Father’s Day
for maybe the first time
I felt no void this day
no sense of want or lacking
the day washed over me
a clear simple wave
celebrated with my husband
sons
father-in-law
there was a freedom
in not needing more
a peace
in feeling whole
even after the phone rang
it was so easy
to be good
solstice gift
our boys passed the day
harmoniously
lightening all
within their spheres
solstice eve
today the light still grows longer
spring exhales a last sigh of
cold grey rain
the meadows array themselves
in purple iris, orange wallflower,
golden banner, red paintbrush
blue mist penstemon
hot pink shooting star
readying for tomorrow’s solarbration
the wheel begins to creak and turn
our hearts begin to shift:
how to weather summer’s forge
how to keep calm hearts and attentive minds
when light goes white hot
and the cities burn
how to practice restraint when burning up
and wait like still water
how to have faith in humanity’s
capacity to survive and heal
how to rise up like a storm surge
when our movement is needed
may it be so
the mercy of the heavens
yesterday the mountain spoke
with a raspy, parched voice
green going to brown
supple turning to crisp
today the clouds heard and answered
with half a day of rain
and such chill damp
that I split wood and lit the stove
tomorrow I will go out
into the newly wet and green world
to smell loosed resin and steaming duff
and recollect the appearance
of a simple answered prayer
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
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
snack time
on the summit of Jumbo Mountain
crashing thunder
a bear bowls
one boulder into the next
leaves a tasty ant nest
open to sky
my bones almost register
the hard crack of rock on rock
a new take on an old idea
it’s been done for thousands of years
knit one sock
then do it all again
old women and young
twisting the yarn
wind-chapped fishermen
pulling one loop through the next
casting off then on
catching their foot in a net
knowing how it will all play out
going through the motions anyway
now here comes a new way
make one tube
and with some waste yarn
work in places for the heels to grow and bend,
the bond that kisses the toes to separate
the two still made from the same stuff
now independent
still warm cheery delicate
without retreading the same path
but as for me
I’d still do it all again
(or at least most of it –
I’d skip the concussions if I could)
I’m not casting about
for anything new
This was an assignment for the Emergence Magazine Nature Writing class. We edited work using feedback from the previous session, so this is an edited version of the poem from the May 31st post.
Jumbo Mountain Speaks
come rest your weariness
on these hard rocks
a stiff wind will buffet your body
proving the heart entombed
in your aching chest
still beats
face west
toward the long white wall of peaks
back to the cities
the fires the shards
those fights are for another hour
feel your hardness
drain into the rocks beneath your palms
your porous bones no match
for their fixed crystals
you were not meant for this
your soft bleeding body
weeps water, not ice
just sit and be
while the wind works its way into you
until your rage flickers out
and there’s new space
between your ribs
I know what it’s like
to feel your heart mined out
set upon by pickaxes
swarmed by the rapacious
proving up on false claims
of their right to strip the world
of whatever life they like
and I know
how to lie still night after night
staring unblinking into quiet stillness
until my shoulders ease;
how to outlast dismantling
it takes an achingly long time
for the ore to lose its currency
the forest to gain a voice
and the scars to grow over
but just listen now
to the exultant tough little aspens
reclaiming this mountain
their young leaves fizzing with joy
roots binding the wounded slope
proving
sometimes healing happens
even in this brutal world
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
