Be Water, Be One

This week, after finishing a daily reading of The Way of Rest by Jeff Foster, and passing the book along to a work friend, I began re-reading Thich Nhat Hanh's Going Home: Jesus and Buddha as Brothers. In the opening chapter he writes a lot about the wave and the water. Wave is phenomena, or cause and effect. One wave effects another. This is our vertical life. The water is our horizontal life -- our connection to all that is, God, Great Spirit, whatever you want to call it.  Without the water, there are no waves.

To quote Thay:

The wave is aware that she is made of the other waves, 

and at the same time she realizes that she is made of water, too. 

It is very important for her to touch the water, the foundation of her being.

As soon as I read the first page, I knew this week I had to return to the labyrinth on Sanibel Island. It is the perfect combination of green space and blue space, and it has been over a year since I've been there. Shame on me. It is a place that nourishes me.

And what a gorgeous morning to be there! A bit of a breeze, low humidity, and the scent in the air was luscious and islandy and green. I had no real question to ask, so I just went with: Tell me what I need to know. The answer came:

Be water.

When I was done walking, taking plenty of time to sit in the center for a while, I wrote this:

Be language. 

Be the cool breeze. 

Be the sweet scent of flowers in the air. 

Be the smile for the maintenance man. 

Be the sound of the waterfall. 

Be the cloudless sky. 

Be the osprey who flies. 

Be the voice of the child in the car driving by. 

Be rock. Be shell. 

Be the shell-less snail creeping along. 

Be song: the mountain harmony, the river valley melody.

Be the paver bricks warming in the sun. 

Be one.

Having Lived in the Same Place for Over a Decade, We've Learned a Few Things

This is is inspired by Twyla M Hansen's poem "Having Lived in the Same Place for Decades, We have Perhaps Learned a Few Things."  Hers was about the people. Mine is not.

Having lived in the same place

for over a decade, we've learned

a few things.

Like how the suns shifts on the

horizon in the morning, the moon, 

too, and colors that will paint the

sky at different seasons of the year,

reflected on the lake.

We've learned to watch for turtle

heads peaking up out of the water,

and smile when they pull themselves

out to sun together on the shore.

We've learned the mating habits of

ducks and moorhens, the time of

day the osprey fish, and what

lizards and ladderbacks will visit

the sable palm outside our lanai.

We know by the clouds when it's

raining in the Everglades, and when

the sunset is happening in full force

in the western sky, out of view,

the east glowing a brilliant light.

We count the water birds' hatchlings

and watch their parents teach them.

We hear the same parents grieve

with loss when their children

are scooped up by hawk or eagle.

We know Great Blue Heron with

a huge black spot on his back,

and Little Blue who is darker than most.

We listen to the egrets screech

to claim their territory and

we know when the summer water

grasses will turn gray and die.

We see the rise and fall of the water

level from rainy season to winter, when

the skies are clear blue and cloudless,

and the green grass barely holds on.

We know when the moorhens and 

frogs will sing at night, and when 

they will be silent.

Someday we will be gone from this

place. We rest assured knowing

the cycles of nature will live on.

On our lanai, Christmas Eve 2010

The Hidden Story

We go dry when disconnected from our true nature.

I’m driving to work the other morning with the radio on, and hear Molly Tuttle 

singing a song called “Walden.” I immediately know the words must be coming from

Henry David Thoreau’s famous work, as I listen and pick up some of the lines: The 

land where we dwell will not always be dry and Long after we’re gone, still the earth

will turn round and round and The life in us is like water in a river. And even though I 

don’t know exactly where she found these words in Walden, I think back to what I

know about the text, teaching the Transcendentalists to juniors in high school.  Yes, 

we read about the different drummer, but what stood out to me was Thoreau’s

singular experience in the bean fields, how he would spend his mornings hacking 

away at weeds that were relentless, how determined he was to know the beans,

even as he rarely ate them. Since I somehow do not own a copy of Walden, I found 

the bean fields paragraph online, and that is when I realized that our nonviolent

Henry David was speaking of being at war with the pigweed and piper-grass and 

Roman wormwood. This was his Trojan War, one relentless fibrous and strong weed

being compared to Hector, that towered a whole foot above his crowding comrades, 

fell before my weapon and rolled in the dust. These were the killing fields! I was

puzzled at first about this war talk, but then I realized the truth – Thoreau was in 

touch with his own spirit and soul. Working the bean fields was a practice,

and part of the mythology of our world is about conflicting forces. It was natural for 

him to tap into that myth, that hidden story, to make his experience full. This is the

reason we must have practices. He was simply being a full participant in life, and his 

personification of the weeds brings this into full relief and is another reminder that

our every day activities have consequence for us, bring us closer or farther away 

from ourselves.

Which brings us back to Molly’s song. When the desert is growing around us, when 

we feel the world we know is coming or has come to an end, our job is to reach

inside of ourselves and find that hidden story, that water of life, the one that will 

help us rise again, and create the new world meant to be born in our time, with our

help, with our dedication and strength and unique gifts. May we rise this year, may 

rise higher than man has ever known. May our singular mythic nature make everything

unnecessary disappear.

(Some ideas for this poem also came from Michael Meade's podcast "Mythic by Nature.")

Red Sky Talking

I read Nick Flynn's poem "dear lady of 

perpetual something" twice through,

but was still uncertain of the point,

when I realized there was a glow

coming through the blinds. I grabbed

my phone and photographed the sky 

and the lake, in a glory of reds and 

purples, and sent it on entitled

"red sky at morning."

By the time I got back to my chair

and took up the pen, the glow was gone.

I caught a moment.

I've been feeling lazy and sluggish,

not wanting to do my job,

wondering how I will keep going.

The glow tells me to be in the 

moment, stop looking ahead, you've

been doing too much of that and

look how it's dragging you down.

Catch the moment.

Get your energy back.

"...you must write it."

Traveling across Alligator Alley, listening to Sirius Radio's 60's on 6, we were happy when a special show came on playing the top 30 songs from September 8, 1963.  I thought, wow, this should be good.  Let's listen.

I was soon disappointed.

The first song they played was called "Martian Hop" by the Ran-Dells. Yes, I'm sure you've heard of them (ha ha.)  Jim and I were cracking up, but at the same time we recalled when space travel was all that and more. To place the time, this falls in between the March on Washington and the assassination of Kennedy. An important and weird time, as evidenced by the music.

One after another the songs came on, each one worse than the one before.  "Honolulu Hula" by Jan and Dean? Yes, as bad as it sounds.  After a while, we just kept switching it off and finding something more to our liking on another channel.

My main thought while listening to this so-called music: We really needed the Beatles when they showed up five months later. Man, how we needed them!

Sidebar: There actually were some better songs farther up the list -- we just never got to them since we arrived at our destination.  Some of the better known hits that week were by girl groups ("Be My Baby" and "Heat Wave") as well as folk artists ("If I Had a Hammer.")  And from what I learned a couple of years ago during my visit to the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame, Bob Dylan was writing "The Times They Are A-Changing" during this time period. My point is that no all the songs were as bad as "Martian Hop." Even as good as the Ronettes were, they weren't going to sustain the culture.

That evening we saw Paul Simon perform, and he told a little story about how disappointed he was in the late 1950's when the music turned terrible. He said that the mid-50's had such great music, and suddenly it all went away. This motivated him to take up guitar and start writing his own music. He also moved to England to further his musical exposure.

Jim and I were smiling, since we had a similar conversation just that afternoon. I thought of Don McLean singing about when the music died in the late 50's when Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Richie Valens went down in a plane. Did it motivate him to write and sing as well? Did several years of drought produce some of our greatest songs?  That is my conclusion to all of this information and reflection. The roots were already there, and many were able to tap into that depth and get a new direction going.

All of this brought to mind the Toni Morrison quote:

“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” 

As a writer, I am fortunate to find a lot of great things being written; people of all ages and races and nationalities are producing excellent works. Lately I have become more involved again in books produced for middle grades and young adult, and am finding not all of them are dystopian or fantastical -- there are a lot of great little stories about real people that are delightful and well-written. I feel like new channels are opening.

 I am also aware that I have had several starts on novels of my own, both adult and young adult, and every time I feel like I'm just rehashing that which has come before.  In fact, one idea I had that I could not get to work, has shown up in my book collection as a novel called "From You to Me" by  K.A. Holt.  Even though I am happy with what I'm reading, I'm still asking the question:

What hasn't been written yet that I must write?

It's a question to live with. I believe the roots are already present. I will continue to experiment and take notes. 

One thing I know for sure: what is to be, will be. When and if I'm meant to write it, the right idea will be there. I will produce something timely and relevant.

But, caution is needed. After all, at one time someone thought this was a good idea:

 

 

 

"Forgetfulness"

This poem surfaced again today in my daily reading. Billy has so many good poems, it is hard to pick a favorite, but this one is right up there. Here is my response. (Reading his will help make more sense of my poem.)

Forgetfulness

Billy really nails this

and makes me think

of the gazillion books

I've read over the years,

some I probably loved, but

now don't remember the title

or author or even basic

storyline.

And then all those concerts

and shows I attended. I know I saw

Bad Company and Jethro

Tull in the 70's, but absolutely

nothing stands out, except

perhaps who I was with.

Same goes for Fleetwood Mac.

Totally forgettable.

But even more so, Billy

taps into my forgetfulness

becoming increasingly noticeable

 now at the age of 63. Seems to be

 a turning point. Unremembering

the date of a dinner, or where the 

water fountain is at Publix, or the

important email I have to get to.

I blame it on dehydration, only so 

I don't have to blame it on aging.

Yet, it's there, I cannot deny it.

I don't recall the capital of 

Paraguay, nor do I care. And

if I need to remember a poem

I loved, I can look it up. Or it

will find me someday, like

poems usually do, unbidden.

I'm comforted by this thought:

the things I need to remember

are here:  the present moment

                              music

                                loving.

Questions About Carrots

(inspired by Billy Collins’ “Questions About Angels” but way sillier)

Of all the questions you might

ask about carrots, the question

“What’s up, Doc” seems most

appropriate and universal.

After all, isn’t Bugs Bunny the

Number One Carrot-Eater we

know, besides maybe the

Easter Bunny, who comes in

many guises and yes, usually

with a carrot in tow. But that's

just in the spring.

Do carrots know they are being

eaten? Do they miss their

greenery when it is shorn off

to be more acceptable to your

average suburban shopper?

Do they know that there are “baby”

versions of themselves, carrots never

allowed to grow up? Do they realize they

don’t just come in orange now, but in black, red,

white, purple, and yellow, with questionable

Vitamin K and beta-carotene, I would guess.

Isn’t that what the orange is for? And why purple?

What are the sleeping habits of carrots?

Do they love being snuggled deep in the earth,

moist and cozy, pulling down the sunlight from

their exposed greenery? What goes on with

these root veggies underground? Are there parties?

Lessons? Do they aspire to being chosen by a

rich actress or pro football player to be brought

back to a subzero fridge until the day of their

demise? Or do they simply hope to feed a child?

No, it seems none of these questions are asked

or answered. Instead, we have Bugs asking, “What’s up, Doc?”

as he crunches and munches, putting in his time for

a carrot-a-day, a worthy payment for a trickster rabbit,

one who never reveals how he comes into possession

of his precious orange treasures. And what of us? Dipping

 those baby carrots into ranch dressing at cocktail parties,

never thinking twice about the questions we could ask,

too accepting of the mangled carrot lineage, just accepting

that a carrot a day could keep the doctor away, and that’s what’s up.