Spiritual Courage

I have had an idea to write about my experience by the New River the day in June we stopped there as part of my current writing project. I was kind of putting it off, not feeling the right words coming my way.  This afternoon I started feeling guilty for having done no writing today; then I thought of a  poetry form I haven't tried in quite some time.  It seemed like the time to try again.

I have no idea what this form is called, but it consists of 16 lines, 8 that repeat in a specific order.  These poems can be done pretty badly.  It takes some time and effort to put them together so they sound right.  I had never had much success with that.

But I had the right subject matter this time. I put on some music that reminds me of the place I am writing about, and I thought about the photos I had from it, past and more recent.  I thought of all the important moments I had by this river.  You see, the first time we went to the cabin was in October 1993.  It had been a terrible year, as my husband had blown out his back, the surgery was not successful, and our finances were in shambles because he was no longer working. When we had the opportunity to make the trip to the new cabin his aunt and uncle had built, we felt it was our only chance to take a vacation from the stresses we were facing.

This is the spot that is the focus of the poem

At the time I was reading a book by Joan Borysenko called Fire in the Soul: A New Psychology of Spiritual Optimism my friend Iris had lent me. I have always believed it was a combination the concepts in the book, the trip to the mountains, and the incredible life changes we were going through that helped me gain some spiritual optimism, much of which I have never lost.  It is one of those things that just stuck with me.

Now, back to the poem.  Here is the sequence to follow in writing the poem:

1
2
3
4

2
5
4
6

5
7
6
8

7
3
8
1

And here is how it looks:

The afternoon I stood by the New River

I didn’t think about all the prayers the water held

The times I begged forgiveness, sought sanctuary

Searching for a vein of gold in the river rock

I didn’t think about all the prayers the water held

I did not pull a stone, nor did I toss one

Searching for a vein of gold in the river rock

Spiritual courage was found in this mountain stream

I did not pull a stone, nor did I toss one

I once spent an afternoon here reading Rumi poetry

Spiritual courage was found in this mountain stream

I knew somehow this place had made my dreams come true

I once spent an afternoon here reading Rumi poetry

The times I begged forgiveness, sought sanctuary

I knew somehow this place had made my dreams come true

The afternoon I stood by the New River

 

Green Space Morning

I am on a lonely road and I am traveling

Looking for something, what can it be?

This summer is fleeting and I realized today I had not been to Six Mile Slough in several months.  Given that the weather forecast shows lots of storms in the coming day, I got myself out of the house by 7:15 a.m. to enjoy some green space.

The Slough is at its high water mark, so there were virtually no wading birds.  There was, however, a wonderful chorus of frogs, as well as occasional birds calling that I did not fully recognize.  By that I mean they weren't woodpeckers or mockingbirds or hawks, things I'm used to hearing.

It was wonderful to be forest bathing again.  Simply has been too long.

I am on a bit of mission to find the ultimate green space song, much like I did with John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High" being the ultimate blue space song.  I started mulling this over as I walked, and for some reason the song "All I Want" by Joni Mitchell came up.  I had no idea why this love song would be coming to me as a green space song.  I thought of various lyrics and  I got stuck on this:

I love you when I forget about me

I love you when I forget about me.  

I thought of the many ways this applies: how I love my students best when I don't think about my role with them directly, when I bring my authentic self and let the lesson flow through me.

I love nature best when I set my self-centered thoughts are left at home, and I can just walk and listen to the frogs and watch for wildlife and be stopped on a path by a cardinal.

Nature probably loves us best when it isn't trying so hard to survive the destruction wrought by the greedy and all-consuming ways of humans.

The cultures on this globe would probably not be crashing together so if they weren't focused solely on themselves and what they want.  Yes, it applies to all. When people are tossing hate at you, it is extremely hard to keep from falling into just thinking about how it affects you. We need the broader picture.  We need to forget ourselves to love more fully.

And it probably doesn't need to be said, but we would probably be more appreciative if certain people in government would forget about themselves for a while, instead of generating the constant divisiveness.

We are broken in many ways.  But when I enter a green space, I see that there is still possibility.  Especially if I can see outside myself consistently and love all there is to love.
 *
When I sat down to write this, it was with a different purpose in mind.  I have now come to understand that I have two other essays to write based on what happened in the slough today.  But what I love most about this message here in "Green Space Morning" is that we can remember how to act in any given minute by remembering the line:

"I love you when I forget about me."

I think it's more powerful than we know.

And the final uplifting lyrics from "All I Want"

I want to have fun, I want to shine like the sun

I want to be the one that you want to see

I want to knit you a sweater

want to write you a love letter

I want to make you feel better

I want to make you feel free.

Field

I remember clearly
a cool, cloudy Ohio day
I put on a jacket and
walked up to the
recreation center.
It must have been
November. I was fifteen.

And I didn't know why
I walked or where
I was going. But I
walked myself up to the
field where the
boys played ball and
I sat myself down in
the center of the field,
on the cold ground,
and stayed there. And watched
the world, the sky.

I don't know how long
I sat. I don't remember
feeling cold even as
there was a mist in
the air. I sat and I
didn't know why then
and I don't know why now.

For a long time I thought
everyone must do this
when they are
fifteen.
But I've asked others
and they say No.
And I cannot help but
wonder what shift
was occurring in
that moment.
Why the open field
rather than a grove
of trees? Why the
compulsion without
any real forethought?

I was writing at the
time and perhaps I
wrote about it.

Or was that when
the writing started?

Many questions that
probably won't be answered.

What I do know is that
there was a Saturday
morning in the year 1970
I sat in a green space
taking in a blue space
and something opened.

I was fifteen.

Rise and Go

This is a reflection in response to reading "Fugitive" by David Whyte.  The lines in italics are from his poem, the part that jump started me.  The reference to Ki is the Japanese belief of our lives in cycles of 9 of which I find a lot of credibility and relevance to my  life.

Rise and Go

while you catch
the beckoning
sense
of a rising tide,
and the need to
rise and go,
a gusted, caught
wherewithal suddenly
within you
to join the others...

I.
Rising tide is the way I feel about what is happening inside me.

Perhaps it's the Ki coming up to my birthday, coming up to a 9 year.

Perhaps it's the conversation I had with Natalie where we actually feel like our District is going in a fruitful direction.

Maybe it's the awesome artistic investigation I've been doing and stepping more fully into my writing project, my music, and re-commitment to zazen.

I feel I'm being lifted.

II.
There are many definitions for "fugitive" -- mostly about fleeing.  But I found one that seems to strike to the heart of the way I feel.

I have escaped captivity.

I am no longer captive to inaction.
No longer captive to exhaustion.
No longer captive to anger.
No longer captive to the pain of lost spirit.

I am a fugitive of disease and procrastination and frustration.

I have fled for my life.

There are resting places.
There are safe spaces.
There is an inside well to draw from, to be hydrated and nourished.

It is called the breath.
It is called the moment.

Unbound.

Teach the Peach

Somewhere in our travels, Jim and I ended up behind a peach truck. This truck was full of the most beautiful peaches we had ever seen -- a balanced variety of color in yellows, apricot, coral, pink,  orange, and red.  We were bummed when the truck took a left turn when we kept going straight because we were enjoying the experience, and wishing we could get our hands on some of those peaches.

Last week I was in Publix and they had a huge bin of peaches that looked amazing.  I talked with another shopper about the peaches, wondering if they were indeed as good as they looked. She was skeptical, and only took one (and left her shopping list behind!)  I bought two.

They were DELICIOUS.

Back at the store this past weekend, I bought three more peaches. I enjoy one a day.  I have one left for this morning.

When I looked at that stunning peach sitting on my counter, I was reminded of a teaching on the orange by Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh.  He teaches that we can look at an orange and see the whole world.

I looked at that peach and saw the whole world today.

This peach grew on a tree that someone planted in a field. It was subject to the sun, the rain, the wind, the children passing by, the various insects that crawled on it, the sky above, the moving clouds, the moonlight orchard at night, the stars.

This peach was picked by someone that might have been up all night with a sick child. This peach was delivered across the miles by a truck driver who might be worried about his finances. This peach was carried by people who have children and grandchildren and grandparents and parents and ancestors stretching far back in time.

This peach was put on display by a young man that might have been taught by a teacher I know.  It was rung up, perhaps, by a cashier who is finding herself falling in love unexpectedly at the age of 58.  This peach went into a bag that was manufactured by someone like my stepson, and carried home by me in a vehicle made by thousands of people and sold to me by a young man who was excited about his upcoming first trip to California.

This peach will be enjoyed by me in all its juicy goodness, and this experience shared with you.

This peach is blue space and green space and river flow.

This peach contains the whole world.

Mystery Solved

Thank goodness I'm not a detective. I am pretty slow at putting clues together sometimes.

On Saturday I wrote about a tree I encountered that I recognized when visiting the Florida SouthWestern College meditation garden.  I searched all the American trees online trying to identify with absolutely no luck.  Even a friend tried. She also came up dry.

Then, out of nowhere, probably in the middle of the night, I thought "sausage tree."  I knew this tree as the sausage tree because of its fruit.

Once I searched that, I found the tree: Kigelia.  It is from Africa, which is why I couldn't find it when searching North, Central, and South American trees.

But the mystery still remained:  Why did I know the sausage tree?  And why was it in the meditation garden, when it seems like they should have planted native plants? That is, after all, the environmental push around here.

Then, again in the middle of the night, I remembered.

It was within my first few days after arriving in Fort Myers with my sister-in-law Gail that we decided to visit the Edison/Ford Estates.  The sausage tree was one of the most unusual sights.  Edison has plant species from all around the world there, and this one was a standout. At the time it had full fruit, much like the tree I saw at the garden.  I swear I have a picture of it somewhere, but still cannot lay my hands on it.

This solved the mystery as to why this particular tree graces several spots in the meditation garden.  When the garden was installed, the name of the campus was Edison Community College.  There is a statue of Edison in the garden when you enter. Of course they planted vegetation propagated at the Edison Estates. It makes perfect sense.

So...all my questions answered.

In searching my photos from that time,  I found this photo. It is from the day I arrived in Florida and set foot for the first time on Fort Myers Beach.  After living my life in a heavily green space environment, I had arrived at the ultimate blue space.

I was home.

Life Passes

Today I was encouraged by several factor to visit a lovely green space -- the meditation garden at Florida Southwestern College. This is a place I used to come to a lot, but over the last few years it fell off my radar.

Not anymore!

I arrived at about 7:30 and it was still fairly cool.  I found a shady spot by an unusual tree (one I spent an hour trying to identify when I got home with no luck), but where I could see the fountain.  I was the only one there, save some workers in bright green shirts who were getting ready to do some kind of work on the building behind me. But they didn't bother me at all.

It has been a long time since I just sat and focused on my breath.  I set a timer and sat. Observed. Listened.

When 20 minutes was up, I read the David Whyte poem "Up On the Hill's Back."  The line "life passes" stood out to me, so I started my poem there.

Life passes
The mockingbird and the mourning doves
The workers on the job
The lizard skittering in the mulch
The seed pods hanging like chandeliers
        from the tree that accompanies me
The huge burgundy and gold flowers that fall.

Life passes
I watch the breeze gently sway the palm fronds
I listen to the water, the voices, the silence
Shadows and light. My breath.
Purples, pinks, yellows, and ever-present green
The towering Southern Magnolia Tree

If anyone can identify this tree, I would love to know.
It also has long brown hanging seedpods, like 6-8 inches long.

Questions, Moorhens, and The Rolling Stones

I've been writing lots of heavy duty stuff. Time to lighten up.

She probably won't remember it, but a few years ago my friend Laurie sent me a bunch of writing prompts that were titles of songs that were all questions.  I used those prompts for a long time, writing all kinds of story starts and a little poetry.

Today I was reviewing the notebook with these writing practice pieces, and came across a silly one -- not so much song serving as the prompt, but what I did with it.  I spent some time today playing around with the draft I wrote, and so I am here to share what turns out to be a goofy little green space/blue space poem.

You see, I have some families of Common Moorhens that live on my lake.  I have watched them diligently since moving to Florida -- how they raise their young, how they handle threats, the songs they sing, how they move around the edges of the lake. One evening after torrential rain I watched a Mama and Papa frantically moving their baby nest before their little ones drown.  They are a source of education and delight.

This seemed like the perfect poem for today because last night in a green space moment, I saw a mother Moorhen aggressively chasing a Tri-Colored Heron away from the grasses where her nest was.  I mean, she was a bulldog!

So, for Mother Moorhen, I give you this poem based on "Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby, Standing in the Shadow," complete with lots of Rolling Stones song titles to honor the influence for writing this in the first place. (They can be found in italics.)

=

Peeping in the bush
Have you seen your mother, baby, standing in the shadows?
She's a midnight rambler
who can't get no satisfaction
red beak glowing in the sunrise
gimme shelter, the children cry
and please, some emotional rescue
we want to be fed
Mama watches for the owl
flying its moonlight mile
to terrorize her young
under cover of the night
that eagle
grabbing at her children
as if they were tumbling dice
shattered Mama is
and her love in vain
floods come and
Moorhen babies need to be moved quickly,
one by one, to a makeshift nest in the
sway of the grasses
Florida life
Babies peeping in the morning
Mama stutter steps the edge
(moves like Jagger)
Mama, have you seen
your babies resting in the shadows?
your 19th nervous breakdown comes as
the heron gets too close and
she resembles a street fighting man
but really, she's a rainbow
and a fool to cry
it's a way of life
dwindling children
knowing you can't always
get what you want
spring and fall roll around
start me up again, the nest,
the peeping, the constant vigil
and the cycle continues
it may not be a happy life
but it has its share of
satisfaction


P.S. It has come to my attention that in the last few years the name of this bird has been officially changed to the Common Gallinule. But they will always be Moorhens to me.

UNBOUND #4 & #5

The influence of Julia Cameron continues to be felt, as the poem was inspired by her essay on jealousy as a barrier to creativity.  The next poem came after doing my Morning Pages today, the necessary technique to clear the air in our mind each morning.  The opening line came to me when I was walking across the room to get coffee, and I had to rush back and write it down before I forgot about it.

UNBOUND #4

Until you admit you are jealous

Nibbling irritations continue;

Blocks rise up like sentry gates.

Only say the word, recognize it,

Unmask it for what it is -- a

Nemesis of your direction, your dreams

Dissembling all that could be.

UNBOUND #5

Useful. Everything is useful.

Neglect this advice at your peril.

Bring to the light all your darkness.

Open it. Peer inside; don't be afraid.

Undiscovering it is what does the damage.

Now. In this moment,

Depose the demons that stall your progress.

UNBOUND #3

Yesterday I was reading Julia Cameron's essays on perfectionism and risk, and extracted these thoughts into an UNBOUND acrostic poem.  Not exactly a found poem, as I don't use many of her words directly -- I paraphrased in a way that matches the style of these poems and combines into a always much-needed message.

UNBOUND #3

Unrealistic expectations cause us to

Never move forward on our dreams.

Being the best is never really the point;

Once we know this, the ways comes clear.

Understanding risk is the boon of our creative life,

Not the end product, since there is not end.

Define yourself by action, not the illusion of limits.

UNBOUND #1 & 2

I have decided to venture into using the word UNBOUND for acrostic poetry for several reasons.  First, the letters in this word provoke a challenge. Starting two different phrases with "U" provokes a different way of thinking; different than the way I usually speak, anyway.  I have collected some words to help, but the final products are yet to be determined.

The second reason is because I found that with the word REST, I internalized the word to call on as needed by the simple act of writing nine poems, forcing me to think of rest in a variety of ways; most notably lately while getting some dental work done. The words UNBOUND is another I would like to incorporate into my automatic thinking, so moving forward on this seems to be wise use of my time in the long run.

The first one was revised quite severely from the original, and was written to reflect my trip to the beach and all that occurred. The second one -- a type of Artist Prayer -- was in an attempt to say something specific about the inner artist.  I have found with these poems that specifics are needed, or they just sound like the silly acrostics our students are known for writing.

UNBOUND #1 

Unpredicted, but not unusual
Noises off, I listen to what the
Beach had to tell me
Off the record, it whispers
Unleash yourself -- do it
Now -- you are free
Divest your mind of these imaginary chains.


UNBOUND #2

Underneath this everyday life
New ideas are being formed, a
Birthright to be a creator, too, an
Official invitation to be who I am:
Unbridled in artistic will and energy,
Natural state of being, after all,
Determined to live it like the Truth it is.

Unbound

Today I finally returned to the blue space of Bunche Beach, early enough that it was nearly deserted.  I just about had the place to myself, and it wasn't too hot yet.  I am grateful I gave myself this gift today.

Beach was deserted when I arrived

The tide was gently coming back in, which caused me to slow down quite a bit and just take in all the sights and sounds.  There was absolutely no feeling of being wrapped up in thoughts or being anywhere but in the moment.  Of course, being this far into the summer, I am usually in this kind of space. But today felt extra special.

I found many live crown conch and a gazillion mangrove crabs skittering around and diving into holes. I tried to get artsy with photos of large pieces of coral and coconuts in the sun and sea, admittedly with mixed results. 

 One of the suggested tasks this week in The Artist's Way is to find some natural treasures.  Bunche tends to have a lot of the same kinds of things, but I managed to find five different pieces that weren't like everything else on the beach.  This week is about recognizing the abundance in our lives, and that was certainly the feeling I had as I found these treasures -- like they were waiting just for me.

Coral, partial crown conch, moonshell, ladder horn snail shell

Finally, I began to get warm, so moved toward my car. That is where I met this guy named Doug, riding along on his bike singing. We talked (well, he talked) for a while, until I gracefully removed myself back to my air conditioned car.  At this point I would typically read a poem and write something right there in the car.  But my conversation with Doug broke the spell a bit, and I decided just to drive home, maybe write some haiku for my photos. 

And then I heard this song: "Unbound" by Kenny and Amanda Smith.  The words of this song went right with the moment, and will give me food for thought the rest of this weekend.  In what ways do I keep myself bound? In what ways am I bound and don't even know it? It can be so subtle.

Julia Cameron says we deny ourselves repeatedly, and that we are our own destructive force.  "Unbound" takes the same viewpoint.  We like to think freedom is a matter of chance, or luck, but it's neither.  It's a decision.

I could only find one video of the song being performed, and it is rather shaky.  I could not find the lyrics online at all, so I had to do what I always did as a teenager: listen and stop the song to get the lyrics down.  I also found this album is on amazon prime, so I was able to download it and keep listening.  I have always liked hearing Kenny and Amanda on the radio; this time they have inspired me deeply, even as simple as this song is.

When we open up to blue space, it is amazing what we can find -- living shells, stories of a passerby, or song lyrics that open us further to the abundance of life.

Unbound
Everyday I fight the force of gravity
No matter where I go, it's always holding me
Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be
Unbound

For each dream I dream, I face a thousand doubts
They hold me like a prisoner in my own house
Ever wondering what life out there is all about
Unbound

Life passes by, I sit behind these walls of pride
I long to share the secrets I keep locked inside
To move like the waves across the ocean's tide
Unbound

Unbound
Free to fly among the countless stars
Unbound
No ball and chain wrapped around my beating heart
Free to love, free to laugh
With no fear all come crashing down
Free to live my life
Unbound

Morning Song

In my rotation of poetry books I read each morning, I have Wild Iris by Louise Gluck.  The collection of poetry focuses on nature, and has a repeating theme of poems called "Matins." At first I thought matins were a type of flower. But finally I looked it up and read that it is a religious litany, a chant perhaps, done in morning or evening.

Today's reading was another matins poem, and since I had forgotten the definition, I looked it up again. This time a second definition caught my eye.

matins 

n (functioning as singular or plural)

1. (Ecclesiastical Terms)

a. chiefly RC Church the first of the seven canonical hours of prayer, originally observed at night but now often recited with lauds at daybreak

b. the service of morning prayer in the Church of England

2. literary a morning song, esp of birds

It is then I realized matins is not always about people.  Others are involved.

For today's poem, the ending line caught my attention:

For me, always/The delight is the surprise

I used it to begin my own poem.  Matins is about creating space in your life to listen and to pray and to notice the changing light.  At this point in my summer, I am noticing changes happening, as I listen to be led to what I am to do next.

And may I add, the one thing I missed on my vacation was hearing the birds sing. They are totally muted in hotels.  It was a welcome sound when I returned, one I didn't even notice I had missed. 

Morning Song

For me, always

the delight is the surprise.

That music

pouring out of me

imperfectly,

surprises me.

Those words

I wake up to

and have to 

write and 

expand, 

surprise me.

The push to

think about

teaching again,

surprises me.

Always the

groundwork

being laid

for the next 

thing.

Always the

next dawn

to hear the

birds sing.

Reset 2013

I was challenged yesterday by a friend to write about a time when I reset my life. I joked about "which time?"  Yes, I've reset my life many times, most notably when we moved to Florida seventeen years ago.

But right after the challenge was made, I read David Whyte's poem "Fifty," and I found inspiration to write about my most recent reset in 2013. As I wrote I realized how deeply this particular reset affected my life and my marriage. All good, may I add.

Resets are a good time to rediscover blue space and green space and the river flow of life, so I feel this fits right in with the theme of this blog -- to recognize where we are in the moment and spend a little time rejoicing.

Reset 2013

Deep December,

my back freezing up at the least convenient moment.

Dissatisfaction with every part of my life, our lives.

Struggles, trying to figure out

how to fix where I was, where

we were. Changes on the way, changes

that had already come, pushing it

forward. Talking to friends and watching

rainbows in fountains and writing

notes and reading poetry, stressed and angry.

One Saturday afternoon I find myself crying profusely

reading the words from

Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Mariposa”:

“Death comes in a day or two.”

Why did I feel I was dying?

I soak my back. I walk slowly.

I decide “answers” will come soon.

I have to believe. I am an empty cup.

I have cleared a space.

What would replace what is,

now that this harvest is in?

We had taken on this paper route

when we were dangerously deep

in financial crisis, seven years running,

and finally we can leave it behind. We

set the day. Made a firm plan to finish

paying off some bills by April 1^st.

On February 1st I have a vivid dream: I’ve returned to

teaching middle school, my high school position

having burned me out so fiercely I hardly

recognized myself, and soon I knew there

was a way. Sometimes we are surprised

at how quickly answers can come.

Ready in a moment to believe again.

 

And April came.  Easter was our final hurrah.

A wide open path. Our resurrection, perhaps.

A new position on the horizon,

the interview done, the references in,

the papers just waiting to be signed. We

now have Saturday evenings to discover

what is waiting to be discovered, rather

than giving ourselves over to early

bedtime.  I buy a brilliant blue notebook.

It is divided into three sections. I start to

plan adventures, my writing life, my new teaching

 life.  We start watching music programs,

learning more about traditional music

and the music of America, sparking us in

a direction I could not have planned to go in

prior to this time. This was all new, exciting,

all possibilities open and waiting.  Ideas

are flying at me beyond the speed of light.

I ask a friend to start a writing circle

with me. She says yes.

I say goodbye to all that was. I drive

away.  I get new eyes. I get an iPad just so

I can write from the road. We plan

our first trip in seven years – places we’ve

been waiting to see, but dared never dream

could be a reality. I complete my final

National Writing Project Summer

Institute.  My friends and I start the Trail Brazen

Writing Circle. I start writing a daily blog.

What was once out of reach is now

starting to feel familiar and fulfilling and

exciting and newborn. No end time now.

Teaching has been a series of ups and downs,

and that is to be expected. What we didn’t know

was that we would become pilgrims seeking

the roots of American music and all things related.

We began with Kelly Ingram Park in Birmingham,

traveled the Natchez Parkway to Nashville to

experience the Grand Ole Opry and meet new

friends and tour RCA Studio B and start to think

about how all this music that has meant so

much to us for so very long came to be,

the people who made the music, who

discovered the greats in alleys and stages

and street corners, who inspire the world

with their voices and their words and their

melodies. We stayed along the Ohio River and

ate at a restaurant in a building that had been

a stop on The Underground Railroad. We stayed in

Gatlinburg and enjoyed the views and the cool

mountain air. We caught up with my cousin in

Asheville and what we were doing was setting

the pace for vacations to come. Our curiosity

only grew, about Civil Rights and the roots of

American music. Meanwhile, I was also writing

my heart out, adjusting to teaching

at a new school, which hasn’t been exactly what I

expected it to be, but it has grown on me over

time. Unable to fight off the urge, I decide it

is time to learn mandolin, and return to my old

guitar teacher to forge a new relationship which

continues today; it adds to my life. As well as the

reading I do, and the music I listen to, and the

concerts we have attended. So many great ones.

Future road trips found us in New Orleans,

Memphis, Graceland, Sun Studios, the Lorraine

Motel, the Mississippi Delta, stretching for miles,

the deserted store where Emmett Till

made his famous mistake, Robert Johnson’s grave,

The Tallahatchie River and Bridge, downtown

Philadelphia, Mississippi, the glorious Square Books

in Oxford, the Rockabilly Museum in Jackson,

The Birthplace of Country Music in Bristol,

The Bluegrass Underground in McMinnville, and

centers dedicated to greats like B.B. King,

Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline. And an hour spent

listening to Charlie Patton singing across the farm

that is said to be the place the blues were born.

More time in Nashville, shows at the Ryman,

falling in love with mandolin greats Jesse McReynolds

and Bobby Osborne, a visit to the International Bluegrass

Museum in Owensboro, Kentucky, fueling my love

for bluegrass which was always there,

just needed a lot of tender loving care and feeding.

Lots of cousin time in Asheville, visiting Carl Sandburg’s
 home with his 70,000 books.

Fabulous waterfalls, and a little town called

Black Mountain, eating barbecue along the

French Broad River and playing music in the living room.

Four trips that have grown our married friendship and

the relationship with my cousin and

our love for music and our love for all that is and

can be about life. It is far beyond what was expected

when I wrote in my little blue notebook, when I

thought we might have a few adventures.  The

Year 2013 was a Reset for me personally, and

for my marriage and relationship with everything

important and meaningful in my life.

Jim and I have come to find

…ourselves

together

looking on,

as if living in a gifted,

unlooked for

second life,

seeing again

how

an empty cup

can brim once more

to the gleam.

Along the French Broad River, Asheville  July 2015

Words in italics are direct quotes from David Whyte's poem "Fifty."

The Ultimate Blue Space Song

A few weeks ago I was on my way to my sister's house to feed the fish and bring in the mail while they were out of town when I had what I guess can be called an epiphany.

The song "Rocky Mountain High" by John Denver came on the radio -- the one we joked was about doing drugs back in the day --and it was as if I was hearing this forty-plus-year-old song for the first time.

He was born in the summer of his 27th year
Coming back to a place where he's never been before
He left yesterday behind him
You might say he was born again
You might say he found the key to every door

The words were like crystalline coming into my soul.  I was hearing each word as if for the first time.

It is a Blue Space song, I have since decided.  Because this feeling has not left me as I've listened to it over and over again. It is (somehow) always a new revelation.

Even yesterday, when for the first time I found out that one line was not what I thought it was.

I'm still discovering this song.

I'm referring to this line:

Talk to God and listen to the casual reply

I honestly never knew that he mentioned God in the song!

*

When John Denver died in a plane crash in 1997, I was friends with a guy named Rich who was devastated by the event.  Rich was my age, and it turns out, he was a huge Denver fan, often listening to the music while smoking a cigar on his porch.  It truly was like Rich had lost a best friend when Denver died.  I still remember the grief on his face.

I'm not sure I've ever been that devastated about an artist dying.  Maybe.  But not like that.

I've got to admit I didn't fully understand.  Sure, I liked John Denver -- especially his Christmas album with the Muppets.  Epic.  And "Annie's Song" --who can argue with the love expressed in such a sensual way?

But to grieve heavily over him.  No comprende.

*
Now, in 2017, this has changed.

What Denver has done in this song -- and perhaps many of his songs, as I'm sure Rich can attest -- is to combine spiritual transformation, nature, the musician's life, heartbreak, mythology, mystery, environmentalism, and relationships.  What other song does that much so well?  The only song that came to mind was "Imagine" by John Lennon, but it's a bit abstract.

"Rocky Mountain High" is a different sort of song.  It has solid images, even as the idea of "trying to touch the sun" or talking to God and listening for a reply is beyond the concrete.  It takes on the idea of ripping apart nature for people, as it celebrates being in nature. It brings to mind good times with friends and singular moments in the outdoors, standing under the stars or viewing a sunset, and when you see a sight like an eagle soaring above you. It is a complete religious service in four minutes.

And for me, a confirmed Floridian, who has been to Colorado and has found it too lonely and dry for my sinuses, to be in love with this song in such a deep way can only mean one thing -- it brings me to Blue Space.

I don't think there are many songs that do that.  I will be on the lookout and report if I do find any.  Meanwhile, take a listen. Read these words.  Enter the Blue Space John Denver brilliantly created many years ago.