The mirror impulse

For many years the empath in us 

May manifest like this: as a reflective surface,

 Only mirroring back 

What we think others wish to see. 

With time, we learn to open up, 

To speak our truth and ask for what we need, 

But that impulse is still there; 

To hunker down, take shelter behind the mirror, 

And hide what we truly think and feel.

Change, triumphant

Looking down from above 

At the rivers, like cracks, 

That have carved and are carving 

The mountains around them,

 I’m reminded again 

How much power there is 

In allowing the flow; 

That change will always win out 

Over staying the same.

What we learn

The heights we long to scale 

 Can prove challenging: 

There’s many a slip along the way, 

And the slide back down has a chance of being 

Terrifying or exhilarating. 

But once we’re back on solid ground, 

What will we remember about the journey?

 The joy? The pain? 

 Or the friends we made along the way?

Happy Sunday!

May your Sunday contain moments 

Of beauty, purity, and grace…

The soul, exposed

Nature, like life, is a sculptor of sorts, 

Chipping away at the accretions of time 

To expose the essence within. 

And as I stare at this amazing work, 

I seem to see a face emerging — 

A mouth, an ear, the beginnings of a nose… 

Could this be the soul of the rock?

A colorful path

There are those in life who seem destined 

To walk a more colorful path; 

To see more, attempt more, and accomplish more 

Than falls to the rest of us. 

Be humbled and inspired, 

 But not discouraged by their adventures: 

 Though our colors may be more muted, 

We, too, have charm and value, 

 And an impact all our own. 

We, too, can work in our own communities 

 To help the world become a better, kinder place.

Dealing with grief

"Don’t worry,” my mom used to say to me,

 “There’s always plenty more fish in the sea,” 

Whenever I was distraught about 

 A betrayal, rejection, or loss. 

Of course that never takes into account 

The unique attributes of the fish that was lost 

Or the dwindling numbers of fish in the sea. 

But she, because of an early hard loss of her own, 

Was terrified of emotion, and so 

She chose to belittle, not honor, my feelings, 

Lest they trigger memories of her own. 

Perhaps that’s why so many of us 

Deal so poorly when faced with the grief of others: 

We’re simply attempting 

To protect our own hearts…

A taste of Eden

Where do you go 

When you need to rest and recuperate? 

What is it that feeds your soul? 

For me, a garden like this — 

A mix of sunlight and shadow, 

Light green and dark, private and quiet, 

With places to sit and places to wander, 

Blessed with birdsong and graced with art… 

This — this could be Eden.

Maternal responses

Though our cats have been catching 

 The mice in our kitchen with some regularity

 (Their methods are far more effective than traps) 

I was nonetheless moved by the tenderness 

 Of this charming creation. 

The detail, of course, is incredible, 

But the facial expressions so beautifully capture 

How it feels to protect and to seek protection, 

I found myself feeling a little bit guilty 

For all the dead mice we have tossed off our cliff…

Focus on the Now

It’s easy to get so caught up 

 In what’s past; in what’s behind you, 

That you fail to fully focus 

On what’s right here, 

Right in front of you; 

To worry so much about what you’ve lost 

Or what you’re missing, 

That you miss the blessings right before your eyes.

Ripening

Sitting in an old friend’s back yard, 

Snacking on homegrown cherry tomatoes —

 Is there anything sweeter 

 On a late summer’s afternoon? 

Looking at these two on the vine, 

I find myself thinking 

We’re not just aging; we’re ripening — 

Growing from a dull, mottled youth 

To a ripe, juicy, sweet and luscious perfection! 

Life is good.

The promise of the future

Our destination looms 

So brightly in the distance, 

But there’ll be so many ups and downs 

Along the way before we get there 

That it’s easy to get lost in the valleys, 

Lose perspective, and never get there. 

So we hold the image in our hearts, 

Warming our hands at its promise 

Even when we feel buried 

In the cold and dark.

We are One

This is it. 

We are One, 

Steaming through life together, 

Laden with the baggage 

Of our hopes and expectations, 

Our breath streaming behind us, 

Echoing the clouds of breath 

Of those who’ve gone before. 

One boat, one life, one earth: 

How can we best support one another 

 On this journey?

Perhaps a blessing

Each night, at sunset, I go out 

To photograph the colors in the sky, 

For, as with snowflakes, every sunset’s different. 

The infinite variety holds endless fascination — 

The shapes clouds take,

 The patterns on the water, 

The way the world turns gold, then pink 

As the earth turns from the sun… 

But, as with many photographs,

 It’s not til I look later 

That I see the unexpected gifts: look here 

And see the angel in the water, 

Her wings raised as if in praise of light, 

Or perhaps a blessing. 

Now, having seen her, breathe 

 A prayer of gratitude.

Opalescence

The dying poppy’s petals wax pearlescent 

As her blossoming season draws to a close. 

Like the essence, revealed beneath 

The transparence of an elderly woman’s skin, 

We see in that opalescence 

Both the beauty that she was 

And the dignity; the purity and elegance 

Of what she is becoming…

Beauty and violence

The cat had just crawled into my lap 

For his morning nap 

When this rainbow appeared 

 Outside my window. 

Of course I leapt up and ran outside 

To watch it as it doubled, then faded, 

Followed (not preceded!) by an unpredicted rain. 

Back in the house I quickly learned 

The cat had responded 

 To being dumped from my lap 

By taking it out on his sister. 

Hearing her screaming,

 I grabbed my squirter 

 And ran to the bathroom to break up the fight. 

Must such beauty always be followed 

 By violence?

One brown cow

Whether on a crowded subway, or in a bar, 

Or sitting in an airport, waiting for a flight,

 Those moments come, when we’re suddenly aware 

Of the enormous complexity of life; 

 How each person that we see

 Has experiences and concerns 

We can only imagine, yet in that moment 

When we cross paths we are connected… 

And here, passing by a farm on a rural road, 

I can wonder who lives here, 

What their life is like, 

And how they ended up 

 With just one brown cow in a herd of black…

Peacekeepers

This charming sculpture is Pia the Peacekeeper; 

Isn’t she beautiful? 

Built of recycled pallet boards 

 By Copenhagen-based Artist Thomas Dambo, 

She lives in Sakai park on Bainbridge Island, 

And appears to have a steady stream 

 Of visitors— some quite young! 

 I was intrigued to note that her gaze 

 Seemed to follow us around, 

Inviting us to be peacekeepers as well…

Ignored

My husband clapped his hands, 

And all the crows in the fogged field 

Flew up into the air, then settled 

 Down again, as if they’d never moved.

 Applause, that praise some of us long for, 

Can be like that: a brief flutter, some uplifting, 

But then things settle down again 

As if nothing has changed: 

No new horizons opened,

 No self esteem enhanced, but just 

A pleasant memory that fades with time; 

A brief phrase on a resume, 

Buried in a list of accomplishments; 

 Ignored.

In praise of generosity

I praise this day 

The generosity of apple trees, 

Whose lush and precious fruit

 Is so prolific, it feeds not only us, 

 But our deer, our community’s homeless, 

And even makes applesauce for schoolchildren. 

 Such bounty, and with so little help from us…

What fog teaches

How is it, that we’re so determined 

 To hold and see ourselves apart, 

Separate from other humans so like us? 

Doesn’t the fog teach us 

The beauty to be found 

In the blurring of boundaries; 

How alike all things become; 

How alike we are at heart?

Grudge match

It’s that time of year again, 

When the deer are locking horns again 

Like politicians, gearing for a fight. 

Grappling for dominance, 

They begin with a courteous lick and a grunt, 

And then engage and twist and try 

 To pull each other down;

A pointless exercise from my perspective, 

After which they lie down in my yard 

And take a nap. 

Unlike Republicans and Democrats, 

They don’t seem to harbor grudges…

There will be days

There will be days when we find 

 Our constant efforts to do good, 

Be compassionate, fight prejudice and injustice 

Are exhausting. It’s okay, in such a world, 

On such a day, to take a rest; 

 To lie down in the grass, made dry and prickly 

 With the heat of climate change, 

And relax, and close your eyes, 

And dream of a world 

 Where the grass is soft and green 

 And folks are kind, 

 For dreams like these will fuel our future.

Like the bees

Like bees, 

We all have our good points and bad:

 The honey we make and share 

Often outweighed by the venom in our sting. 

But like the bees, we need one another; 

Need the cross-pollination of thoughts and ideas.

Our willingness to share 

Feeds the world’s growth and vitality.

Where Sunday falls

Does Sunday fall 

At the beginning or the end off your week?

 Is this where the journey starts? A sunrise? 

Or a sunset as the week draws to a close? 

However it works for you, I pray 

That rest is still the order of the day; 

Some time to process what’s been done 

And prepare for what’s to come; 

Some time for peace.

Baggage

What if the baggage 

We drag along through life 

Isn’t bad, dangerous, 

Eating away at us and our relationships, 

But simply a marker we drag along on purpose; 

A way to make ourselves more visible, 

 More identifiable, 

 Should we find ourselves drowning 

In the minutiae of life?

Have you seen the moon?

A friend texted me: have you seen the moon? 

And though I looked around me 

From my spot in the ferry line, 

The sky was black. She texted back: 

It’s in the East, if that’s a help! 

And so I left my car and took a walk, 

Past the buildings and the trees 

To the corner of the street, 

And there it was, shining on both of us 

Though we were miles apart, 

Showering us both with grace, and light.

Mystical, majestic

Mystical, majestic; 

Echoes of ancient myths 

And Elizabethan forests, 

Where faerie kings masquerade, 

Luring maidens to their leafy lairs…

 It’s amazing, how a little fog 

Imbues a familiar scene with mystery —

 And we humans often seem to find 

Mystery more alluring than clarity…

Like a ribbon

Like an answer to a prayer, 

The rains came yesterday, 

Soaking the yard and dripping from the berries, 

Then closing the day, like a ribbon on a present, 

With a fabulous sunset: what a blessing!

Lahaina and Kelowna

Awakened by a flash 

And the rumble of thunder, 

I am waiting 

 With the dry grass and the weeds 

For the rain that was promised 

But never seems to arrive; 

Trying to stay in the moment and not worry 

About the fires that lightning can bring; 

Images of Lahaina and Kelowna in my head. 

Having loved what was then burned,

 Do we ever feel safe enough to love again?

Be not ashamed of aging

Oh golden one, don’t hide your face, 

Ashamed your sunny locks grow thin, bedraggled, 

Your complexion mottled: 

Those who love you see the seeds you’ve lost 

Enumerate the birds you must have fed 

And those you’ve yet to feed; 

The countless futures enriched 

By the nourishment you provide 

In simply being the magnificence you are.

Joyful possibilities

The world is full of joyful possibilities 

 If we are willing to take chances;

 To step away from the familiar — 

Even a tiny step! — 

And try something bold and new.

No longer viable

What makes this house so startling 

Is not so much that it’s leaning, 

But the fact that it’s still standing. 

How did this happen? 

Who or what do we blame? 

And how is it still standing? 

How long before it collapses altogether?

 It’s the same response we have on seeing 

Other kinds of trouble in the world: 

Failing relationships, companies, organizations — 

Why they are not working pales before 

The wonder that they’re still functioning at all: 

The tenacity of humans to cling with hope 

To things no longer viable

Is nothing short of miraculous.

Beings of light

The sun, in her brilliance, 

Ignites the clouds around her. 

As beings of light, 

We are called to do the same.

As summer draws to a close

As we enter the final weeks of summer, 

Some part of us is wondering 

 If we spent enough time just soaking up the sun. 

Were we too busy doing to just be? 

Did we fully appreciate our opportunities 

 To let those tensions go and just drift? 

Before the chill of autumn sets in 

(And the rain, if you’re in the Pacific Northwest!) 

Find a little time to just appreciate 

The sights, the sounds, and scents 

 Of a summer afternoon, and store them up 

As memories to warm a winter’s night.

Nature’s art

I don’t pretend to know, but I assume 

That with the long dry summer 

The pond is drying up, 

And what water filters in attracts the algae — 

Although perhaps the surface is evenly coated 

But blooming only happens where there’s water? 

What I do know is that Mother Nature 

Is inspiring, and a finer artist 

Than I could ever be, and so I celebrate 

Her amaranthine creativity.

Recovery

This little bird, having bumped into my window, 

Is resting on the deck below, 

Taking time to breathe again, 

Shake out her wings before ascending 

Back into the sky. We,too, must learn 

To allow ourselves recovery time; 

Time to rest, to self-assess, test out our wings 

And slowly breathe life back into our hearts 

After those unexpected bumps upon the road — 

You know the ones: the accidents, the losses,

 The surprises we encounter that divert us 

From the path we thought we’d chosen. 

Who knows? Each one could be a gift,

But we won’t know ‘til we make time to unwrap it.

Night thoughts

Ships passing in the night: a cliche, 

And obviously my camera couldn’t find 

Its focus in the dark, so I can only share 

The brightness and the color, 

Not the texture — the lifeboats, 

And all the tiny windows

 (Though I’ve never understood 

How it can be all lit up like that 

At 3 am, when all the folks aboard 

 Are sleeping, as I wish I were…). 

But of course the crew are awake, and busy 

Preparing for their return to port, 

Rounding up the luggage, making breakfast, 

And guiding the ship home through smoky seas. 

And I could bet some passenger, like me,

 Is wide awake and staring out their window 

Into the night, worrying about the challenges 

Awaiting them when they return to land, 

And wishing it were easier to fall asleep again…

 Perhaps they, too, crawl back in bed 

And say a prayer for all who work,

 Or watch, or weep this night.

What have we done?

It’s wildfire season now, 

In both our state and Canada, 

 And though we have no fires close by 

The smoke obscures our view 

 And forces us to close our windows. 

I ache for friends in eastern Washington, 

Where the air quality index is over 350, 

And wonder how long they can continue 

To breathe without suffering ill effects. 

I wake in the night with images of Lahaina 

Streaming through my head, 

Imagining that happening 

 To all the little sea coast towns I love 

And cringe: what have we done 

To our precious earth?

When the mask grows too small

Does Madrona ache, or mourn, or celebrate 

 Those seasons when its skin begins to peel, 

Exposing all the green wood underneath? 

And does that stripping also slough 

The blackened scars below? How does this work? 

And what — if anything — does this tell us 

About those seasons when we, too, 

 Must be revealed beneath the masks 

That may have grown too small for us to wear?

Distortions from a lens

I’m not sure why 

 The glass in my living room window 

Turned an orange sunset to magenta; 

Everything else I’ve seen through it looked normal. 

Perhaps it was the angle from where I stood? 

But still: a gentle reminder 

 That what we think we’re seeing 

 May not be real, as it’s always filtered 

Through the lens of our experience. 

Try standing in a different place,

 Or in another’s shoes 

 To get a truer picture.

When paths diverge

The choices that we make when paths diverge 

May matter much — or possibly not at all; 

They might converge again in some new place 

Or not at all; only time will tell, 

 So your best guess, based on what your eyes, 

 Your intuition, and experience have to tell you — 

And perhaps a bit of prayer — 

Is all you have to guide you: 

The time has come to trust 

That choices made with best intentions 

Are meant to bring good outcomes 

For all concerned.

The ache beneath the pleasure

A chance encounter with friends,

 A beautiful evening, a glorious sunset, 

And a flock of geese circling through the sky: 

All the makings of a fabulous summer evening— 

And yet, beneath the surface, haunting images 

Of the fiery devastation of a beloved town. 

We treasure these precious moments 

And ache for the losses elsewhere in the world.

Revelations

On a warm and sunny day, we decided 

 To walk a new path for us, around a lagoon. 

And so we strode off into the woods, 

Appreciating the shade of the canopy of trees.

 Having forgotten to bring hats, we hoped 

The path would continue to be shady, 

But soon began to wonder 

 If we’d ever actually see the lagoon — 

And then it came: a break in the underbrush, 

And suddenly the lagoon was revealed 

In all its bright blue splendor,

 Framed by a lacy tracery of branches. 

Those of us who venture 

Into new territories must learn to trust 

The promises of those who’ve gone before us, 

And be patient, believing that, with time, 

The truth will be revealed.

Being present

What day would not go more sweetly 

After awakening to such a glorious display?

 Or are you one who believes 

 Life’s inevitably all downhill from here?

 Or one who didn’t see it; 

Too busy drinking coffee, making lists… 

No matter where we are, life will be richer 

If we’re present to what is.

Standoff

My cat watches, mesmerized and chirping at 

The bird who’s landed on our deck; 

The bird stares back, paralyzed I’m sure, 

By her steady gaze, unaware of the glass 

Which, like the restrictions imposed by laws, 

Separates and protects them both —

The bird from the cat, 

And the cat from the Eagle that flies overhead…

Appreciating the mix

So many different types of clouds 

Coexisting in the sky —

 Dark, and light, and gray; 

Cumulus, cirrus, stratus, and altocumulus, 

All dancing together, a patchwork inflorescence 

 Of flowers in a garden of blue; 

Like the churches I grew up in, 

Where folks of all persuasions 

And backgrounds sat together in the pews, 

United despite differences 

By shared experience and beliefs…

Old friends

I think my father brought me these dolls 

 After one of his long business trips; 

I couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8. 

And yet somehow I’ve kept them all these years, 

Allowing them to follow me from house to house, 

From move to move… I’m not sure how or why 

They ended up in this windowsill, 

But I get the feeling they approve 

 Of this, our most recent move, 

And are enjoying our renewed closeness 

To the natural world.

Never enough

The buck outside my window, 

Demanding to be fed; 

The cats rubbing against my legs 

 As I walk into the kitchen; 

The rhododendron leaves that droop, 

Requesting to be watered — 

All small reminders of the larger problems 

 In the world that I can’t fix; 

The daily stream of news that breaks my heart. 

And so I do my best 

 To care for those for whom I can 

 Make a difference, knowing all the while 

It will never be enough…