A week ago I was here:
sunrise in SE Alaska
this is a poem for where I am today:
suitcase filleted
souvenirs shared
catch-up phone calls made
email checked and responded to
pictures downloaded to computer
laundry done
cat cuddled many times
Lisa
I read a poem about an orange today
and was reminded of Lisa,
my best friend growing up.
My family wasn’t much for fresh fruit in lunches
but Lisa’s was, and often it was an orange.
We’d sit together,
brown paper bags between us.
I was usually eating a cheese sandwich
and she would peel her orange globe,
jamming her thumb into its belly button,
peeling back the skin,
rotating slowly with the goal
of one long spiral.
I learned the word “pith” from Lisa
and how it is good for brushing your teeth.
She’d give me sections
as we talked like the school girls we were then.
Sometimes we just sat, comfortable together.
Lisa was the strong, silent type,
a thinker, rebellious.
She was mystery,
and I was “open book.”
It surprises me how often I think of her
and wonder about her life now.
Oranges are only one thing
that bring her to mind.
I took a ten minute walk with my camera. I didn’t drive to any place special or walk beyond the end of my block. I just went a little ways away from home and then turned off onto a path into the woods. I’ve been there before but not often. The last time was in winter.
I downloaded my pictures and noticed my walk was less than 15 minutes. Here are a few of my noticings and a poem:
I am always noticing leaves.
On my walks I wonder at these tender bits of greenery,
seeing each leaf distinctly from the whole bush or tree or grassy clump,
so much life before my eyes.
One by one I stop to look them over:
this one on a stalk, facing the sun,
prominent veins delicately outlined by light and shadow,
another has thorns just below its innocently upturned face,
still other leaves have fallen to the path
soon to be decimated by footfalls,
or to slowly disappear with time.
They are so populous and there are so many of the same kind
and yet I love to appreciate each one as it is in its place of appearance.
These leaves remind me of humanity – so abundant,
populating the ends of the earth,
but each person so unique
and in the world for just a fragment of time.
Sometimes my thoughts pile themselves up
like trash in the alley
and I find myself sifting, kicking, sweeping
until finally some filament catches my attention
and pausing with consideration,
I rescue what was discarded
so carelessly before.
I saw you:
woman-my-age-or-older,
in fact, I bet we’re the same age.
But that wasn’t what captivated my thoughts.
No, it was the purple streaks in your hair.
How come the purple streaks?
Are you from California?
I could only imagine such giddy abandon
being birthed in a place different from the familiar borders
I know and live.
More dialogue erupted in my mind.
Why purple?
Why are they important to your self-expression?
Do streaks on the outside
speak for your insides?
I was caught up in this whirlwind of thought
when the millennial at the counter said:
“Wow! I love your glasses!”
Oh yeah,
I love my sparkly glasses.
Okay lady-with-purple-hair-streaks, I know you.
I’m thinking maybe you live right around the corner from me…..
and my outside glitter definitely sings the sparkle on my insides!
Maybe you and I should have coffee some time
and compare notes.
Tra la
Every time I hear that song I cry.
The introductory notes are enough
for the hollow to open inside me,
the heat to rise in my cheeks,
and tears to spill from my eyes.
And I am not a reluctant participant when it happens;
I love the music and will even turn the volume up if I can.
The feelings washing through me are cleansing
and I feel happy, even hopeful, after the experience.
On the flip side,
I cannot think of any predictable method
for inducing a spontaneous belly laugh.
So maybe the daily dose of a melancholy song
is a guaranteed path to everyday joy.
I was telling a friend of mine that all of us are poets because we are speaking and writing in poetry form all the time. Here is an example – my sister wrote a quick email yesterday and when I read it, my inner poet just had to put it in a poem. So thank you, Sia and Gary; I got a poem from your hard work.
I picked up a couple tomato plants at Costco.
The plan was:
dig a couple holes plant and wait for the yummy tomatoes.
But as usual, it expanded into an entire weekend project.
We ended up planting 14 plants: tomatoes, zucchini, squash, cucumber and red bell peppers.
I’m intrigued by Miami’s poetry contest titled “Zip Ode” and have contrived one of my own – based on my Easter sunrise service experience. My zip code is 98226:
The park at the lake is empty at dawn.
Mist rises from the water and geese feed.
Dark foothills
rim sky
where day promises to break open.
I don’t usually wake early to witness the sunrise
watching and waiting, my senses alert to every
nuanced minute.
Just briefly
my life is on God’s time.
there’s a 6 year old boy I spend time with – not as much as I’d like, but a few times a month. This was Thursday, 2 weeks ago:
Where are we going? he asked.
Just down this path.
Where does it go?
Well, I don’t really know, but it will be a nice walk.
We look in the grass for walnut shells left by the crows.
He whoops when he finds two halves side by side
and holds them in his palm for me to see.
Can we glue them back together?
Sure, there’s a glue for that.
What are those? He points to cat tails standing just off the path.
Cat tails. I’ll get one for you.
I step carefully from the path into the saturated field
trying to walk on the tufts of flattened grass
but one foot sinks deep and my shoe is soaked.
Oh well. One shoe, one afternoon.
I snap the dry stalk of the cat tail and move back to the path where he’s been watching me.
Feel this, take a look.
He takes the stalk like a sword
and touches the tip the same way he would test a blade.
Some fluff spills from the cat tail.
Inspired he thrashes the stalk from side to side
and dashes back and forth across the path
smacking the blackberry vines on the border.
Fluff spews and flies to the wind;
it mounds on the path, catches on his sleeve and hair.
He is laughing.
He is Arthur, Ninja, Pirate, Jedi.
Soon the tail is only a withered cat’s paw.
Can you get me another one?
Of course.
Today, tomorrow, forever if I could.
I will step off the path for you, wade in the water,
bring you what you need —
to make halves whole,
clear the wilderness,
cast doubt to the wind.
Whatever it takes
for you to be equipped to run bravely in the world,
with joy and laughter deep in your belly.
Margie is a friend-who-is-a-writer I communicate with regularly. Today she sent me a connection to her blog referencing an email note we exchanged. I chuckled because she had no idea I was about to blog about our support of each other as writers and reference the same email!
I don’t think I could attend to communicating in writing on a regular basis without the support of friends like Margie. I have a nice list of people who check in with me, read my stuff, and encourage me to keep at it. Their support is visible, audible and often tangible. But there is much that is invisible and intangible and audible only in my head!
The email exchange I was going to reference today is part of a weekly check-in that Margie and I have. She has arranged with me to email her a little note on Monday mornings as a way to say “hey, are you writing?” The unsaid portion of that exchange is that I am thinking “hey, I care about you and your process.” So I’ve got a reminder on my phone and tablet to check in with Margie on Mondays at 6 am – although I have to admit I turn it off on holidays. I have sent notes, scraps of poems, photos, drawings I’ve made. It is a way I get my own juices going too.
Last week I sent her a poem I’d found on the website A Year of Being Here. (I found this site when I was deciding on my One Little Word and wanted help jump-starting my way to being “mindful.” I get a poem from them everyday and I just love it!) I offer this connection to others who don’t have a Monday morning companion like I do.
The poem I enjoyed most this week is this one:
“Down on My Knees” by Ginger Andrews, from An Honest Answer (Story Line Press, 1999).
cleaning out my refrigerator
and thinking about writing a religious poem
that somehow combines feeling sorry for myself
with ordinary praise, when my nephew stumbles in for coffee
to wash down what looks like a hangover
and get rid of what he calls hot dog water breath.
I wasn’t going to bake the cake
now cooling on the counter, but I found a dozen eggs tipped
sideways in their carton behind a leftover Thanksgiving Jell-O dish.
There’s something therapeutic about baking a devil’s food cake,
whipping up that buttercream frosting,
knowing your sisters will drop by and say Lord yes
they’d love just a little piece.
Everybody suffers, wants to run away,
is broke after Christmas, stayed up too late
to make it to church Sunday morning. Everybody should
drink coffee with their nephews,
eat chocolate cake with their sisters, be thankful
and happy enough under a warm and unexpected January sun.
on your mark – get set – get writing!
wake up and write 
