Red

This morning my coffee is too strong.

I feel everything with a bit more intensity.

My red sweater, bold and sweet,

It looks back at me in the mirror.

When I wear it on days like these

I see my complexion glow.

The warm color fills my check.

I woke this day and felt you gone.

Finally, I could see that maybe

there is enough space

to let another see me for who I am.

Someday.

Until that day.

I can feel myself stepping into each day.

I can understand how to earn strength

through my own intent,

though ghosts may come and go.

This is my lesson.

Alone is not only solitude,

but a path to let the good in.

I recently found this poem and thought it kind of resonated with what I’ve been thinking about lately. I’ve been trying very hard to get myself in a place where I can feel healthy and strong and even brave enough to blog again, after not doing it for so long. I wonder about the difference between solitude and loneliness. There’s a very fine line between the two. Some days I can only see the difficult side of alone and other days I feel so strengthened by the quietness, the peace that comes in being alone. I guess that’s part of what I will always be searching for, a kind of acceptance of both places, even in the voices that come at 3 am.

Destiny

I had to let go of that dream.

It was to be me.

In that picture of a happy family-

There, on the other side of the world.

Sometimes you don’t get the life you think you should have.

What you get is a chance to look closer.

A chance to stop wanting more,

and start wanting wholeness.

No matter how hard you look,

you will never see that picture with clarity.

Instead,

one day

you wake up

and see your destiny.

Reaching out to grab you by the scruff of the neck.

Telling you to look at what you created,

and what you destroyed,

right there in front of you.

It’s funny how that works.

We have.

We loose.

And then all we can do is rebuild.

There is no other way around it.

The loss lives with you always.

It’s a splinter of wood in flesh.

There, just below the surface.

A subtle reminder-

as you walk with it in your side.

week 51.

I've been experimenting with watercolor. I did this piece that seemed to resemble clouds with rain. It reminded me of a poem I wrote a few years back. Lately I've been thinking a lot about this idea of rebuilding, starting new. I try to accept all the choices I've made, good and bad. It seems every day we have to carry all those choices with us into everything we do, like a kind of scar. To carry the past and rebuild at the same time seem very brave to me. It also seems like a bigger feat than we give it credit for. The past can block us at every turn. The things we tell ourselves can confuse us with their contradictions. What is really the truth of who you are can be so damn hard to see but it seems important to keep looking for it, even in the pain.

Crashing waves

Walking along the shoreline, 
waves crash and the seagulls break the horizon.

This path of rocks and pale bushes meander forever along the pacific coast.

The voice of the ocean is out there again,

today like every day,

following me at every turn.

Sneaking tides are at my toes,

in a whisper.

The edging of the salt water, up to my ankles.

I pick up a shell and put it to my ear,

Is there someone there?

Then out of the blue,

a wave comes upon me.

Crashing into the silence,

astounding me and bringing me to my knees.

I am pulled down

but it is only when I’ve fallen that I can see

that I am mere grain of sand.

week 50. Message in a bottle.

Some days I am looking for messages. I believe if I can look at what makes me suffer then maybe I will learn something about myself, something I need to learn in order to grow. There are times when I feel as though I know something is out there, something with a message. If I look, I don’t always find the answers, but I still need to look. I realize that falling, being brought to my knees frees me. It reminds me that vulnerability is the only way to to courage. To walk though and not around. I believe every time we are faced with something astounding there is the potential to heal.

Life's work

Life’s work is done little by little.

Tiny movements are everything.

There will be creeping crawling doubts that weave though the dry dirt

and there will be fears and sadness

that will wander carelessly into each morning,

when there is more rain than sun.

To do life’s work

Means carving, pulling, weeding

and always dividing in to piles,

all the stuff that in necessary

and all the stuff that is not.

To do life’s work

requires more digging that you ever thought was possible.

So much so that you’ll think “I don’t even have the right tools”.

But you’ll do it anyway,

with your hands,

because that’s what God gave you.

To make something beautiful of this life

is the greatest gift you can give yourself

and those around you.

We are made to stumble upon answers;

Answers are made to be found,

nestled deep within the earth.

But they are hard earned.

To build a life you can only do everything within you.

Only you can go out into it

and listen to all that pulls you deeper.

There is beauty in the simple little things 

and there is grace in the digging.

week 49.  Digging

Digging is one of the best ways I know to describe the act of searching for the truth of who we are deep inside. I always think about how I try to make things beautiful in my own eyes. I want the to see the beauty even when it’s not beautiful. I’m not the first to say that living really is messy business. We confront, we fight, we defend, and most of all we have to get in there and figure out the path. It all requires so much energy. So why do it? I guess it’s purpose is so we can get a tiny bit closer to our own truths.

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 yet 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 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 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 them.
One by one.
Somehow, next one to arrive beneath me foot.
How is that?

So 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.

Branches

I’ve walked beneath this archway

of branches so many times.

I barely make it through some days;

as the branches touch me lightly

I duck and continue onward.

But there is always a hollow space there,

made for a path

made by the many travelers

who have passed this way once before.

As I walk beneath

I can see how these branches reach to the other side-

Looking for something,

anything that could lead the way into winter.

week 41. Connections.

There is one section of the woods, right near the pond where the branches reach low and create a sort of archway where people can walk beneath. It’s almost like a tunnel of a sort. The branches are all the same kind of tree, thin wispy branches with colors that range from pale yellows to red. I got to thinking about how branches reach out to other branches. How we are constantly making connections all the time. Locking into ways to create security, strength and support. The arched pathway is one of my favorite places these woods. There’s something beautiful about the way paths form organically. I guess I’d like to believe that human connections are kind of the same. We meet others, we reach out, we try to form bonds and somewhere along the way we grow, leaning ever so slightly towards change.

Cherry tree

It was not even cold the day we arrived.

We walked through the quaint northern town,

gazing upon others as if we knew them by name.

Everywhere we went I saw a red cherry tree.

In each town square,

In every field and along dirt roads,

Every time, I had to stop and look from below.

Up, into the brilliant blue sky,

Into the specked array of red dots

refracted by the sun.

Even in November

as the weather plays its tricks

and the sun filters through each section,

somewhere the familiar stirrings

of the holidays are not far off.

Week 40. The familiar.

I went up to Vermont this weekend and traveled around a bunch of quaint New England towns. It was funny, everywhere I went I saw these beautiful trees with small cherry like fruits. They reminded me so much of a kind of mistletoe. This fall the weather has been quite mild, leaving me feeling a bit unprepared for the idea that the holiday season is almost here. Seeing these trees made me think about things that we are all too familiar with in our lives, things that we almost don’t notice anymore because we just expect them. All the things we assume will come without any effort. Sometimes we feel so familiar with those who we care for, maybe even too familiar. The word “family” and “familiar” must be related in this sense. Sometimes I forget how important close connections in my life are, they are significant because they root me back to what I know as true, and sometimes that’s a very good place to be.

Tiny red leaves

Each tiny leaf has it’s own way.

Some are still pale yellow;

offering me hope and opportunity.

Some are transitioning into red;

The strange world of two places at once.

And then there are the deep garnet colored leaves.

The ones that are there to guide me

Towards letting go of this branch;

something I’ve waited my whole life for.

Week 39. Mortality.

I’ve been thinking about how small events are there to help prepare us for greater events. Like for example, letting go. To me, this represents the idea of letting go of my own life eventually. I know that I struggle with letting go of many things in my life. Each one is a kind of preparation. I believe these small things give us tools so we are better equip to handle what’s to come. It makes sense to me that we would need to prepare ourselves emotionally and psychologically for something like death. Looking at the small experiences and seeing connections to a larger event may be one way of processing the big stuff.

A family of leaves

I look at each leave and it is clear they are related.

Each one is slightly different.

One larger.

One louder.

One never shows his hand.

So I place them in a line

and then into sections;

and wonder I how this is fair?

How can they be the same

when circumstances divide,

creating beautiful imperfections

and deep rooted scars

which forever remain.

Week 38. Brothers and sisters.

I have been collecting families of leaves these days. Examining the small differences between leaves from the same tree. It’s fascinating to notice the spots, the browning edges, and the splattered inky blotches. As I look at the variety within a single family of leaves I think about my siblings. I think about the things that divide us and the things that bond us together. There are things from our pasts that no other person has lived through but us. But now that we are older our lives seem to divide. I watch my brother struggling with radiation therapy and I think about how each one of us must make choices as to how we can help. I have come to realize that letting go of the hurt from the past is instrumental in being able to give unconditionally.

Collecting Leaves

Once in a while,

when I am walking through a forest,

I look down at the hundreds of leaves beneath my feet.

I remember that I have seen many lives,

I have collected them too along the way.

Then I go home

and open a book,

and there are the leaves once again.

Carefully pressed inside,

fading slowly,

but there to remind me

how far I had to walk.

Week 37. Organizing.

Some days the memories of the past come in and cause me to slow down and look very close, almost too close at times. I have to stop what I’m doing to reflect on the life I lived, the person I was back then. I know we all go there at times, to those dark places that cause us to want to be alone. There is no cure of coarse, and that sucks but there are moments of hope too, moments when we feel like it’s all been worth it. All the choices are the right ones and it was all meant to be. It seems as though reminders of how we made it through are so important. It can be an object, a song, a poem, anything. It’s remarkable how we need markers, like chapters that divide our lives into sections. I find it fascinating to think about how we are constantly trying to organize our minds the same way we do our everyday lives, seeking ways to put things away, ways to process what we lived through.

The grand leaf

Some trees shed the greatest of leaves.

So grand you cannot simply pass them by.

You must stand and look upon them

as more than single sided.

Turn it over you will see hundreds of variegations,

leading you off into all sorts of directions.

Week 36. The other side.

I found a huge leaf while walking the other day, so big it reminded me of an elephant ear. I turned it over to inspect the intricate network of veins, much like those in the human body. This habit of turning things over I seemed to have picked it up from my good friend Clare. One day, while walking through a flea market together we came upon a pile of interesting fabric scraps. I pulled out a few quilt squares that caught my eye. As I was looking at the patchwork scraps, admiring the color combinations and textures Clare immediate turned each square over to look at the backs. She explained “the reverse sides are always much more interesting”. I had never thought about it like that before. We show the neat, organized self but it seems more important to notice the process of what it takes to get there, the stuff most people don’t see. This idea reminded me of a line in a play I saw recently. One of the main characters said, “It’s more important what we can not talk about than that which we choose to discuss”. It’s kind of the same thing when you think about it. Examining what we choose not to show is really the part that we should look at, how else can we understand how we are made.

Leaves

I’ve been looking up

into the trees.

Into the rays of the sun;

the way it peeks through the branches,

allowing tiny pockets of warmth

and minutes at a time

to be still.

The trees are changing that is true.

I continue to walk,

collecting the leaves as they fall.

Searching for variety;

for the subtle differences between each one.

Each pattern is a map.

Each possibility natures way

of saying that every path

is the right one.

week 35. Variations and paths.

I have been walking through the woods looking for leaves these days, seeking out all sorts of varieties of shapes, colors and textures. I began to think about how many possibilities we encounter each day and all the variables that affect the choices we make. Wouldn’t it be easier to have a map or better yet a GPS in order to know which path to choose? I guess I’m much more at peace when I let go of that idea though. When I stop worrying so much about where I’ll end up and just try to notice what’s in front of me.

But my walks in the woods got me thinking about the simple act of walking as well. There’s not much needed really in order to walk, just the desire to move forward and that can be done even with out legs. I think that creating art is the same way, you have to just get in there and do it, there is only so much thinking you can do. At a certain point it’s better to just make the mess and then worry about how to clean it up. Wisdom seems to come from the process of moving forward, what ever the out come we grow from noticing what we feel, what we see, even what we collect along the way.

Tears for flowers

Rivers have been made from the thousands who have cried.

I know I am but one of the few.

These tears are small reminders

of the wounds we carry still to this day.

Yet here I remain,

collecting puddles of sweet rainwater-

my hands cupping each drop as it falls from the sky.

With the hope that all that has made the world green

will one day grow a garden of wildflowers for me.

Wild, untamed and free,

with roots wound loosely into the deep dark soil of the earth.

Week 34. Rain.

I wrote this poem a few years ago but thought it was appropriate on account of all the rain we’ve been having lately. I remember it was written at a particularly difficult time, right after my ex husband left. I felt as though I had cried rivers trying to come to terms with how my life was unraveling before my eyes. Through it all, I kept telling myself that one day all the pain would make sense. I wanted to be reminded that the rain is for a reason, that it has purpose. I also wanted know that stability was possible no matter how much it rained and no matter how long it took to get there.

Chinese lanterns

The Chinese lanterns are perched

carefully in their vase.

I watch them slowly fade

from the burnt orange hollow

to brown lace.

Complete with a tiny red bulb

to light the way

as time passes through it.

And as I wait for the deep orange glow

of the Autumn to come

I see disintegration as opportunity.

Even within these silent dreams that remain

there is much that is still quite alive.

Week 33. Stages of change.

While upstate I collected a bunch of Chinese lantern blossoms from an open field. I put them in a brown ceramic vase and placed them on my dining room table. As each day passed I admired the variety of textures and colors. Some with bright orange blossoms, others dryer- passing mid stage, and still others completely transformed into a delicate brown lace. I couldn’t help but think about how each branch represented the stages of life. Then I thought about my own life. Which branch would I be? Mid way between the life I’ve lived and the life that is before me.

What really caught my attention though were the blossoms that were barely even there, the ones that looked as though they were just a skeleton of the lantern form. They were so delicately intact and yet there was something still alive in there. The seeds were still enveloped within the red bulb in the center. There was still hope somewhere in there, still a few small dreams yet to be realized. I began to consider that I too had some dreams yet to discover of my own. I’ve come to realize that observing changes in nature can help me learn more about my own thoughts and feelings . It’s hard to see change in ourselves, were just too close. But we can see it in others and we can learn by watching others nurture their dreams as they move through the stages of their lives.