Another Year of What is Good

There is something 

That I cannot explain

I only know that the force of it reminds me to say, "Thank you"

Daily.

The passing of time does not diminish the cause of my heart,

                                                   

Which is to love.

With every single fiber of my being.

I am not an anchor

but a buoy
Flopping and bouncing with wind
and waves
Knowing this boat
needs to drift sometimes
hug a shore
break loose
then submit to tides
and seaweed, wet boots, soggy blankets
matted, twisted hair at the nape of my neck
Hard rowing towards horizons and inlets
then rest
Prone to diving in without knowing how deep
the water is or how cold
Joking that I only feel one side
 fretting about the other giving out
Calling out to my god when the wind whispers
then howls so my voice disappears and I wonder
from deep within me
which prayers have been heard.

Snapshot

Big skies call me and I dream of

landscapes whizzing by with the shutter wide open

My heart thumping like a hesitant drummer

I never wonder what is at the end of the journey

 It's what fills the landscape as I move through changing scenes:

Tall matted grass

Broad fields with tractor lines and baled hay

Tiny flowers in the foreground I squint to see and cannot name

Gray brown buildings with slack boards, light streaming through

Slanted shifting shadows

Sometimes a rusted tractor with weedy tendrils woven through its wheels

holding it in place

or

Dense woods with speckled sun that tiptoes through

Taut, mossy trunks holding thick boughs with wide leaves 
bend over time
  and dead, dried trees with creaking branches that reach like old men

 pointing their arthritic fingers toward the sky, perhaps unwilling

to quit, hoping that the light and drenching rain

will keep them awake just a little longer

In Observance

In Observance

Sometimes life calls upon us

to give more than we think we can

There are perils we cannot anticipate

The suffering of others which we can choose to watch from the sidelines

or reach out despite our indifference

 the inconvenience of disrupting a day with full intentions

laundry lists (literally) best deals, produce markets busting at the seams with culturally diverse multi colored options, fruits we have not bitten

even though we wrap our fingers around them, smell them,

are tempted by them

and allow the most important parts, the sweetest, to slip through

drip on our toes

cause our feet to stick

make a mess of the carpet

But, most curious, we refuse to plant them in our gardens.

I Will Not Make Everyone Happy

I Will Not Make Everyone Happy

Not today or tomorrow.

I will not always intuit what others need

I will trip over my words and my feelings

Seem obtuse

And sometimes cold

Hard to reach or understand

and might easily tear up when asked what's going on

I won't always have an answer

because life gets busy and there are often competing

calamities

that captivate me

and quiet spots that deserve my attention too

shifting light and changing seasons

I will wear clothing that does not match 

just because I didn't have to iron it in the morning

and it will feel right when I put it on in the faint light

that calls to me long before the alarm sounds

after restless nights

or deep sleeps

When I wake up in the dark I almost always look out at the night sky

sometimes I even walk out on my back porch with bare feet and drag wet leaves inside

after hoping to see a star dropping, soft light tails behind it 

because that would be lucky, right?

And a wish could be made

that I could be all things

steady and right

available

earnest and honest

always kind in my thoughts and deeds

my words could be pure and my

feet would be planted

grounded

Instead I become afraid

that I am coming up short somehow

not strong enough or

determined and steady handed

Indecisive

Shifting foot to foot

With vision blurred

as I fix on a horizon, light to dark and back again

and lose my way when there is no moon to guide me

awkward and sullen dragging bags filled with what has been avoided

mismatched socks and dusty remnants, self conscious

all distractions 

I will let you down from time to time, no doubt.

And there is no sorry that will make it right

All I know to do is to keep moving forward,

reach out open handed

step, sometimes stomp

run hard and fast, walk lightly, quietly, tip toe

and breathe

and hope that you will breathe with me.
Please breathe with me.

Dear Molly

I am not sure how many miles you have run or traveled in twenty five years my sweet daughter, but one thing I know for sure, is that you are moving towards something important. You have worked hard and waited patiently for your turn at the table and all you ever talk about is what you plan to give, what you hope to contribute to this planet and to others.

Your footprint has been both gentle and important. I am not sure that you know or understand the power of your presence in the lives of others. You have brought me to tears with laughter with your take on life, what is odd and curious about human behavior, including my own. You remind me not to take myself so seriously. 

You came into this life as the surviving Gemini, a twin, strong and hearty, always walking your own path, independent and fierce, making clear that no one else would define you. You are fearless in your determination and I am in awe of your strength and courage. 

The ground work has been laid. You know that when you run it requires one foot in front of the next and that the path behind you, all the knots, twisted roots, elements that greet you when you change elevation, are part of the course, intended to prepare you for what is to come. And what is to come will be good. This life, your life, will continue to be rich as you learn what is possible in yourself and others. And you will breathe easy, no matter how high the mountain. The gift is not necessarily the coast down nor the view from the top. It's each moment that makes up the journey, the people you meet along the way, glorious intersections with others wiser than ourselves, the quiet that settles in whether you are still or moving, paying attention to each breath, peace that comes with understanding,

and the grace to accept it all.

Happy Birthday Beauty. I am celebrating your birth. I am proud to be your mother, pleased that you chose me.

I love you.

Madre

Up

Up

I look to the sky for answers

At night stars blink back and sometimes I think I can hear them 

Even though they offer no grande perspective

That's been saved for the moon

with its mysterious haze that buzzes 

Whispers to me in a voice that I need to lean into

and it drops down on my shoulders like a

weighted blanket that I drag through the damp yard

wearing flip flops, a hopeful garment after a long winter

The smell stays with me

worms and rich, composting soil

Peepers hang on the edge, chip chirping, cacophonous

and panicked by unpredictable chills

They ignore the fact that morning will come

with buttered sky

Seen through mottled windows

splashed by big truck traffic

and dust

kicked up 

from a gritty winter road.

Blue shows up just when it seems it won't

after fog and din

Some big creature that insists on rolling through this valley

right in front of the sun

and light that

certainly lands on my face

and hands stretched out greet it.

I am Home

I Am Home

It's the warm floors on the coldest nights 

Furnace thrums

No cold air seeping through the corners

 I sleep with the windows open

so I can hear the sound of the stars

rain falling

snow shooshing

wind cracking vulnerable branches

the moon humming

and cars passing through town

kicking up gravel

At the end of the day, I come in through the mudroom and

 bright red back door with a glossy finish

to a kitchen with the smell of coffee and herbs, sometimes bacon

when Tim treats himself to a diner breakfast

This place with overstuffed bookcases

Pictures and trinkets 

Mismatched chairs with pillows at the kitchen table

A table salvaged from a burn pile behind the Boys' home

Eight feet long with half burned candles in the middle

and unfinished business on one end;

Taxes or building plans, mail, newspapers folded over

to remind us to read something that struck the other

A jar with fermenting cabbage and a bottle of tahini or some sauce or seasoning

Spills for sure

I roll out pie crust on the other end or plan dinner

No curtains on the windows

but green glass bottles and pottery shapes that love the fickle light of this valley

A sofa big enough for a bunch of people

with cushions that sink and don't mind spills

There have been spills

And the big old jade plants that have grown one from the other

refuse to die from neglect or shadows or front porch spiders when they are moved

in warmer weather

The painted, plastered, and wall papered walls 

seem pleased to host the hodgepodge of paintings and drawings and photographs

 collected on whims, though sometimes there were voices with stories half told

or rumored. I always remember where they came from.

We are collectors of tokens offered as we move through this life

and we stack and store them 

They remind us that we have moved through places and times

that have made us rich with memories

and lives well lived

 The empty spaces are waiting 

for what comes next

In Vain

I keep thinking about painting portraits of what's real about

This changing face

Shifting flesh

Lines that form with each smile and worry and disapproval

around my eyes and mouth

The grey hairs that no longer sneak in but announce

the passage of time

I have never known what to do with my hair

and I won't pretend now

even years after my mother is gone

and no longer threatening to make appointments with women

with pastel hair piled high

who snip! snip! while they chit chat

many more inches that fall in delicate silent wisps

to the floor and my back

while I sit in a swivel chair facing a mirror

that tells me my shoulders have rounded

my neck is fleshy

and that cow lick will always make my hair part so that it looks 

like my forehead is getting bigger on one side more than the other

and what used to be called freckles, now age spots,

have taken over 

Each laugh and sorrow has settled into my skin

and I can feel them when I run my fingers across my face

pull and stretch the flesh

remember the stories it tells.

A Lament on This Day

I am clear that what each moment holds is special,

singular, owing to nothing but the breath that surrounds it

Air that is light and changed with each season

 The sky holds the stars

without effort

and the moon rises and winks from its inky place

certain that it belongs

on each horizon.

a letter to Haddie

Dear Haddie Pearl

There are no words for how it feels to be a part of this next extraordinary 

place in life

with a generation that follows

Big eyes full of wonder

A heart pounding

And moments from every single day

that fill your senses

Greetings and wiggling fingers

Voices filled with questions

Can you hear me? Do you recognize this voice that called to you

in your mother's belly 

That beautiful underwater place?

We are all here to catch you

receive you

Hold you close

and love you

like no other love

we have known.