.
gruff
sometimes prickly and mostly silent
really quite hairy and a bit grey ’round the edges
forever watching over the brood
determined and hard-working
always ready to tough it out
even in those times of drought
beneath the barbs and bristles
a gentle heart of gold
beating in a forest
of fortitude
::
.
Happy Father’s Day to my old man
and all fathers everywhere.
.
Perspective is a tricky player. And there are days when you are blinded by the hand you are dealt, full of jokers and and clubs and spades. Days when you can’t see past the black humor of life.
Days when the good hides in the bottom of the deck and the bad, that ugly jack, gets turned face up.
And you know it’s all a game, that soon it will be over and life will go on the way it always does and next time you play you will get a hand full of diamonds. Or hearts.
And you know that in the grand scheme of things, it’s really not that bad anyway, everyone loses sometimes, everyone gets beat, or drops a card on the floor, or gets stuck playing 52 pick-up. My brother used to love pulling that one on me.
This has been a week like that.
A week that will pass whether I win or I lose, and some weeks, that’s just the way it goes.
I keep trying to focus on the good. I’m usually much better at that than I have been this week. This week that started out just fine and then turned into one small calamity after another. All small, all survivable, all just tiny blips on the big screen of life.
And now I’m mixing metaphors.
That’s okay, life is like that, too.
And I have this photo of this bird that came to visit me on Monday. And that was very, very good.
And every so often, if you stare at it for a long enough time, the ugly can start to look beautiful.
Any second now, I just know I’m going to draw the queen of hearts.
Come on, hit me.
is always the one
no one’s expecting
always tiny
and full of
…….other
…….possibilities
…….and the burden
…….of its own dead weight
…….i pretend my back
…….is stronger than
…….this mess you’ve left
…….in the kitchen
…….dirty dishes,
…….muddy tracks,
…….a trail
…….of crumbs
…….leading to
…….the places you’ve
…….always
…….kept secret
…….and i could follow
…….if i wanted
…….solve the puzzle
…….work my way up
…….to the big
…………reveal
…………but instead
…………i gather up sponge
…………and broom and
…………this tired old
…………dustpan
…………and whistle
…………as i work
…….and when
…….the job is finished
…………and my floor is
…………clean
…………but my hands
…………are dirty
…………then
……………..and only then
……………..i call your name
The best thing I did this week was the run I didn’t have time for.
Some weeks are like that, so filled with work and responsibilities, that you forget to look up, enjoy life. You forget to breathe.
I did have a few hours with my husband and my windmills on Tuesday, and in many ways, THAT was the best part of the week, but then the next thing I knew, it was Friday afternoon and my body just started screaming at me: run. I haven’t been in several weeks, all this gardening has been tough on my knees, but I haven’t done that this week either and my knees were feeling fine. My carpal tunnel on the other hand… oh my. My body needed to move.
And so, despite the fact that it would mean working later on a Friday than I wanted to, I got my gear on and headed to the trail. Before I even started running, as I was walking for my warm-up, I spotted a pair of cedar waxwings just above my head, doing the sweetest little courtship dance. The were snuggling and chirping, bobbing and dancing, ruffling up the crests on their heads. Acting like love birds. And just like that, there was a big smile on my face.
It was a good run, 4.5 miles, which these days, for me, is quite a feat. The weather was just perfect, not too hot, clear and sunny, and I felt myself breathing again, taking in the green and the trees and sun. Feeling alive.
On my way back down the trail, as I was walking to cool off, a Baltimore oriole landed in a bush right next to me and started eating berries. Another bird I rarely see, and he stayed for several minutes, not at all concerned about my presence as he ate his fill.
It was the day of beautiful birds. And I was happy.
I went home and finished the work I had left to do, and finally, much later than I would have liked, made it outside to sit in the garden with a glass of wine and Ben Webster in the background. As I sat there with a purring kitten in my lap, exhausted and content, I spotted a dragonfly in the stones a few feet away.
At first I thought it was just resting, it fluttered its wings every so often, but after some time had passed and it didn’t move, I went to investigate. I saw no visible damage, and picked it up on a stick and placed it on a hydrangea bush with big, soft, green leaves, but clearly, the end was near. I sprinkled some water on the leaf it rested on, and knew that I was witnessing the death of a dragonfly.
A small death in the grand scheme of things, very small, really. And yet, I was filled with sadness.
So much in this life we take for granted. Some days, some weeks, just the simple fact that we are here, alive.
Just one tiny afternoon filled with tiny miracles and tiny tragedies.
And big, big lessons.
::
and live in this spot
with this view
with the man that drives me here
and stops for ten million photos
and thinks i’m a little bit crazy
but never says so out loud
::
instead,
he buys me dip-tops
::
.
.
it’s june and i sit before this fire
wearing socks and a big fleece blanket
wondering how it is that just last week
i sat outside in the breeze dripping
sweat with my feet in a bucket of water
and i was sad then and i am sad now
and it was may then and it is june now
and life skitters away before me on
slippered feet that make no sound
and i think about change and
the way it no longer
interests me
and can’t decide if that’s right
or wrong or somewhere in between but
mostly i think about silence and
flowers and reading books that take me
to places i’ve never seen, no, not places,
i don’t care about places, i’ve never
cared about places, it’s lives i visit
in the pages of books, hearts i hear
beating at midnight and dawn
and sometimes, in summer, i stay up
reading all night just to listen and
wonder and watch the sun rise
on someone else’s
horizon
she cooked for an army because she had one
yours, mine, ours and this bunch had nothing
in common with the bradys
mostly i remember white uniforms,
being paid a quarter to rub wintergreen
on the hot, swollen feet of a nurse
and i could never imagine her dancing
past the faux-wood metal shelf
filled with knick knacks i was forever
in danger of breaking all mingled with
the smell of starch and the best
molasses cookies ever made
i rubbed pink lotion and collected
my coin but back then
i didn’t know all the stories
didn’t know there was more to be told
in the world my mother grew up in
fairy tales lived in a bottle and evil
slept in the corner one eye open
shhhhh, be careful not to wake him be good be good
except good was never good enough
and in the end the deepest scars
smelled like wintergreen and antiseptic
fingers worked to the bone never quite
disguise enough for a flawed heart
not made of gold not made of love
not made of anything but broken
and broken begets broken
fosters heartbreak and failure
and i like to think intentions were good
i like to think survival shouldn’t mean
damaged children but all i know are stories
and all i have are a teapot and a photo
of a hard-working woman who cooked for
an army because that’s what she had
but the soldiers she raised needed so much more
than the purple hearts they received
Day, night. Inhale, exhale. Simple, complicated. Beautiful, ugly.
Rose, thorn.
Life is filled with opposites that cannot exist one without the other. We tend to reach for the bright spots, the highs, the pretty. But we would never recognize these things if not for the shadows, the lows, the unattractive.
Some days I try to rest in the middle. Pause and embrace both sides. Some days, it takes long arms and a big reach. And after awhile, I am exhausted.
Some days, I choose a side. There are times when it cannot be helped. And those are the days when I feel most alive.
Darkness is not the same as evil. Beauty is not the same as good. Answers are not the same as wisdom.
I want to be the wanderer, moving in and out of light and shadow, reaching for the sun as I grow deep roots.
I want to be pulled in all directions, up, down, in, out, left, right.
I want to scramble up a trellis like a vine gone wild and throw rose-scented light to the world.
Here, catch.
you have your chair and i
have mine and sometimes
at night after you’ve
gone to bed and i finally
get around to pulling on
my night owl
i move over and sit
in your chair
to view the world
through your eyes
every so often
i see myself sitting
there
in that other chair
a book of poems
or a baby
in my hands
and remember that
these chairs
have seen the best
and the worst of us
at times merely innocent
bystanders and at others
the only thing keeping
us from tearing holes
in the walls
and then
i put my feet up
and pretend to be you
watching baseball through
half closed lids and
i never get there really
never quite transition
into a sports fan
but who would have thought
a jock
and a poet could share
these two chairs
side by side all these years
worn and tired though
they are still strong and
mostly sturdy
always silent
about those nights
when neither one of
us could tell
the difference
up at midnight up at dawn
shift-wearing shape-shifting
through a night of dreams and
words that write themselves
on the chalkboard walls of
slumber
blue and gold are the colors
of anarchy (or valor)
i cannot tell one from
the other in this toned
down version
of sanity but i know where
my heart is always easy
to find that loud obnoxious
whisperer {not}
that there’s anything to
hide in this corner with
sunrise always there
out of sight
perhaps but never
out of mind
