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I watch my hands finger the small bootie once worn by my children. The tag inside reads “6/12 months.” This was a first shoe for two toddlers just learning to walk.

I see my fingers move, thinning, loose skin on the back of my hands piling up and relaxing. These are ‘doing’ hands.  I have thoughtlessly relied upon them forever.

My children are decades into their lives now. One grew into shoes he used to walk completely out of my life.  The other wears shoes that keep him in motion, learning, building, and exploring.

And here remains the small bootie and the hands that helped those tiny feet touch down on the earth so very long ago.

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Nineteen years.

Bless all those lost that day and those who tried to help, who themselves became sick from the toxic dust.

Not forgotten.

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Moon and cloud

Cloud over moon

Cloud and moon


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Prayers for the soul and survivors of Kenji Goto.

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Rooms with a view…


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During our dreams we do not know we are dreaming.
– Master Zhuang, Chinese philosopher, 300 BC


Nighttime temperatures continue to fall, daytime temps are cooling.

Still the second Monarch chrysalis remains.  Green with golden zipper, it adheres to westward facing vinyl siding.  Unmoving, its inhabitant deep, even lost, in a transformational dream.

Compelled by its own nature to form its chrysalis, it may never emerge,  gone already into endless sleep.  So too, it may yet emerge against the odds,  to attempt a challenging migration.

If successful in breaking free of caterpillar form, and if it survives the battering journey south, it will join a multitude of its own.  Together, in company and concert, to experience a lifetime that was once only a cellular dream.

Something to that.



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September 11

Lest we forget.  Fare thee well.

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Fertile wet after a thunderstorm passes.  Luxuriant shades of every green. Mauve, purple.  Grey sky deepens the color. Saturated.  Peeper frogs sounding – even in the morning. Wind gently strokes a full bed of Tall Bearded Iris set to bloom later this month. Pillow talk.

Another thunderstorm, another impulse on its way, a wave to rise and fall. Spring.

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Whether you be Irish or not, Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you.

The green is for life while we live it and the memory of it when we do not.

May each day bring both moon and sun, and may love never be more than a breath away.

To you and yours, a hundred thousand welcomes.

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Try this at home – hum or sing a tune – no words, just a tune.

While moving into the song,  change it.  Just decide  here or there  that it might go up, down, slower, faster.

Uncomfortable at first, not familiar, no pattern to speak of as it rambles a bit.  But then it repeats –  now you have a little structure.  Add another change.   You might end it there for now, or keep going.

Change it up, do it different  – or better yet, hum your own song, one played before only in your head.   Melodies pass my way on occasion,  I  appreciate their flavor and let ’em go.  Here and gone – some return, some do not.

Mythologist Joseph Campbell said [i]f you can see your path laid out in front of you step by step, you know it’s not your path.  Maybe that works for songs too.

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