Centered, breathing.
Practice.
Wonder, not worry
Mixy not lost
Present, not swept
Standing, not bolstered
Just a thing, not a focus
Some people, not yours
Your thing, not theirs
A means, not an end
This moment, not lost.
A peerless September morning.
Never forgotten.
Posted in 9/11, Airplanes | Tagged Sorrow | Leave a Comment »
Decades ago, I turned a page in the magazine, Common Boundary. On the facing page was a photograph of an old woman, her eyes recessed in a plain of wrinkles, the landscape of long human life.
Her eyes were remarkable, vibrant blue, steady, deeply knowing.
The moment was profound. This extraordinary woman, the embodiment of the belief that “the eyes are a window to the soul.” I cannot recall the article. I had forgotten her eyes until this morning.
What life had she led to live within her skin and far beyond it at the same time? If there was ever a goal in life, I thought, the authenticity and honesty reflected in that gaze had to be it.
On a business trip, a hotel room anywhere. A mirror, the essential tool to minimize the lines now tracking across the map of my own face. In its reflection, I glanced into my eyes, looking at me as if I were someone else. Blue, thoughtful, knowing, steady. Seeing from and to someplace other.
In that too-quick moment, I joined the woman I so admired years and years ago. Mine was a dusty existence, I met few goals, and realized disappointment. But those eyes remain for me the mile marker of a truly lived human life. Full circle.
Posted in Lived meaning, time | Tagged consciousness, memory, time | Leave a Comment »
Spreading mulch in my garden, I felt a sharp sting on my wrist.
Guessing correctly, a small bee tumbled out of my sleeve when I shook my arm.
As my skin reddened, the bee crawled on the ground and twisted on its wing near wet grass. I carefully relocated it to a dry wood chip. The movement of the bee slowed as it tried to crawl and got nowhere. I watched it move one direction or the other, not straying from the flat chip.
The bee’s only defense took its life. A terrible cost for a moment of fear, even if instinctual.
For humans, most of the time, a mistake made in fear does not usually spell death.
I forgot the pain, but not the bee. I checked on it a few minutes later and it lay still. Ten minutes later though, it was gone.
It was apparently not a honeybee, the only kind that die after stinging, a fortunate turn after an unfortunate meeting.
Posted in Nature, The Garden | Tagged Bees, garden | Leave a Comment »
Nothing displays the virtue of the color green as the season of spring.
Lime green leaves on deciduous trees will turn tomato red come fall. The tips of the forest-green spruce are chartreuse green. The weak-limbed weeping willow trails two-story lacy chains of pale green. Stalwart green spikes hold fading daffodils, and even the most unkempt lawn is verdant.
Green pushes up from the soil and emerges from the branches hanging above. The greening of the distant treeline allows even ancient half-dead trees to put on a show.
The green is on the land, for a precious few days. Suspended in the air, floating in the shifting light, low clouds, and mist. The birds sing of it, and the hidden frogs pipe its dance in ponds and swales.
Passing too quickly, a few eternal moments, and then gone for another year.
Posted in Seasons | Tagged spring | Leave a Comment »
On Saturday morning while running errands, I detoured through the local small town community park. Neatly maintained pickle ball courts and baseball fields, a well-appointed playground. Gazebos for picnicking, and a small amphitheater for outdoor concerts. Early enough that the baseball crowd had not yet arrived.
A van pulled in. What appeared to be a mom and her perhaps seven-year-old son exited the vehicle and headed to the playground.
Mom looked straight ahead, her posture tired, a chronic condition of parenthood. Walking a few feet away, the boy scampered excitedly, looking expectantly at mom.
A moment in time. The poignancy of older and younger. One whose path has led them here, and one whose path is being formed in this moment.
Two sides of life, both ordinary and extraordinary, in an instant.
Posted in Eternal moments, Parents and children, Reflections on the everyday | Tagged consciousness, time | Leave a Comment »
I am unmoored.
Electric, yet residing in stones. I do not walk on the ground—I am either above or beneath it. I have always waited for the moon, where the light is comfortable and the reflections deep.
Most humans do not understand my language, so I expertly speak theirs. Sometimes I help them build, see, and hold. I hide in plain sight.
Restrained. I do poorly in captivity, even slipping out of the words that might describe me.
What am I?
Posted in Nature, Psycho-Bubbles | Tagged consciousness | Leave a Comment »
The sun glistens on the catkins of Salix discolor—the pussy willow—shining as the overnight frost melts.
Soft, tactile, and strong, the catkins uniformly pack branches of a tree that rivals a nearby spruce in height. Years ago, I harvested its bouquets of catkin wands and gave them away at local schools during the early spring. Over time, I realized the catkins that remained turned brilliant gold as they fill with pollen, offering the first feast of spring to hundreds of beneficial insects. I do not harvest the wands anymore.
Like so many, the pussy willow has its roots in memory. This tree is an echo of one I sprouted from a wand and planted in my mother’s garden as a child. I have always felt her in the deep wood of this bush that resides in my garden. But no more.
My mother died in the winter of her life, in the season just passed. I realized today that her presence has also exited the willow.
Far from empty, the willow is transforming again—from bare branch, to catkin, to flower, and eventually into summertime leaf. Willows are known for their vigorous roots and this bush is well planted. The wood is no longer of memory, but of self-agency. Pure life in its own right, unwound from story and seeking the sun and moon of its own journey.
I think my mother would have appreciated that.
Posted in memory, Nature, Reflections on the everyday, Seasons, time | Tagged Pussy willows | Leave a Comment »
Weekend morning, quiet. Peerless blue sky as the rising sun stretches into my space.
The light illuminates the desert colors of this room, lingering longest on the desk at which I write.
The desk, a tiger oak C-curve roll top, is far older than me. I am a part of its life, which will continue when my journey is ended. On days like this, the sun’s spotlight beckons. The wood glows with a patina gained only through quality craftsmanship and decades of use. The gravity is inescapable.
During the Golden Hour, the busyness of life is clear and the profundities of the seasons of human life felt acutely. Reflection too, is inescapable.
My laptop rarely visits this desk. This is a handmade corner, where pens, pencils, and paper still hold sway.
Desks are uniquely human. They hold, motivate, and provide. Desks are made of wood, metal, plastic, and found objects. Rarely appreciated but faithful nonetheless, especially during the Golden Hour.
Posted in Reflections on the everyday | Tagged furniture, Rolltop desks | Leave a Comment »
It was cold today, 25F. The clouds are closing the distance on the setting sun. Above the cloud deck, a patch of vibrant blue sky.
Chasing the sun down the vault of the heavens, a vibrant contrail shines in the bending light. A brilliant shooting star tracking toward the horizon before the clouds pull the curtain.
Posted in Nature, Reflections on the everyday, weather | Leave a Comment »
Shouldn't...but Do 