The story

I have a book

With many pages

And many stories

bound to tell.

If the mood is right

I will read these words

Without regret,

only tenderness.

In this book of many pages

There are leaves pressed between.

Dividing chapters and events.

A birth.

A death.

A change of address.

In this book of many pages

There are blank pages too.

Without text or image.

Unsaid words.

Places I’ve yet to go.

Colors I’ve not seen.

I'm so careful not to break these fragile flowers.

Which remain tucked away

Aging day by day.

Slowly fading back into

The yellowed pages

where they were born.

And just as ashes bring forth the springtime,

so the story goes.

Memories remain on this shelf.

Between the leaves,

in my book of many pages.

week 48.

Sometimes the spring just seem too far away. I need something to remind me it's really on it's way. At times like these, I like to imagine a different life. I dream of a life where I can finally achieve all my heart has yearns for. But the truth is there is no better life waiting on the other side. We have what we have, right here in front of us. There will always be parts unfinished, relationships undefined, feelings that need time to heal. All of it is a work in progress. We have good years, we have bad ones, just like crops and plantings. At the end of winter I like to open my old books and look at the dried flowers and leaves. I like to see how they fared, maybe just to remind myself that the story goes on.

River stones

The shifting of the plates of the earth.

They move with a subtly that almost goes unnoticed.

The way the clouds roll past, those too,

mere, small increment for the gods.

But the unsettling nature of how huge that can be can throw me off,

even today, with steady footing.

Such a place is familiar,

when all I know is the way to the next stepping-stone.

I skip across the stones and wait for the next one to arrive beneath me.

Let the stillness have its way.

Let the silence break my every doubt.

Because somewhere up in the sky

tomorrow may hold

that small lessons

lost on today.

Week 47. Stability

On my walks through the woods I always cross over a brook on my way to the pond. One day I thought about the rhythm I felt as I jumped from stone to stone. It’s funny how you need to trust that the next stone will be in the right spot, nice and steady beneath your foot. This made me think about the way we must trust the paths we choose. We never quite know for sure if the path we choose will be solid but we must follow through regardless. Unsteadiness is always a possibility. The unknown can be scary but it can also be exciting. Sometimes I think if you can balance both the fear and the excitement of it your not doing too bad.

Stars

I have one last wish for the day.

As the sun diminishes

into the vast unknown.

I wish for stars

tonight,

When the world begins again.

When I promise compassion.

Despite everything I gave

and everything I could not give.

When I know the beauty

of looking forward and backward

at the same time.

When I see what has remained

and I love it anyway.

All I need is something small.

A tiny glimmer,

Something way up high

that will lead me

where I cannot see.

Yes, I wish for stars

tonight,

When the world begins again.

Week 46. Faith.

During the last week of year I always feel like I’m looking forward and backward at the same time. I’m contemplating what I achieved through out the year and at the same time I’m reaching ahead for what I can take on, for challenges and for ways to grow. I await the New Year with promise even though there is so much unknown. I define Faith as our ability to allow ourselves to accept what that which we can't see. So I guess that’s what I wish for next year, to continue to discover small lessons of faith each day. I figure if nature can makes sense of this complex world so can I.

Christmas

Christmas is not far off in the distance.

I can see it.

In the houses illuminated with lights.

Outlining every bit

of their existence.

In the evergreen.

Standing tall yet swaying,

when the snow weighs upon it’s branches.

In the cardinals.

As they magically appear,

and then are gone again.

In belief.

Belief that what can not be seen

is greater than anything that can.

Week 45. Symbols of hope.

This Christmas I got to thinking about symbols, but not the images we normally associate with Christmas, the symbols you can’t see. The things that remind me of what I feel inside during this season. One word that comes to mind is “hope”. Hope is believing that there will always be lightness somewhere, even in the darkest of times. Hope is seeing the beauty in small everyday things. Hope is like a tiny little gift. Not the kind we plan for on December 25^th but the kind that shows up when you least expect it. Just when you think you’re too tired to keep looking for it, somehow, it’s there, right where you left it.

Frozen earth

I step out into December this morning

and the frozen puddles crack like shards of glass.

Frost blurs.

Sounds reverberate.

Dirt hardens to rock.

Branches snap.

It all echoes loudly.

As the wind whips through,

the edges of nature brace themselves for a long hard winter.

Then something shifts.

Something small.

The wind blows east

ever so slightly.

And for a brief moment,

There is a kind of clarity

that may just be enough.

Week 44. Refuge moments.

Some weeks I find myself focusing more on where I want to be rather than where I am. The past few days I have been questioning this, wondering why must I always do this. Why must I torture myself like that? Then there is a rare day when I can see what I have. I can slow it down just enough to stop this cycle. On those days, I’m not so overwhelmed by it all. I take a snapshot in my mind because these moments seem so few and far between. At this time of year, when we are faced with the harsh cold, I feel as though I am looking for a warm places to settle into, a kind of refuge. A moment where I don’t have to fight the elements and I can just be.

Brown leaves

Brown has come.

In the piles of leaves that crumble beneath my feet,

as I walk up stone paths with you.

So much is here, as the sun sets on us.

So much proof that you are here too.

As we walk through the park at dusk,

I pick through all the fallen leaves.

Somewhere among all this I know there is color,

even in the dark.

Somehow you have fought the winter,

even before the first frost has arrived.

Week 43. The Witness

My brother and I went walking through a park in the early evening, when the sun had just set. I could see that the leaves had all turned brown but I was still trying to find some colors in the piles on the ground. That evening I was amazed at how much stronger my brother seemed. He had finished his last round of radiation treatment days earlier and seeing him still so vibrant and inspired comforted me. Slowly he was finding his passion for life again. Even in his frail state we talked like we always had before, about new ideas and funny things we had noticed about people. This was a new life I was seeing immerge and I felt as though I was a witness to a miraculous event.

Ginkgo

Tiny yellow fan.

You made your way so far.

And yet you remain with me still.

I only wish to know

what makes you so different from the rest.

What makes you round and full

Instead of divided and angled.

I wish that for myself too, you know.

I wish to radiate-

To open myself up

and take in all that’s bound to me.

Week 42.Limitations.

I can’t help but notice how the Ginkgo leaf is so different from other leaves. The Ginkgo has no centerline to divide into two sides. It’s variegations come from the base of the leaf; tiny parallel lines dividing each little part. Seeing these sections, these radiating lines, made me think about the personal areas of my own life. My struggle with boundaries, those dividing lines in relationships. As I look close at the design of the Ginkgo leaf I have to ask myself - is it always necessary to notice the way things divide? maybe in times of transition it’s more important to focus on being open like a fan.