to blossom
from heart center
requires light
space
breath~
a gentle intention and
simple willingness
to allow
true essence to emerge
petal by golden, glowing
petal

 blossoming heart

                    Landscapes

Feathery mauve clouds brush cobalt sky
fade to plum and charcoal wisps
a living watercolor
while bare branches etch
a November horizon
tree tips fluttering in the mildest of breezes               

the trunks solid, holding, quiet.
Then a spark bursts—
flames quivering and spreading
unmatched by a river
the abandoned ocean                              

watercolor skies. 
External and internal landscapes
collide, a rush of beauty
irreducible truths, fast glowing tears
the everyday ache
for something just out-of-reach
landing on the page
captured in one of six photographs
as the last light drains from the sky
pools briefly in her heart
a lavender comfort
evoking the never-forgotten salt air
her homecoming.

Santa tripped over jack-o-lantern bags trying to arrive before Tom Turkey…

and was flumoxed by the tree in a holiday tangle of Halloween and Christmas twinkly lights, circling Easter bunnies, and one lonely, garish Easter egg and wondered…is there ever a day that’s not a holiday?

Mt. Philo Rd., November 13th

  lighting the clouds

     The human heart continues to dream of a state of wholeness, a place where everything comes together, where loss will be made good, where blindness will be transformed into vision, where damage will be made whole, where the clenched question will open in the house of surprise, where the travails of a life’s journey will enjoy a homecoming. . .                                            

                                                                                                    John O’Donohue

     Between global and national politics and the palpable strife infused in the air, as well as the personal observation of loved ones tending to frail parents, or being present to the death of a mother or a friend, it seems necessary to look for heart-centered words of comfort and hope.

         Today was one of the last comfortable days to bike in Vermont.  There was a ”winter-is-coming” chill still penetrable by the sun.  I headed out for two hours on my beater bike with doubled-up pants, three shirt-coat layers, fingerless gloves and a camera.  While many trees are starkly bare or have lingering fringes or patches, others are fully blazing with berries or leaves.   Here are some of my favorite catches of the day, although truly the best part was: fresh air + sun + looking closely + solitude  = bliss.   That’s about as much math as you’ll get out of me.  At least in this venue.   

  Shelburne  Bay up close.

   Sun-streaked stone and flower. 

  Ablaze in blue.

 

http://www.vtiff.org/films/to-be-heardThe following is taken from the link (emphasis added):

“To Be Heard is the story of three teens from the South Bronx whose struggle to change their lives begins when they start to write poetry. As writing and reciting become vehicles for the expression of love, friendship, frustration, and hope, we watch them emerge as accomplished self-aware artists, who use their creativity to alter their circumstances. A verité film, intimately shot over four years, To Be Heard is also the story of three friends-Karina, Pearl, and Anthony-and how they build a bond based on language, respect, and the need to survive. Embedded in the story is the source of their inspiration: a radical poetry class, called Power Writing, taught by a trio of outsider teachers. Not a part of any school faculty or formal curriculum, these three come bearing a simple gift in the form of a motto-If you don’t learn to write your own life story, someone else will write it for you.”

     Saw this yesterday with my teenage daughter.  Heart-ripping, fist-gripping, and soul-inspiring.  Pearl, a student, and Amy, one of the teachers, were present at the end for Q & A.  I asked Pearl for a recent poem and she slayed us, each line, chosen pause, and skillful intonation a beating pulse of raw truth.  Great burst of the suburban, white-out bubble of Vermont in which we live. Coming to your neighborhood or chance to rent?  JUMP ON IT!  A fresh story, or stories within a story, about the power of words, poetry, and deep listening to heal and empower lives.

     Drink in beauty.  From the time it takes to leave a building and walk through a pot-holed parking lot,  the sky can unfold in bands and dabs of color, an adjacent river can sing in rushes and flows over rocks, and every “next task” can melt away into the opening, the opportunity to be refreshed by the simple elegance of nature.

               layers of clouds

            When I walk into my mother’s living room, the furniture arranged as it has been for decades, she hears my footsteps before she sees me.  Peering around the top wing of her recliner, her eyes widen in surprise, inquiry, an edge of fear.  She is unsure, quizzical.  I pace myself, slowing down, softening my body, giving instinctual cues that I mean her no harm and say: “Hi, Mom.  It’s Deb. I’m your youngest daughter.”  She looks at my older sister, Betty, a daily care provider for affirmation that it’s ok.  That I’m not an imposter.  Betty responds: “It’s Debby, Mom. You remember Debby.  She’s here to visit.” 

     My mother relaxes, leans back in her recliner, her eyes still curious, but suddenly re-assured, game.  We talk about the weather, how she feels today, the toast or milk before her, any simple conversation in which memory, context or concept are not required. Unlike a year ago, she no longer repeats a few simple stories of remembrance over and over.  Even these keepsakes, teetering scaffolding to a life she once inhabited have disappeared.  We are in a present moment in which a daughter and a stranger are synonymous.  

     When my mother dies it will be the last period in her obituary, a small gesture of finality.  As of today, indefinable months before her last breath, she is dead to me. As her mind has disappeared into the holes and caverns of Alzheimer’s and lingers on the edge of the final abyss, our relationship has faded with it.  And because she no longer knows me, I am grieving today.  Not months from now when my community will learn that my mother has passed away, but today, when her functional death occurred; when our relationship such as it was, has vanished.

solo journey

“The poetry of the earth is never dead.”  John Keats