The sky scrubbed clean by wind paints the horizon as muted rainbow.
******
As he brushes by, the palm frond ruffles his hair like an old friend.
******
I rush out my front door, car keys in hand, to find the widening dawn. Mindfulness sweeps me with a wave of intense gratitude.
******
Dependence and her intense vulnerability hit her over and over with the disbelieving gasp of icy waves.
******
When we're gone, where do we go?
Showing posts with label moment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label moment. Show all posts
Friday, December 12, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Scattered Stones
My daughter B says, "I think Heaven is like a non-stop home."
******
The 100 degree sunshine glitters sharply off the red, green, and gold strip-mall Christmas tree ornaments.
******
A woman wrestles a bouquet of lilies and greenery and a large bunch of balloons into a silver subcompact.
******
The bottle caps littering the dirt path gleam the same red as Christmas tinsel.
******
The sprig of rosemary is already working its magic: she is remembering to forget.
******
The man bustles into the counseling office carrying a pair of dun slacks and blowing out a sigh.
******
The 100 degree sunshine glitters sharply off the red, green, and gold strip-mall Christmas tree ornaments.
******
A woman wrestles a bouquet of lilies and greenery and a large bunch of balloons into a silver subcompact.
******
The bottle caps littering the dirt path gleam the same red as Christmas tinsel.
******
The sprig of rosemary is already working its magic: she is remembering to forget.
******
The man bustles into the counseling office carrying a pair of dun slacks and blowing out a sigh.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Time To Get Back To Work
Okay. It's Monday.
One major holiday behind us, one to go.
Here's my small stone for today:
She tosses back the last inch of water as if it were whiskey, slams down the tumbler and returns to her keyboard.
One major holiday behind us, one to go.
Here's my small stone for today:
She tosses back the last inch of water as if it were whiskey, slams down the tumbler and returns to her keyboard.
Monday, November 24, 2008
A Stop in Summerland
I can't be in the car another minute.
We pull off before Santa Barbara at the tiny town of Summerland. We stretch our legs along the blocks of antique stores and interior design firms. The purple and pink flowers nod in the sea breeze. I rub a pinch of rosemary between my fingers and release its refreshing fragrance.
I could stay at Cafe Luna for hours. We perch on tiny chairs under a gazebo of green vines. Flowers are everywhere and ochre and buff pottery soothes the eye. Tables scatter through a meandering yard around a converted wooden house.
When I order, the cashier explains to the cook in Spanish what a peanut butter sandwich is and how to make it. He toasts the bread, an unusual twist that delights the girls.
In the bathroom, my younger daughter loves the buttercup walls and seascape paintings. She gives me a hug and a kiss and apologizes for her complaining. I'm sorry, Mommy, and all is forgiven as we go out to our late lunch.
The whole time we eat, I'm aware of the fleeting nature of the moment. I feel the impression of the place sinking into my memory. I wonder if it will become only a memory, a place I visit only once in my entire life, or whether I'll be back.
Even if I go back, I can never go back. Life has taught me this. Each moment is only itself, and only once.
We drive away into a pink-orange-apricot-lilac sunset over the flat grey Pacific.
We pull off before Santa Barbara at the tiny town of Summerland. We stretch our legs along the blocks of antique stores and interior design firms. The purple and pink flowers nod in the sea breeze. I rub a pinch of rosemary between my fingers and release its refreshing fragrance.
I could stay at Cafe Luna for hours. We perch on tiny chairs under a gazebo of green vines. Flowers are everywhere and ochre and buff pottery soothes the eye. Tables scatter through a meandering yard around a converted wooden house.
When I order, the cashier explains to the cook in Spanish what a peanut butter sandwich is and how to make it. He toasts the bread, an unusual twist that delights the girls.
In the bathroom, my younger daughter loves the buttercup walls and seascape paintings. She gives me a hug and a kiss and apologizes for her complaining. I'm sorry, Mommy, and all is forgiven as we go out to our late lunch.
The whole time we eat, I'm aware of the fleeting nature of the moment. I feel the impression of the place sinking into my memory. I wonder if it will become only a memory, a place I visit only once in my entire life, or whether I'll be back.
Even if I go back, I can never go back. Life has taught me this. Each moment is only itself, and only once.
We drive away into a pink-orange-apricot-lilac sunset over the flat grey Pacific.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Early Thanksgiving
Five scuffed bags, four excited people, three days by the foggy shore - the weekend begins!
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Meditation and Mind - Or "In My Head There's a Greyhound Station"
Preparing to write, I sit for a moment, letting my thoughts settle and deepen. The golden sun on my face is my companion from early morning throughout the afternoon. Its light creates a steady thread of hope and comfort for me, as I work here.
Lately, I've been brushing up against poetry and Zen meditation tips. Life has a way of handing me what I need, when I need it, so the discovery of some great blogs exploring meditation feels significant.
This morning, I lie awake in bed and wonder why I can find the time to let half an hour pass while my thoughts wander about here and there - I love that time where I am free within my own head - but I "cannot" find the time to sit for 10 minutes of meditation. Yoga teacher S would say that my mind is resisting that quiet, that inactivity. The mind doesn't like to be inactive; it likes to feel important and in charge. My poor mind - it probably needs a bit of a rest.
When I awake in the morning, while I am still in that dreamy, hazy twilight of the unconscious mind, I feel my conscious mind awaken. Every day, it stirs, stretches, and picks up the threads of the stories it tells itself all day long. They are only stories, even my mind knows this. Still it clings to them firmly and querulously, with the determination of a child on the verge of a major pout.
In the morning, my mind is a pony, turned out from the barn into the dewy pasture. It gallops and snorts, kicks up its heels and suddenly leaps sideways for no reason at all, simply alive in its own motion.
Our minds are not that different from our hearts. Our hearts work all the time to pump our blood for us, moving muscles that power our great machines. Our brains work all the time as well. At a physical level, they create our thoughts, emotions, beliefs. I am grateful to my mind for all the work it does, just as I am to my heart.
Because, truly, it goes all the time.
Except, perhaps, during the meditation that it actually needs, but just doesn't want to admit to.
Lately, I've been brushing up against poetry and Zen meditation tips. Life has a way of handing me what I need, when I need it, so the discovery of some great blogs exploring meditation feels significant.
This morning, I lie awake in bed and wonder why I can find the time to let half an hour pass while my thoughts wander about here and there - I love that time where I am free within my own head - but I "cannot" find the time to sit for 10 minutes of meditation. Yoga teacher S would say that my mind is resisting that quiet, that inactivity. The mind doesn't like to be inactive; it likes to feel important and in charge. My poor mind - it probably needs a bit of a rest.
When I awake in the morning, while I am still in that dreamy, hazy twilight of the unconscious mind, I feel my conscious mind awaken. Every day, it stirs, stretches, and picks up the threads of the stories it tells itself all day long. They are only stories, even my mind knows this. Still it clings to them firmly and querulously, with the determination of a child on the verge of a major pout.
In the morning, my mind is a pony, turned out from the barn into the dewy pasture. It gallops and snorts, kicks up its heels and suddenly leaps sideways for no reason at all, simply alive in its own motion.
Our minds are not that different from our hearts. Our hearts work all the time to pump our blood for us, moving muscles that power our great machines. Our brains work all the time as well. At a physical level, they create our thoughts, emotions, beliefs. I am grateful to my mind for all the work it does, just as I am to my heart.
Because, truly, it goes all the time.
Except, perhaps, during the meditation that it actually needs, but just doesn't want to admit to.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Determination and Irony
I will excel at writing small stones, she vowed as she, oh dear, clenched her fist in the air. She was such a slow learner.
(This is only funny if you're reading Fiona Robyn's blogs - or if you're me. But it made me smile at myself.)
(This is only funny if you're reading Fiona Robyn's blogs - or if you're me. But it made me smile at myself.)
In the Bathroom
At tub’s edge, two long-handled back brushes – all honey wood and bristles – lie one atop the other in passionate embrace.
*******
An apothecary jar of handmade teal and lavender soaps. At least, she’d have a nice, warm bath.
*******
An apothecary jar of handmade teal and lavender soaps. At least, she’d have a nice, warm bath.
Poem for Saturday - Praying by Mary Oliver
I lifted this one from Fiona Robyn's Planting Words blogs. So nice to find someone else who loves Mary Oliver's work!
Praying
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
Mary Oliver
Praying
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
Mary Oliver
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I Spent All Day at a Grantwriting Workshop
The people seated around the mahogany table nod sagely and make small concerned sounds to the woman in the lilac pantsuit.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Not Much Time
Yesterday evening, as my husband and I were relaxing in our living room after putting our daughters to bed, he lifted his head from the worn ivory armchair and looked at me. His blue eyes were tired and serious. “You know I haven’t got much time left,” he proclaimed.
I froze, trying to figure out his meaning. He doesn’t have cancer. He wasn’t clutching his chest, or burning with fever. Perhaps he knows something I don’t, I worried. Perhaps he is intuitively sensing that he is ill and this is his grave way of telling me. Or could he just be sick and tired of me – finally? Is this the end? All of these thoughts spun through my mind like moths fluttering.
He continued, “I have to go to sleep soon.”
Relief flooded me. He wasn’t talking in cosmic terms, making a pronouncement in the huge picture of life; he just wanted to go to bed.
How often I find myself thinking on a large scale when it is simply the next few moments that matter the most.
(written 1-10-08)
I froze, trying to figure out his meaning. He doesn’t have cancer. He wasn’t clutching his chest, or burning with fever. Perhaps he knows something I don’t, I worried. Perhaps he is intuitively sensing that he is ill and this is his grave way of telling me. Or could he just be sick and tired of me – finally? Is this the end? All of these thoughts spun through my mind like moths fluttering.
He continued, “I have to go to sleep soon.”
Relief flooded me. He wasn’t talking in cosmic terms, making a pronouncement in the huge picture of life; he just wanted to go to bed.
How often I find myself thinking on a large scale when it is simply the next few moments that matter the most.
(written 1-10-08)
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Divided
On my way home, I drive past an old man strolling along the sidewalk. He is carrying a book on this clear, sunny day, reading intently as he walks. Even from my car, I can see that its paperback cover is worn and faded, its pages yellowed. I wonder what is so compelling that he cannot bear to stop reading it. I almost pull over to ask. But I do not want to break his absorption.
That is so sweet, I think. How touching to see such devotion to letters.
Then misgivings creep in. Is it really a good idea to do two things at once? His attention cannot be fully on what he reads, or on his journey. It almost seems that he is trying to trick himself into exercising, trying to do something healthy for his body without being aware of it.
In my rear view mirror, I study him. His walking is stiff and cramped by the need to hold the book. Reading pulls his head down from his neck and misaligns his back. His arms are not free to swing and give him balance and momentum.
Also the pace must be bouncing the words around below his eyes. Reading is difficult when the book is jouncing about.
Perhaps he would enjoy his reading more if he gave it his full attention, letting his body sit quietly in a comfortable chair while his mind devours the words.
Perhaps walking would be better if he were fully present with his body’s motion. Free to see the sunshine on the flowers and the birds flitting and the neighbors who drive by and notice him.
I drive past, uncertain.
That is so sweet, I think. How touching to see such devotion to letters.
Then misgivings creep in. Is it really a good idea to do two things at once? His attention cannot be fully on what he reads, or on his journey. It almost seems that he is trying to trick himself into exercising, trying to do something healthy for his body without being aware of it.
In my rear view mirror, I study him. His walking is stiff and cramped by the need to hold the book. Reading pulls his head down from his neck and misaligns his back. His arms are not free to swing and give him balance and momentum.
Also the pace must be bouncing the words around below his eyes. Reading is difficult when the book is jouncing about.
Perhaps he would enjoy his reading more if he gave it his full attention, letting his body sit quietly in a comfortable chair while his mind devours the words.
Perhaps walking would be better if he were fully present with his body’s motion. Free to see the sunshine on the flowers and the birds flitting and the neighbors who drive by and notice him.
I drive past, uncertain.
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