Boat Across the River
Just another WordPress.com weblogArchive for The Good Things
Jekyll Island: Sunrise
One moon.
One sun.
Who drips red up
from water.
We are here
to honor
the sea.
I’m lucky
I don’t
live here
because this way
every day
is magic –
would I want
to think that this
is ordinary?
Moment to Breathe
I’m always running around;
there’s so much to do, I know
I’m forgetting to breathe.
It feels so good
when I do remember.
Do you ever feel like your lungs
are in the way
of breathing?
Like they’re holding
you back?
I want to breathe in
a breath
that never ends!
Practicing for What?
At our Quaker Meeting the other day, a well spoken young woman stood up and commented that it’s been helpful to her to think of her spiritual practice as if she was practicing the piano. As a former swimmer, I have thought of my spiritual practice as something similar to swim practice. When you practice kindness, being slow to anger and slow to speak, breathing in and out, living in the moment you are getting ready…but for what? The young lady pointed out that sometimes it is hard to know what you are practicing for. A good point. I would say that spiritually we are practicing for right now — it is simultaneously preparation for the event and the ”event” itself . For life itself.
Our son was recently born! It has been a joy to welcome him to this life, and into our lives. It is also quite an adjustment to go from one child to two. I have been working with a constant feeling of guilt because when I’m spending time with one child, I am not paying as much attention to the other! It’s definitely a balancing act. Not to mention all the house work that needs to be done to keep things running in a somewhat orderly fashion. The day can feel very, very long sometimes. The other morning, both kids were up at seven, and my nearly three year old daughter has recently given up napping. I was sitting on the couch feeling completely overwhelmed. Suddenly I remembered to breathe. I do not have time to sit and meditate anymore. There simply is not one moment to myself right now except for the four hours of sleep I get at night. And those are not really to myself either, as I listen in the back of my mind for a hungry little baby. But sitting on the couch, it popped into my head to breathe, and I pictured the breath moving up through my third eye, and pictured a blue lotus flower there between my eyes, and it was very calming. I was able to relax and enjoy my impossibly small, new little baby, and my daughter making up dances and songs to perform on her trampoline. If I keep breathing through the moments of exhaustion and frustration, I can turn any moment into a spiritual moment. I can break down the long hours of a sleepless day into a thousand more peaceful and enjoyable moments.
I realized that my meditation will have to be all the time, now, not sitting on a cushion.
This is what I’ve been practicing for!
Birds at the Lake: Dusk
Balmy Autumn evening:
water’s in the air.
Owls speaking at the lake:
there are three of them
somewhere in the darkening trees,
echoes of each other
and of my dreams…
Their crisp voices still my thoughts:
now just one thought
which is a question:
When will she speak again?
They’re in my head…
I’m in their conversation,
though they are unaware
of me. On the lake, a duck flies
so close that I believe
I hear two wings gently touching
water: kiss, kiss, kiss:
two ducks so near each other
I don’t know anymore
what’s (gray) water, what’s (gray) sky.
Birthday Poems
Last year when my daughter turned one, I wrote a poem for her on her birthday. This year, I decided I would write a poem for her on her birthday every year. Following are last year’s and this year’s birthday poems.
Maize: The Maze
We took S. to an apple orchard over the weekend and bought the obligatory jar of apple butter, an enormous bag of apples, and some glowing amber and maroon colored corn to hang on the door. In addition to the apple trees and pumpkin patch, this family farms corn and makes a little extra money by creating a maze through the field, charging a small entrance fee to run around inside and lose yourself.
As soon as we stepped foot in the maze, I was carried away by my enthusiasm. The walls of corn on either side of us reached several feet above our heads. The funny little feet on the corn looked almost alien. Or like the spreading roots of mangrove trees in Florida’s swamps. I was surprised (maybe because of the weedy condition of my own yard) by the fact that nothing else grew on the ground beneath the corn. The earth was very smooth, a pale beige color, flat, dry…barren looking, really, except for the many stalks of corn growing out of it. It was almost paradoxical: the earth — weirdly absent of any greenery whatsoever – juxtaposed with the corn. Sadly, I suspect the use of chemicals, though delicate blue flowers neatly wove their way through the meaty ears, dense and substantial in their protrusions from the stalks. The earth is so dry, I could smell its distinctive aroma as the breeze carried pieces of the loose top layer to my nose. The earth was cracked in such a perfect grid that it looked deliberate.
As we made our way around the twists and turns, able to see only corn and blue sky, I felt I was navigating a meditational labyrinth. At the center, would I find one of the answers to the question: Who am I?
Harvest
Driving through a little town named after a bean, windows and roof open, I can smell in the cool, dusty night air: corn. Corn is being harvested right now, at this late hour…in the middle of the dark, dark night, and in the middle of the tall, tall corn there is a pool of light rising up from a combine. Corn dust swimming in headlights makes it look like a fog has settled over the middle of that field. I wonder how late the farmer will be out…
…and now we are gone. Without realizing where one field ends and another begins, we have passed into the next little town with another lovely name. My friend’s father was a farmer before having to give it up; people have to take out a mortgage to be able to afford a combine. But for me, passing through, I can’t feel any of his stress or strain; I just feel the beauty of it.
Blessings to you farmer, and may your crop be bountiful!
Ugga, Ugga, Ugga
We bought S. a little stuffed cat that is somehow made entirely of recycled plastic bottles; you can even recycle the cat when you are done playing with him! S. loves him so much, I could never do that, though.
She played with him, meowed at him, and rubbed his white feet against her face the whole hour’s car ride home. At home, I asked her what his name would be and after a few seconds of thought with her eyes searching the skies, she replied that it would be “Ugga.” A little later I asked her again, to see if she would remember the first name, and again he was baptized Ugga. In her bed, she fell asleep with him in her arms, but not before singing a sweet song into the darkness about Ugga and me.
