Tag: Covid-19

poetry

conscious breathing

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conscious breathing

Every time you breathe, you exhale some 25 sextillion (that’s 2.5 × 1022) molecules of oxygen – so many that with a day’s breathing you will in all likelihood inhale at least one molecule from the breaths of every person who has ever lived. And every person who lives from now until the sun burns out will from time to time breathe in a bit of you. At the atomic level, we are in a sense eternal.

Bill Bryson, The Body: A Guide for Occupants

breathing in the breath
of every being
that has been
fueled the same way
as despots and saints

breathing out the breath
that will become
part of every being to be
we are not so different
not so separate
not so alone

I take in courage and compassion
send out forgiveness and love
in case you need it

you –
my sons
Rosa the flycatcher patient on her nest
the bright orange wallflower feeding the fritillary
the garter snake sleeping sound under the tree roots
the man who tossed his cigarette butt on the trail today
the unmasked righteous person somewhere in my path
breathing out sentences nobody sees

poetry

COVID haircuts

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COVID haircuts

my boys bow their heads
and trust me with the scissors

like so many other bits of parenting
I’ve never done this before

at the first bite of shear against hair
Cedar squeals

my knitting scissors, the sharpest we have,
tug his locks as they slice

he fidgets and questions –
things he wouldn’t do with the barber –

and when the tips of the blades
nip him above the ear

we both know this cut is over
even with no blood drawn

I’m slightly more practiced for Owen
(the reverse of our usual pattern)

I know to use my left hand
as a guard against maiming

only cut my own flesh this time
and say nothing of the small red thread

I start with his bangs
the most critical, bothersome part

in case this session is also abruptly ended
by my carelessness

he is patient
I am sloppy

but manage to at least
give him back his sight

in the end he looks younger –
the opposite of a skilled cut –

but before bed after shower
washed, brushed, and slicked to the side

he looks presentable
says something about liking it short

as always
I bow to my children next

thankful for the latest new thing
they’ve allowed me to learn

poetry

wisdom

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wisdom

I’m allowed to feel resentful
I say boldly.

Well, ok, she says,
but would you want to?
How about if you allow yourself
to feel deeply sad instead?

My girders instantly crumple
under grief’s weight.
Yes, feeling the sadness serves
in a way that being right
(or not) doesn’t now.

This one raw gift of insight
would have been more than enough
but then she gives another:

Picture the other person
joyful contented whole happy
complete –
you would both be healed,
released from a cycle of shared wounds.
We’re all one body in the end.
Now make it so.

She’s a crisp clear bell
in this shimmering grove
of white-and-green-light.

namaste
I bow

poetry

not normal, not ok / unselfing

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not normal, not ok / unselfing

after months of being mostly fine
one at a time today
we admit we’re not ok
we cry and storm
and frankly lose our @#$%
over nothing

but it’s the nothing of
no normal –
no normal now
no normal as far as we can see into the calendar pages
we chose one not-normal year
but never bargained for two

if in August
someone had told us what was coming
what would we have chosen?
to revel in the last months of normal
(movies, restaurants, playdates, sleepovers, baseball, shopping, concerts, hugs, puppies, coffee, museums, galleries, drinks with friends, swimming pools, trampolines, lemonade stands, parades, 10ks…)
or to see the world
while it was open?

*

Iris invites us to unself
let go
look outside
accept
we are not in control
as it was in the beginning
is now
and ever shall be
world with tricks up its sleeves
and sometimes bouquets

poetry

whistling in the dark

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whistling in the dark

the wind whistles around the cabin corners
and I am put at ease
by the warmth and crackle
of the cheery fire

the virus whistles around the wide world
and we are calm
here at the end of the quiet dirt road
knowing it could find a crack any time
hoping that four stout walls
are enough to keep our minds steady

poetry

a hike together after isolating

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a hike together after isolating

the meadowlark singing
from the very top branch
of a ponderosa pine
melted summer into song
spilled in golden ribbons
across the park
and into our grey hearts
healing the hurt
of our long aloneness
warming our cautious bones

poetry

even as the cities burn, beauty

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even as the cities burn, beauty

on the little peak
in the warm late afternoon light
aspen leaves fired green
hermit thrushes burbling
clouds silhouetting the Divide
my heart empty
and body whole
in a welcoming place
I couldn’t stop saying aloud
it’s all so beautiful

poetry

Debaser in Chief

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Debaser in Chief

at a time this country needs
men who lay down arms
take a knee
and march with us

he stands scolding
arms folded shaking his head
then wagging his finger

just like my father
standing over my little bawling son
ordering
you –
cut that out

they never learned
the fastest way to end tears
is with with an understanding
hug

something in this breathless time
we all ache for

poetry

what the spruce knows

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what the spruce knows

it’s that time when the creek runs loud and brown
sending the dirt of the road
through the gulch in a torrent
punctuated by white foam
and circling eddies
thrusting sharp sticks ahead

the air has just gone soft
and the snow is nearly melted
the big animals have gone wary
readying for campers and motorcycles
they move across the steep hillside less
their tracks left after dark

the green things begin to prick the soil
and grow wildly
twisted stalks sprouting thick wavy green leaves
and the Oregon grape strews little suns of yellow
blooms across the ground
the air fills with the sweet promise of honey

she still comes and sits every day
taps my trunk with a warm sideways palm
greets me with the old words
Tous, Neyei3eibeihii*
sits down on my curved trunk
gone flat against the dirt and creek bed slope
sometimes she leans her head against my rough bark
and we think together for a time
sometimes she simply rests
in the presence of Moon Creek’s rush

I breathe into her phenols of calm
and the belief
that above or below the ground
we’re all one
our cells align in revelry
we don’t speak
just be for a time
and when she’s ready
I let her go

*Hello, Teacher (in Arapaho/Hinónoʼeitíít)