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…

Misinformation

My weather app tells me it’s not raining, 

Yet I can see the evidence with my own ears, 

And hear it with my eyes: 

The ticking of the water in the downspout, 

The splashes in the birdbath, the reflections 

That deepen the colors of the deck outside my door. 

How often, in paying such attention to our phones, 

We ignore the input of our senses 

And miss that deep connection 

 To the universe that cradles us 

In its welcoming embrace?

Mining the depths

In the tides of circumstance, 

There will inevitably be times 

When the familiar is washed away 

And what lies beneath has been exposed. 

Fear not, but see it as an opportunity 

 To be curious; to explore the underpinnings 

Of life as we have known it: 

Both the dark and the light, 

The rocky and the smooth,

 Seeking those bright kernels of understanding 

 To carry back with you into the more familiar 

Confines of existence.

Sunset variations

Last night’s sunset: 

A continuous display 

Of amazing light formations. 

I felt privileged to watch the incredible show.

Creating space

Like meditation, these quiet restful places 

We build for ourselves 

Can bless a whole community: 

What touches us, or soothes and calms us 

May have the same effect 

On all who happen to pass by; 

May serve as a reminder 

That there are other ways of being in the world; 

That there are those who will make time 

For peace and solitude, knowing the comfort 

And the solace that emerges in that space.

Where the eyes are led

The patterns in the sea and sky: 

A constantly evolving invitation 

To look up, look out, to notice 

Where our eyes are being led; 

To pause the endless round of tasks; 

To look and then to breathe a sigh 

 Of gratitude for all the beauty in this world.

When shadows fall

Evening, and the shadows fall 

Even as the last rays of light 

Ignite the distant treetops. 

Time to head home; to scurry 

Like the rabbit and the fox 

 To our respective burrows 

And say a prayer for all who have 

No homes to return to; 

That they may at least find someplace 

Warm and dry.

Who will win?

We humans:

 So determined to make our mark; 

To leave some trace that proves 

We were present, we existed, 

We brought something to life — or death — 

That might never have changed, 

Had we not actively interfered. 

But nature — moss, or waves, or rain, 

Grass or weeds or simply time — 

Will do its best to cover up our tracks — 

At least, that’s what we used to hope, 

But now, faced with the heat and fires 

We wonder if we haven’t gone too far, 

Damaged too much for nature to recover.

Golden evening

We sit and watch, entranced, 

Watching the mist rise 

As the evening sun bathes the river 

And the surrounding hills with gold. 

Who, upon breathing such pure, exalted air, 

Would not feel blessed to have returned 

To this primordial oneness with the earth?

Still growing

I’m always seeking to reconcile 

The difference between the art I appreciate 

 And the art I create. 

Those paintings I appreciate are simple, bold, 

Like this photograph, 

 With just a few added elements 

 To spice things up a bit. 

But the ones that I create are so much busier, 

As if some part of me cannot allow 

Any part of the canvas to be silent; 

As if that meditative space is not enough 

To engage the watching eye, I.e., mine. 

I suspect the paintings perfectly represent 

 The tension between who I long to be 

And who I am, and I need to be patient with that. 

Who knew that at this age I’d still be growing…