In Case I Forget to Say It Enough

Thank you for this day made

of wind and rain and sun and the scent

of old-fashioned lilacs. Thank you

for the pond and the slippery tadpole

and the wild iris that opened beside the pond

last week, so pale, so nearly purple,

their stems already flagged and bent.

Thank you for the yellow morels hiding in the field grass,

the ones we can only see when we are already

on our knees. And thank you for the humming

that rises out of the morning as if mornings

are simply reasons to hum. What a gift,

this being alive, this chance to encounter the world.

What a gift, this being a witness to spring—

spring in everything. Spring in the way

that we greet each other. Spring in the way the golden eagle

takes to the thermals and spirals up to where

we can barely see the great span of its wings.

Spring in the words we have known

since our births. Like glory. Like celebrate.

--Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

In a consumer society, contentment is a radical proposition. Recognizing abundance rather than scarcity undermines an economy that thrives by creating unmet desires. Gratitude cultivates an ethic of fullness, but the economy needs emptiness.

--Robin Wall Kimmerer

Success Story

I never got on good 

relations with the world

first I had nothing

the world wanted

then the world had 

nothing I wanted

--A.R. Ammons

Nanny Ogg on the role of a spiritual teacher

Nanny Ogg changed the way people thought, even if it was only for a few minutes. She left people thinking they were slightly better people. They weren't, but as Nanny said, it gave them something to live up to.

--Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith

Granny Weatherwax on teaching and learning

 Granny Weatherwax smiled. That is, her mouth went up at the corners.

"Hah!" she said. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: you can't learn witchin' from books. Letice Earwig thinks you can become a witch by goin' shoppin'." She gave Tiffany a piercing look, as if she was making up her mind about something. Then she said: "An' I'll wager she don't know how to do this."

She picked up her cup of hot tea, curling her hand around it. Then she reached out with her other hand and Took Tiffany's hand. 

"Ready?" said Granny.

"For wha--" Tiffany began, and then she felt her hand get hot. The heat spread up her arm, warming it to the bone.

"Feelin' it?"

"Yes!"

The warmth died away. And Granny Weatherwax, still watching Tiffany's face, turned the teacup upside down.

The tea dropped out in one lump. It was frozen solid.

Tiffany was old enough not to say, "How did you do that?" Granny Weatherwax didn't answer silly questions, or, for that matter, many questions at all. 

"You moved the heat," Tiffany said. "You took the heat out of the tea and moved it through you to me, yes?"

"Yes, but it never touched me," said Granny triumphantly. "It's all about balance, do you see? Balance is the trick. Keep the balance and--" She stopped. "You've ridden on a seesaw? One end goes up, one end goes down. But the bit in the middle, right in the middle, that stays where it is. Upness and downness go right through it. Don't matter how high or low the ends go, it keeps the balance." She sniffed. "Magic is mostly movin' stuff around."

"Can I learn that?"

"I daresay. It's not hard, if you get your mind right."

"Can you teach me?"

"I just have. I showed you."

"No, Granny, you just showed me how to do it, not...how to do it!"

"Can't tell you that. I know how I do it. How you do it'll be different. You've just got to get your mind right."

"How do I do that?"

"How should I know? It's your mind," snapped Granny. "Put the kettle on again, will you? My tea's gone cold."

--Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith

Sometimes, I am startled out of myself

like this morning, when the wild geese came squawking,

flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek 

across the sky made me think about my life, the places 

of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief

has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,

the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.

Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold 

for a brief while, then lose it all each November.

Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst

weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves

come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields, 

land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.

You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find 

shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.

All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.

They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again.

--Barbara Crooker 

Early Spring Prayer

You can't endure a winter like this

without wanting to kneel and kiss

the green blades of each daffodil

reaching up through leftover snow.

But you don't have to scrape your knees

or fold both hands in order to pray.

The way you shed your coat today

and angle your face up toward the sun

is enough to say please and thank you

over and over, feeling yourself 

soften along with the earth, some

part of you reclaiming its color

like the goldfinch whose yellow

feathers are just beginning to show

beneath the gray, as he cracks open

the seed of this day and feasts.

—James Crews

Please describe how you became a writer

Possibly I began writing as a refuge from our insulting first grade textbook. "Come, Jane, come. Look, Dick, look." Were there ever duller people in the world? You had to tell them to look at things? Why weren't they looking to begin with?

--Naomi Shihab Nye

Smart cookie

The fortune that you seek is in another cookie,

was my fortune. So I'll be equally frank: the wisdom

That you covet is in another poem. The life that you desire 

Is in a different universe. The cookie you are craving 

Is in another jar. The jar is buried somewhere in Tennessee.

Don't even think of searching for it. If you found that jar, 

Everything would go kerflooey for a thousand miles around.

It is the jar of your fate in an alternate reality.  Don't even

Think of living that life. Don't even think of eating that cookie.

Be a smart cookie: eat what's on your plate, not in some jar

In Tennessee. That's my wisdom for today, though I know 

It's not what you were looking for.

–Richard Schiffman

The mosquito among the raindrops

The mosquito among the raindrops...

It's equivalent to getting hit, says the scientist, by a falling schoolbus

And hit every twenty seconds 

And the mosquito lives 

In fact, she doesn't even try to avoid the drops

No zigzagging, no ducking. No hiding under eaves.

How does she do it?

No resistance to the force.

She hitches a ride on the blow

A stowaway on that which brings her down

She becomes one with the drop

Knowing that to fly again 

She must fall.

--Teddy Macker

Sweet darkness

When your eyes are tired

The world is tired also.

When your vision has gone

no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark

Where the night has eyes

To recognize its own

There you can be sure

You are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb

Tonight.

The night will give you a horizon 

Further than you can see.

You must learn one thing

The world was made to be free in.

Give up all other worlds 

Except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet

Confinement of your aloneness 

To learn

Anything or anyone 

That does not bring you alive

Is too small for you.

--David Whyte

Ancient language

If you stand at the edge of the forest

and stare into it

every tree at the edge will blow a little extra

oxygen toward you

it has been proven

Leaves have admitted it

The pines I have known 

have been especially candid

One said

that all the breath in this world 

is roped together 

that breath is

the most ancient language.

--Hannah Stephenson

The Sweetest Presence

Rain washes the trees in my garden. 

They sway and bow gracefully.

Grey winds and mists of moisture wrap 

Around my house like cashmere blankets. 

My heart, like the trees,

Is full of gratitude for this life.

 

I have visited the holy temple within 

And discovered darkness, light and Sweet sounds.

I have moved the bones and flesh of 

This body into difficult shapes and 

Breathed deeply into fountains of 

Dramatic sensations.

 

Now, I make note of what I believe. 

Perhaps, later, when I read this 

Poem over a cup of tea or a glass of 

Wine, my heart will open again in 

Remembrance of times spent in 

Communion with the rain,

The trees, my body, a million thoughts 

And the sweetest presence surrounding 

All of them, all of us, everywhere, always.

 

Some days, everything makes sense without struggle.

Some days we have to remember that it once did and will again

 

Robert K. Hall

From Out Of Nowhere

Can You Hear It?

There are days when, 

although I try to open myself 

to wonder, wonder just 

won’t be found. Or perhaps,

it is more accurate to say 

on those days I am simply 

blind to what the world 

has to offer 

until I look down, and there, 

beside the sidewalk,

are blades of grass completely 

enrobed in ice, shimmering

in the glow of the setting sun,

and as they sway and move 

into each other, if I listen, 

really listen,

even they are singing 

faint little bell-notes of joy.

--Paula Gordon Lepp

Snowdrops

Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know

what despair is; then

winter should have meaning for you.

I did not expect to survive,

earth suppressing me. I didn't expect

to waken again, to feel

in damp earth my body

able to respond again, remembering

after so long how to open again

in the cold light

of earliest spring -

afraid, yes, but among you again

crying yes risk joy

in the raw wind of the new world.

-- Louise Gluck

People often ask me what is the most effective technique for transforming their life. It is a little embarrassing, that after years and years of research and experimentation, I have to say that the answer is just be a little kinder.

 ~Aldous Huxley

Tenderness

You know how a half-buried stone

in the yard will clear all the snow

from around itself, little by little,

leaving only a hollow of warmth

and a cushion of moss you want 

to rest on, until winter finally ends? 

That’s how tenderness works in us, 

some heat rising up from beneath, 

then spreading outward to touch 

the lives of anyone who comes near—

slowly, softly, making a safe place

for them to stand in, melting away

the coldness that gathers around us.

—James Crews

Notice

This evening, the sturdy Levis

I wore every day for over a year

& which seemed to the end in perfect condition,

suddenly tore.

How or why I don’t know,

but there it was—a big rip at the crotch.

A month ago my friend Nick

walked off a racquetball court,

showered,

got into his street clothes,

& half-way home collapsed & died.

Take heed you who read this

& drop to your knees now & again

like the poet Christopher Smart

& kiss the earth & be joyful

& make much of your time

& be kindly to everyone,

even to those who do not deserve it.

For although you may not believe it will happen,

you too will one day be gone.

I, whose Levis ripped at the crotch

for no reason,

assure you that such is the case.

Pass it on.

-- Steve Kowit

Patience

Again today, the invitation

to fall in love with the world—

with the gray jay who flits

from empty branch to empty branch,

with the sharp scent of rabbit brush,

with the warm spring wind

and the dark buds on the crabapple

still tight with future bloom.

Some days, though the world offers itself,

it’s not so easy to fall in love—

days when heartache twists in the chest

and turns in us like a screw,

leaves us raw and sensitive, until,

too tender to hear any more bad news, 

we shutter our hearts, we close our ears.

But if we’re lucky, an inner voice

sends us outside into the day, 

and though it is gray, the world does 

what the world does—

holds us despite our heartache,

holds us the same way it holds

the stubby pink cactus, all prickly and clenched,

the same way it holds last year’s thistles,

all brittle and flat and gray, 

the same way it holds the dank scent of river

and the moldering scent of last year’s leaves, 

holds us exactly as we are

until we are ready to fall in love again. 

 —Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

It is said that before entering the sea

a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has traveled,

from the peaks of the mountains,

the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,

she sees an ocean so vast,

that to enter

there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.

The river can not go back.

Nobody can go back.

To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk

of entering the ocean

because only then will fear disappear,

because that’s where the river will know

it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,

but of becoming the ocean.

Khalil Gibran

I hope you get old.

I hope time is heavy on your bones, draped over you like an embrace from God.

I hope the backs of your hands become deep maps—

Of all the places you have been. 

Dark stains where your fingers dipped into clay and dirt and mud.

I hope you get old.

I hope time fills your heart with joy and triumph.

I hope you have enough obstacles to teach you character and empathy and enough challenges to bestow you with uniqueness.

I hope pain shows you how strong you are and the value of a true friend.

I hope you’ve been alone enough to know yourself.

I hope you find quiet more than you find chaos.

I hope you get old.

That time wraps around your legs like a desperate lover.

I hope you can look into the faces of people you have loved and cherished and that you leave behind echos of grief, 

Because you were loved in turn.

I hope you give thanks for every waking moment, 

For what you have and for what you have not.

I hope you get old.

I hope you make things that last.

I hope you’ve inspired people.

I hope you’ve helped someone.

I hope grace rests at your feet.

I hope.

You forgive everything,

You did Not Get Quite. Right.

--Jann Arden 

String Theory

I have to believe a Beethoven

string quartet is not unlike

the elliptical music of gossip:

one violin excited

to pass its small story along

to the next violin and the next

until, finally, come full circle,

the whole conversation is changed.

And I have to believe such music

is at work at the deep heart of things,

that under the protons and electrons,

behind the bosons and quarks,

with their bonds and strange attractors,

these strings, these tiny vibrations,

abuzz with their big ideas,

are filling the universe with gossip,

the unsung art of small talk

that, not unlike busybody Beethoven,

keeps us forever together, even

when everything’s flying apart.

- Ronald Wallace

From For Dear Life.

Winter Grace

If you have seen the snow

under the lamppost

piled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic table

or somewhere slowly falling

into the brook

to be swallowed by water,

then you have seen beauty

and know it for its transience.

And if you have gone out in the snow

for only the pleasure

of walking barely protected

from the galaxies,

the flakes settling on your parka

like the dust from just-born stars,

the cold waking you

as if from long sleeping,

then you can understand

how, more often than not,

truth is found in silence,

how the natural world comes to you

if you go out to meet it,

its icy ditches filled with dead weeds,

its vacant birdhouses, and dens

full of the sleeping.

But this is the slowed-down season

held fast by darkness

and if no one comes to keep you company

then keep watch over; your own solitude.

In that stillness, you will learn

with your whole body

the significance of cold

and the night,

which is otherwise always eluding you.

-- Patricia Fargnoli

Writing About Summer, in Winter

Soon, the yard will fill with a pride of yellow lions

And the flurries outside my window:

Tiny parasails, drifting into neighbor’s yards.

(they will curse the abundance)

Soon, my feet will be buffed by sand

My body dusted with salt;

Seasoned by the sea, slow baked on the beach.

Soon,   so   much   light   - that dusk will be

Heralded by sparks of fire -  there  -  there -

Emerging from the threshold of wild and deliberate space

Random, but not really.

(we do not speak the language)

And we, as children, will exclaim

In our tongues of joy

When the flashes are suddenly  -  here - among us.

Yes, I could write of summer breezes

Whispering stanzas slowed by heat,

But

Why would I want to?  When there are still

Leopards of snow lounging in elbows

Of stately trees, waiting

To pounce on passersby;

When there are complex flavors

Slow rolling in a boil on my stove;

When the rhododendron furls its leaves to

Message me the temperature.

Why, when there are still stacks of books to read

And blazing fires 

To occupy my gaze

And warm the cat’s belly stretched full length

In worship.

Why would I want to hurry this fallow time

- that I have somehow forgotten to honor –

Squandering the gift, and now,

Remembered

Grasping at clear, cold, constellated skies

Even as the dark recedes.

(inexorable tide)

I forgot to listen to the cadence, then

Judged when my body danced 

To the rhythm anyway.

There is still time,

Spring is unreliable.

By Pam Rimington

in praise of i don’t know

Mostly, what washes up at the beach isn’t whole, though our eyes are peeled

for the perfect form of, say, a perfume bottle, or an old coin, or a message from the dead.

Instead, what reveals itself as the tide pulls back is a sea of uncertainty, cryptic shards

with the vaguest clues whose answers are scattered in places likely too far from here.

We will never retrieve them, not in the way our mind craves assembly.

But look how, against the late season light, a filmy beauty descends, nearly silencing

the clamor of what pulls at our sleeves to solve. What if we could let ourselves rest

for a little while in this halo of I don’t know, feel its soft touch against our urgent skin.

What if the thing in our hands, and every fractured remainder, is its own answer. What if

leaning into the wobbly shapes of our lives is another kind of sweetness and gold.

-- Maya Stein

When You Have Lost Yourself

It takes a while to find yourself again

after you lost yourself in the dark forest,

accidentally letting go of your hand,

losing sight of yourself. “Where did she go?”

you ask the owl, the squirrel, the skeptical fox

who looks at you like a philosophy professor

when you have given an answer so obviously wrong

that he can tell you haven’t read the textbook.

Unfortunately, there are things no philosophy textbook

will tell you, like how not to lose yourself,

where the paths in the forest go, or what the trees

are whispering as you pass — the oak, the beech,

the alder. Are they talking about you, or

the other you, wherever she is wandering?

It takes a while to find yourself — it takes

looking behind each tree, under each rock,

on the backs of leaves, among the meadow grasses,

asking crickets, chickadees, woodpeckers,

calling up to the distant circling hawk,

who can see the flickering tail of a hare as it runs

across a clearing. Perhaps you have hidden yourself

in its burrow, lined with fur, under an oak tree?

Perhaps you have hidden yourself under the roots

that overhang the stream, and only dragonflies

notice your eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Perhaps you have hidden yourself under the litter

of last year’s leaves, or up in the canopy,

which is already turning red with autumn.

And once you have found yourself, what will you do?

I suggest taking yourself back to the cottage

near the clearing, sitting yourself in front of the fire,

making yourself some soup on the ancient stove,

with carrots, potatoes, and beans, flavored with parsley,

then putting yourself to bed and telling yourself

one of the old stories. It is after all

stories that tell us who we are, stories

that remind us where the paths might lead, and how

to talk to foxes so we can ask directions,

how to find the witch at the heart of the forest,

who might, as it turns out, be yourself after all,

stories that tell us what we could become,

stories that guide us home.

-- Theodora Goss

Me: Hey God.

God: Hello, My love.

Me: The world is completely out of control!

God: I know.  It's such an adventure, right? 

Me: No!  It's like being on a runaway train!  I need to feel like I am in control of my life. 

God: You want to be in control?  

Me: Yes!  

God: You are living on a spinning wet rock of a planet that resides next to a constantly exploding fireball in the middle of an ever-expanding universe that is filled with mysteries beyond your wildest imagination.  

Me: Um, okay....

God: And on this planet that you are hurtling through the great expanse in - you are coexisting with billions of other people who have free-will and their own experiences that shape their perspectives and beliefs.

Me: Yeah...? 

God: And while all this is going on your soul is residing in a physical body that is such a miracle of delicate engineering that at any given moment could produce its last heartbeat.

Me: Right...

God: What is it about your existence that you think you have any control of?

Me: Um…

God: Come on - you know the answer to this.  What can you control?

Me: How kind I am to people?

God:  Yep and one other thing.

Me:  What's that?

God: How kind you are to yourself.  Aside from that - most of everything else is a bit outside of your design.  

Me: This is a bit terrifying...

God: All great adventures are!

          ~ john roedel