the waterfall
riding the rope swing, wondering—
does our joy release into the world?
*
meanwhile, in the rainforest,
the purple orchid peels back its petals,
reinvents opening
*
questions that start with why
are the hardest to answer—
the lizard walks on water
*
smaller than a thimble
this frog beside the river—
universe size, my wonder
*
this old oyster shell
worn by waves into a heart—
love this world, love this world
*
after two days,
the purple orchids are spent—
giving myself to the waves
*
the gray and brown wren—
its bright song a mailbox
red flag up
*
ten thousand times ten thousand
waves on the beach—
letting each one rename me
*
beside the great strangler fig
enjoying feeling small
in the big, big world
On American Flight 3589 to Grand Rapids
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communication, kindness, poem, poetry, travel, turbulence on June 23, 2017| 2 Comments »
We are entering turbulence, says the captain.
This plane does not do well with turbulence.
His voice crackles over the loudspeaker
just after the plane has begun to jostle in the sky.
I am not particularly worried about the plane.
The young engineer next to me in 14E has already
assured me that when considering safety factors,
the designers will double what is actually needed.
I am more worried about the captain’s choice of words.
It matters what we say to each other and how.
The ride will be turbulent, that would have sufficed.
Or perhaps, The ride will be turbulent,
it’s nothing to be concerned about.
The toddler in row 11 is screaming.
She would not feel better, regardless what
the captain said. Perhaps it is the mother in me
that longs to disregard the safety belt sign and go comfort her—
not so much for the child’s sake, but for her mother’s,
she looks so careworn and tired. I want to tell her,
It’s okay. This is just a short chapter.
I settle for a nod and a smile.
The truth is the world is full of turbulence.
The truth is it’s hard to hear anyone cry.
The truth is our work in the world
begins with comforting the people next to us,
strangers only until we take the first step.
13 Poetry Postcards from Yellowstone
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged camping, poem, poetry, travel, Yellowstone on June 17, 2017| 2 Comments »
blue flax beside the highway,
ten thousand bridal bouquets—
each moment of the journey
saying, “marry me”
*
said the mama heron,
no more crawling
when you were made to fly
*
surprised by the mama grizzly—
one hand on the car door,
the other focuses the camera
*
in a field of avalanche lilies
each one
the most exquisite
*
clapping for Old Faithful—
thrilling at predictable
astonishment
*
sleeping in a puppy pile
between my grown children—
oddly glad for cold nights
*
morning alarm—
raindrops on the tent
each one pressing snooze
*
june snowstorm—
the morning takes its bikini for a drive
and slips into a hot springs
*
searching every meadow for moose—
missing it like that kiss
from the boy I never kissed
*
a whole week
with no blue—
relying on the places
I’ve tattooed sky
on my inner walls
*
seventh day in Yellowstone—
just another glorious herd of bison
and their perfect golden calves
*
the sing-along of a thousand miles—
even Julie Andrews asks
are we there yet?
*
said the desert,
you can’t smell the sage
going sixty
One Dare
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dare, poem, poetry, travel on July 31, 2016| 1 Comment »
A Big Bouquet of Poems from Aruba and the Florida Keys
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Aruba, Florida Keys, poem, poetry, travel on April 17, 2016| 2 Comments »
Hi poetry friends, we’re back from a couple of weeks in the sun. Here are some tropical haikulings from our travels …
no answers in the sunset—
watching it redden
I forget the question
*
a warm wind blows north
thoughts become clouds—
I chase their shadows
*
enormous spider!
or just a scrap of leaf—
the heart leaps just in case
*
years after the wreck
returning to the wreck
this time with anticipation
*
this body
a million million doors
all of them swung wide
*
the further I swim from shore
the clearer the ocean’s invitation—
keep swimming
*
on the heart’s cracking walls
such tender graffiti—
you were made to love like this
*
the surf and I reach
for the same pink shell—
all day we play for keeps
*
in white sand
my fingers trace vague outlines—
what is and what is not here
*
butterfly farm—
everywhere I look
life reinventing itself
*
diving into clear water
I change from swimmer to wave—
gentle communion
*
in the arms of dawn
waking to unfamiliar birdsong—
oh rising urge to sing a new song
*
white underfeathers
of the osprey soaring—
my heart comes out of hiding
*
with a drill sergeant voice
he clips out orders for meditation—
deep peace arrives right on time
*
imaginary
this last piece of key lime pie—
still, we vote for who gets it
*
hold back, my friend says
but I fall relentlessly open—
red red hibiscus
*
after two weeks away
new birds outside my window—
or perhaps new ears
United
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged airplane, poem, strangers, travel on November 28, 2015| 5 Comments »
For three and a half hours,
the man in 25 D and I
sit beside each other
and do not speak.
Somewhere, I like to imagine,
is a woman who wishes
that it were she
who got to be the woman
sitting in 25 E. I wonder
what she is doing right now,
perhaps twirling a strand
of her hair and remembering
the way his voice warms
when he says her name.
It occurs to me
that in every seat is a human
who loves and who wants
to be loved. A plane
of lovers, we are,
all of us politely minding
our elbows, traveling
with our seatbelts low
and tight across our laps.
And though we’ve never
met before and will likely
never meet again, and though
we may not even speak
to each other as we fly, just
think of it, all that love
traveling across the country
through a turbulent sky.
A Giant Bouquet of Haikulings from the Virgin Islands and Florida Keys
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Florida Keys, poem, poetry, short poems, travel, virgin islands on April 18, 2015| 3 Comments »
astonished by waves
turquoise beyond turquoise—
even astonishment deepens
*
never reaching
the destination they say—
but perhaps this is closer
*
in the passion flower
an enormous dark bumble bee—
smelling lemon flowers instead
*
from how far away
is it swelling even now—
the next wave
*
carrying disappointment
down to the beach—
this, too, goes on the altar
*
amidst palm fronds,
exotic fruits, red hibiscus—
my shoes still size 9
*
with snorkel and mask
the same world seen richer—
so, too, with poems
*
coral reef—
all my ideas of what is possible
swim off
*
before I loved you
there was a world—
wasn’t there a world?
*
after the tsunami
didn’t happen
a rising interest in geology
*
the ship can always slip
into the unpredictable sea—
your hand in my hand
*
scent of plumeria—
how many other surprise sweetnesses
yet to discover
*
holding my breath
beneath the waves just to feel
the rising urge to live
*
watching the white heron
something in me
grows wings
*
not one to knock
the morning dove delivers song
through the open window
*
surrounded by coconuts
I dream of eating
a cherry
*
wish that pickpocket
had taken this, too—
sense that something’s missing
*
beside the new dress
the threadbare dress—
choosing it again
*
dinosaurs, too,
heard this at sunset—
wind in the palm leaves
*
many times a day
I smooth your hair already
perfectly in place
*
billions of white shells—
falling in love
with their differences
*
staring in the mirror
someone else’s face
laughing back
Two for the Road
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, travel on November 20, 2014| 1 Comment »
driving through the stoplight—
too dark to notice if your eyes are green
*
after all that bad news
I teach the radio a love song
Six Aimlesses
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged haiku, poem, short poem, travel on May 2, 2013| 2 Comments »
walking in the room
the dog sniffs the air
where the poem was
*
plastic bubble pipe—
what does this have to do
with infinity?
*
green exit sign—
wishing I could hang it
above my fear
*
empty dish—
the cat never worries
about her figure
*
no atmosphere, no
water, no life, Mars at least
you’re still a planet
*
in large white letters
the highway sign says MARVEL—
I pass going sixty
Five from Highway 285
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged haiku, poem, travel on December 8, 2012| 2 Comments »
hole in the fence—
while driving sixty
my mind slips through
*
frozen stream
still the sound
of water
*
trading in my name
for two
round stones
*
snow bluster and squall—
in the rearview mirror
all blue
*
nothing nothing nothing
in the field, and so much
filling it in
Doce Pequeños de Nicaragua
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, Nicaragua, poem, poetry, travel, unknowing on November 25, 2012| 4 Comments »
One day, el escorpion.
Another day, la tarantula.
I learn quickly
to watch
where I step.
*
Settling into
this routine: just another
perfect sunset.
*
Red and voluptuous
this flower
in the wetlands.
We ask the guide
its name.
Labia de puta,
he says,
then translates
with his blush.
*
The bird
I cannot see
gives me its song.
I give it
my silence.
*
That white-faced monkey,
that cucaracha, that sparrow, that stone—
always meeting myself.
*
Never again to return
to the waterfall
cold rush of clear
I die a small death.
The trail away from
is worn the same
as the trail toward.
Not emptiness but
spaciousness grows
around the loss.
They are the same,
only not the same.
In the growing space,
a parade of ants
marches past, the cut leaves
on their backs
still bright green.
*
The waves roll my body
into the sand and
away again.
Above me,
the vultures slow
their circling,
their heads
so pink against the blue.
They know
the time will come
soon enough.
*
a leaf falls—
all the arguments
I never had
*
Oh child of Colorado
crying for the mountains,
do you not feel
how the dark sand
makes space for
your every step?
*
Mama, she says,
it hurts when I touch here.
There is a bruise
on her leg
where she ran into her bed.
I consider telling her
the obvious—
Then don’t touch it, darling.
With my heart,
I touch those old thoughts.
I tell her, I know, querida,
just what you mean.
*
in the estuary
the only alligator
the one in my mind
*
I want ask him
what is it like
to live in one place
all your life.
What is it like
to know one
kind of food,
to hear one kind
of music
to make one kind of life.
I want to know
how to say
pleasure in his language,
and is it a word
he often would use.
He tells me
about what we see
out the window.
Trigo. Sorghum.
Platanos. Melon.
I nod and smile,
understanding
so little of what he says.
I want to ask
if the women
here are happy,
if people listen,
if he wonders
about who he is.
Instead, I say,
Que bonita,
esta isla donde vive.
The Journey of 300 miles
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poems, poetry, presence, the journey, travel, winter on February 24, 2012| 1 Comment »
drive
sing
cry
slow
ice
sign
white
go
slide
brake
radio
sing
and
sing
and
gust
honk
slush
lines
each
here
a
choice
to
arrive