Reweaving hope

I wish, like this brave soul, 

I could rise above the controversies 

Tearing my country — and my soul — apart. 

And yet, there may be things that I can do 

Here, on the ground, 

 To find the threads of compassion 

That once bound our souls together 

 And re-weave them into a basketful of hope…

No aurora here

Waiting last night for the northern lights, 

My camera full of colors from an earlier sunset 

And sparkles from that morning’s frost, 

It seemed fitting that the sky remained as black 

As the clothing worn by the women in black, 

Who stood that afternoon to mourn 

The violence disturbing our fair country.

All is not yet lost

When so much seems dark, 

The mountain that lies beyond my window 

Reminds me the world is larger than this; 

That the sun still rises, 

There is still beauty, 

And all is not yet lost.

Why meditate?

Asked why I meditate, 

 I might respond, “because 

Things are pretty rocky now, 

And meditation takes me 

Across the ruffled waters of my thoughts 

To a kinder, gentler place 

Where I feel at home, and grounded; 

Where dark and light coexist 

 Instead of being opposites 

And I can be at peace.

We can recover

This was what I needed to see today, 

That when things are broken 

Or get knocked down, 

It doesn’t mean the end, 

Any more than winter 

 And the loss of leaves 

Means spring won’t come again. 

This tree’s been in this state 

For at least six years and more, and yet 

Each fall it’s covered with apples. 

We, too, will find a way to recover.

A loss of trust

Our ancestors built these things together, 

Our government and our military, 

As a country, to care for and protect 

 One another. 

But now we fear the institutions 

 We used to trust, 

And watch them work against us 

To serve the bastions of wealth and power. 

How could this have gone so wrong?

Remaining open

Never lose your curiosity. 

Never miss what’s underfoot, 

Or overhead, or write it off 

Because it’s ugly, or unappealing. 

Appreciate the small things: 

A three-leaf clover has its charm, 

Though it may lack the fourth leaf’s 

Wishful properties, And a single blade of grass, 

When held between your thumbs, 

Can whistle just as loudly 

As a teakettle.