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I had a plan
I thought I had mapped out the next few weeks of posts for Becoming. I was going to do a series on cookbooks, interspersed with some seasonal photos and whatever anecdotes came into my consciousness.
But the Universe had other plans. A rock appeared, sitting alone on a sidewalk. Late-blooming roses filled my hands. I went to a market and wrote folks some poems.
Let’s start with how I spent Monday morning.
Orison
I have a new activity, and it is —nothing. I sit motionless in my big recliner and do—nothing. I do not dream. I do not think. I do repeat, over and over, “thank you,” “thank you,” “thank you!”
I am resting comfortably, swathed in gratitude. Minutes move by, neither slow nor speedy. It is not mine to notice where they go.
Maybe I drift off, maybe I just inhabit my own interior. I invite healing energy.
I breathe normally, not making any special effort to take deep breaths. There is no effort. There is no pain. My legs, prone to spasms, are quiet.
What I feel is bliss. Nothing exists but the moment—and the gratitude, the great “thank you.”
This is all there is
From time to time, I return to awareness, feeling the air against my skin. The room is warm. Leaves reflect sunlight outside the big windows.
Stillness is perfect. The scent of breakfast lingers. My coffee awaits in an insulated cup, but I am loathe to move. I am too relaxed to think of lifting it to my lips.
I am too relaxed to write, even, but eventually I pick up my notebook and let Spirit move my pen. I write a poem.
Now I take a few deep breaths. I feel alive. Forgiven, loved, touched by gratitude.
I close my writing as I always do, with gratitude: to Being, to Spirit, to the Universe, to whatever it is that moves behind our being and guides us through each day.
Immobile thoughts
I’m not a big fan of sonnets, because they rely too much on finding rhymes that work, but a sonnet is what came to me.
This one is Shakespearean in form.
Immobile thoughts
The bridge amid the worlds is paved with sorrow. We cannot ever fathom what we know. We go from parapet to post and borrow The truth of other worlds to help us grow. When did I get to stop my search for action, Sitting mute with thoughts that are not mine? Undone with rhyme, if only for a fraction Of all the shifting memories of time. Sand shifts, snow drifts, and I am sliding, No way to keep my footing on the shore. And only now my vision’s coinciding, Distilled into a place I can’t ignore. Thinking long thoughts and images they inspire— Outside, a squirrel dances on a wire.
Another gift from the Universe
Right in the middle of the sidewalk, this chunk of stone, sitting by itself, is waiting for me. Naturally, I pick it up. It is warm from the sun on one of the last sunny fall days. It fits so comfortably in my hand, the facets conforming to my fingers.
It’s basalt, probably. At first it seems dull, but sunlight brings out a sprinkling of shiny mineral. It is a natural handful, hard but comforting.
I wonder if I will keep this rock. If you are like me, you have various pieces of stone sitting on windowsills or other surfaces in your home. For now, I’m going to store this stone on my dresser, amid the small polished crystals and minerals I’ve collected over the years.
It was, after all, a gift, and I hope to honor this.
Fall roses
The most beautiful roses are the ones that end the season in fall. I pause in my travels through the neighborhood to take them in my hands and revel in their velvety texture. The roses keep their integrity despite my mauling. The petals never fall.
Fall roses
Fall roses are soft, Plush as rabbits’ ears. Cupped in my hand, One blossom fills my palm. Delicate yet sturdy, Still smelling faintly Of summer’s perfume.
Funny flower
This plant appeared seemingly overnight in a neighbors’ driveway. I guess they just drive right over it. Someone told me that it’s an amaranth.
More poems
I went to the huge, overgrown farmers market at Portland State University and wrote some poems for people.
For Hank, 6, who is losing another tooth.
Toothy
Goodbye to that tooth. It was good for a baby. But now space is left For something bigger. Most things will be bigger, Hank, as you prosper. A few may seem smaller— But never your dreams.
For Karl and Eva, married 34 years
Together
Another fall, another space you’ve lived through, Another fruitful time for two brave hearts. The seasons, storms and victories have passed— You came through, better, truer in your love. The sun shines now, have you forgotten sorrow? The times things didn’t go so very well? Now these are past, your future in each other No one can compass. Keep the faith, be good.
For Hussein, a young man who said to write about anything
This life
Measure the time, count out the steps. New life is calling, don’t let it pass. Youth and accomplishment, surely you’re ready. Come out and play now, the Universe waits. It’s one giant yo-yo, swinging you backward, Even when waiting for fate to appear. Play your cards carefully—or let them fall forward. Just know the horizon will always be near.
For Levi, who wanted me to write about the sunny fall day. It came through a little darker than I had anticipated.Fall day
Crowds of the curious Picking through vegetables, Buying some pastry, Ignoring the man Who’s looking for handouts. His sign is hand-lettered. How was his life before? Why is he here? Sun dapples stone. Rain will come soon— Washing our sorrows, Erasing our fears.
Writing for Juke
Tonya Morton over at Juke has published another of my “creative prompts,” a meditation inspired by a word. The word I wrote about is “Horizon.” Have you ever noticed that, however you approach it, the horizon never gets any closer?
Here is the essay:
Horizon
Explorers, sailors, and camel drivers have always known what a horizon is, but it wasn’t until the Italian Renaissance that painters began to work with the perspective of a diminishing horizon.
Something is new and alive on the horizon. The edge of a rising sun, the eclipse of the setting moon. Mountains, dark shadows in the distance or snowy closer up.
In the Midwest, the horizon comes at the end of a flat expanse, although less in Minnesota, where I grew up. There, gentle glacial moraines filled with water to create lakes amid rolling hills. They could be dreamscapes with infinite horizons.
What does the horizon taste like? The flavor of possibility, of intent. The restaurant at the end of the universe, balancing on the event horizon.
Know this: you will never reach the horizon. I remember looking out the dining room window of my dorm at Berkeley. A hill rose, golden in the California summer. I thought, what if I went up that hill?
So I did. I walked straight up it. It was a good hike. And when I got to the top, there was another hill. But it was time to go home. I expanded my horizon that day, but another beckoned for later.
Write about your metaphorical horizon. It’s an edge, a border, a boundary. The finite superimposed on the infinite. The pot of gold is at the end of the rainbow, but the rainbow extends over the horizon, the unreachable horizon.
What is the boundary of your yearning, your wishes, your power? Let your ambition extend its feelers toward that unattainable horizon. Keep your eyes there, even though at times your footsteps falter.
Reach for the horizon. Stretch toward the unattainable. Throw your heart over, and your spirit will follow.
More writing
I’ve also published another small piece of fiction on Becoming’s companion site, Fables and Legends. It starts like this:
Every millionth acorn has a golden kernel. Did you know that? Squirrels hate that fact, because they always break their teeth on the golden ones. And nobody else knows this secret, because oak trees don’t talk much.
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Memorable meals
I’ve come across an essay I wrote for a workshop a decade ago. Now that I have moved back home the themes of this earlier essay resonate in my new life.
Together
Through sharing food my husband and I deepen our relationship and move closer in trust.
Preparing food is a deep form of praxis for me, much as writing and quilting are.
Many salads in a single meal. Grains and fish, hours in the preparation. I’m immersed in cutting, each vegetable, each garlic clove, each onion sensual as I slice. Many different colors: purple and red, green, yellow, brown. Lemon tang, ume vinegar, acid tomatoes smoothed by cucumbers.
I didn’t have chopped liver growing up. He didn’t have mac and cheese. Neither of us had fish sauce.
He likes what I cook, and I relax into new things. Crushed red pepper, soup with tamarind and shrimp. Finally I am cooking the recipes I’d been clipping forever, since I was a teen, when I was the main cook in a single-parent home.
We eat, we talk. His childhood in Brooklyn, my very different Minnesota childhood, our memories, our plans for the house.
Each of us having lived long periods alone, we spend much of our days apart in the same house. We come together for this evening meal. Supper to him, dinner for me; a deep communion whichever you call it.
More late roses
Summer fades but the blooms live on. Each of these roses is a soft handful.
And a gift for the crows
A neighbor has fastened a cob of Indian corn to a tree in the parking strip. I suppose it’s for any birds, by I think the crows will like it. Or maybe squirrels.
Parting thoughts
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Your daily meditation intrigues me. There's a big, soft recliner in the other room where we used to spend our time watching TV. Now, the TV gone, we used that room for storage. I think I'll return to that all-enveloping chair to try your method of doing and thinking nothing. My monkey brain needs a rest. thank you thank you thank you.
Bravo for writing a sonnet. Well done.
wonderful thoughts. l loved your poem for Hank and his tooth! and the bliss of sitting without thought, quietly and with gratitude. we all should experience that.