Tag: Writer

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Things are changing.
Of course they are –
watch the shadows,
the clouds, earth’s bounties.
I greet each sunrise
with a ritual of awareness,
nod of recognition –
another day to spin
on an Axis I trust
will keep me aligned
with good intentions.

I write my history in words,
circumstances, choices.
Grandchildren prompted
the start of this blog.
Sitting in the grass
making daisy chains
we spotted yet another wonder.
They laughed, mocking
my familiar mantra,
“How  About That”.

It seems words
can lie fallow, seasons
pass while intentions remain
buried beneath new pursuits.
I  pondered and wondered.
jotted words on loose pages
while waiting for new birth.

A new granddaughter
Now ten months,
has favorite colors,
preferred tastes.
reaching out,
so many miracles.
Now “How About That”.

Here I am,
catching up with
all the wonder;
more to come.

Fuchsia Flash

Note: months since my word space felt the stirring to share;
and then there is a moment I desire to shout out;
words I know have a power

Winter words buried in silence,
Spring stirring inner reflections
evokes a shared exclamation.

This morning thunder clapped,
lightning appeared before
dawn skies arrived. 

I heard the dogwoods sigh 
as a downpour of rain 
quenched their thirst

Muggy noontime, sun awakens
Hanging pots of fuchsia,
waiting for hungering hummingbirds, 

An unexpected invitation 
To stop and see – what beauty
transforms in any given moment.

A portal opens, delights emerge,
Prompting my spirit to
Take in the good, 

Revel in the moment of
joy awakening.
Say aloud 

Here, hear,
Words to share
I want to lift you too. 

As it turns out

As it turns out, I didn’t quit on writing or fall into a writer’s block,
I had not run out of things to say or ways to experience the world.
I fell into a deep silence, sitting in a kind of well without water,
No momentum to flourish, no observations to shape into words.
In this silence I made great friends with darkness, allowing myself
to slip between the covers of night and day, listening to hope;
transforming deep breaths into sleep and awareness into light;
welcomed, embraced without demands, I kept watch and waited.

So much happened in the time between then and now.
Just as the seasons were transforming my mountain horizon
into green leafed mansions that moved with the winds,
fear covered the earth world with illness, and forced solitude.
From my personal space I witnessed what I could not deny:
prejudices perpetuate tyranny, the pain of injustice grows
like a deadly virus until it finally takes our collective breath away.

As a people we need more than words that call for action,
more than good intentions to stand in solidarity with others;
We need voices of wise leaders willing to take risks and
oppose status quo. We need to hear the narratives of those
who know injustice and come through on the side of hope,
voices providing assurance, guidance on how to replace
violence with de-escalation, confrontation with active listening.
We cannot relive the past; this is a time to transform the future.

Pulled by the energy of necessity, making my way out
of the well of wordless darkness, I push away the ever
present doubt that I can make a difference, the question
of what can I say that others have not offered before me.
In the confinement of a well, and the space of solitude
I discover I am never alone; my thoughts are energy
creating waves, connecting me with a world others;
bound together we create momentum for change.

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Thriving in Winter: Wrapping It Up

We are about done with winter in the south – nature is already signaling change. March announces its arrival a bit early with yesterday’s howling winds. The red maple outside my window is tipped with red buds. Dandelions persistently push though dried leaves; daffodils greet me on my walk to the park. Sitting on the park bench shaped from a fallen hickory, I consider winter’s lessons for survival.

With cues from burrowing creatures, I line my winter retreat with a stack of books, a list of movies to stream, CD’s hiding too long behind my top ten favorites choices, games I usually do not get around to playing I crochet comforters and wraps in warm colors, and delight in a variety of scarves to add more than warmth to winter wear. I pull out my highly favored fur-lined boots kept in the back of the closet for much of the year. On the coldest days I reach for my mother’s wool sweater, monogrammed with her initials.

Hoarding can also be life-giving I am very familiar with this hoarding instinct, having watched the squirrels’ frenzy of burying nuts. My lawn is covered with paw sized pits; scratched patches. Every newscaster in the northeast and much of the south sends reporters and photographers to the local hardware and grocers’ when a winter weather watch is announced. Viewers dutifully note the ritual of emptying shelves. In order to shift from surviving to thriving, I redefine the tradition of hoarding (while my pot of soup is simmering and my stash of chocolate is secure) I am hoarding gratitude. Wrapped in flannel and wool, I think about the pleasures of spiced tea, mulled cider, the snapping flame of a red cinnamon scented candle.

This year winter demands that I take an artist’s eye to a background of grey. Muted skies accent every point of color. From my reflection corner, where I read, write, and meditate, the red bird feeder that is kept inside in every other season creates a scene of vibrant activity. My kitchen window frames the suet feeder, and the frequent colorful visitors – cardinals, blue jays, black-capped chickadees, tufted titmouse, red-breasted finch, pileated woodpecker.  Their song is a winter’s jubilation as though they share in my delight at frost that sparkles when the sunlight finally appears, crystal coated mornings, the dance of snowflakes leaving a sweet layer of white icing on rhododendrons and magnolias with their candle like bulbs. Evergreens stand out in sharp contrast to their deciduous earth mates, reinforcing their own survival with a careful selection on nutrients. Seasons have a tendency to build on the spirit of anticipation, and though I pass through my winter trials with an upswing in acceptance, I eager anticipate change.

Daffodil Trail

A Picture of Paschal Mystery

A quarter of a century has passed since a wise woman counseled me. “Pay attention to what happens in nature, as it often speaks to what is happening in your life.” A large white pine framed the house I cherished and its limbs embraced the lives of the family I loved. One sleepless, troubled night, I watched the tree silently topple, completely uprooted in the winds of a storm. That was the year of my great loss. I have spent decades observing nature, unfolding the revelation of signs and seasons, reading the messages that water, rocks, birds, flowers, mountain paths leave in place. From the time of my childhood, I have looked for signs of hope, strength, comfort, faith, and belonging, spending hours searching for a four leaf clover, or standing on the porch looking for a rainbow after the storm.  I have picked wildflowers for my mother as a sign of love, combed the shoreline at low tide for a sand dollar – the Holy Ghost shell – lying unbroken in the wet sand.

Several years ago as I climbed to the top of Stone Mountain, everything around me was alive with change. I used my camera to capture images that spoke of the great mysteries of life. Pictures often evoked wonder and creative imagination in my high school theology classes. At the center of my own faith pondering was the mystery of suffering, death, and resurrection. I had been trying to make sense of this experience since the death of my husband when I was too young and our four children too innocent to face such a devastating loss. That early spring morning on the side of the trail in layers of browned leaves, I saw the trunk of a tree, felled by a storm, a small limb creating a cross and the flower of a tulip magnolia lying in its center. Small green leafed plants had just begun to emerge. There in my path nature created an image of life’s paschal mystery, the ongoing reality of suffering, death, and resurrection. I snapped the picture and placed it into a folder of nature’s portrayals, filed but not forgotten.

This year I completed a spiritual memoir exploring my experience of discovering great love, profound loss, and new life, all the while making meaning of this mystery of suffering, death, and resurrection. Rebirthing Faith: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Resurrection can be purchased on Amazon Books. For those who experience your own search for truth and goodness in the face of suffering, I hope my story will provide a mirror for reflection. For those who continue to seek answers to the mysteries of living, I hope you too find meaning in nature’s ongoing revelation.

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The Sky is Falling

I am discovering that the wisdom of aging comes with a slowing down, prompting me to sink into the moment at hand. That’s how I began to befriend the sky, conceiving of its presence as an immense blue canvas on which forces of nature paint an accounting of the day just as it is happening. The artist’s pallet holds the elements of light, wind, water, and temperature and produces not simply a representation of life as it is occurring, but the very reality that gives shape to my day, sometimes my very mood. From dawn to evening, night fall to daylight rising, the sky is my protective shell. I count on it being there – and it is – even if I don’t give this a single moment’s thought.

Gazing up at the curved canvas I am reminded of the constancy of change in life, the subtle ways my day, my world is being reshaped. Approaching fall in the mountains, it is difficult not to notice the dense fog that hangs over the early morning. I begin to anticipate, like clockwork, the warmth that will lift the cloud, unveiling the stretched blue fabric of my day. Today the clouds spread like a bed sheet, hanging low and teasing me with its dense gray appearance. Stratus could up to pranks. Will it rain on the roofers and then their work day will stop?

I favor the fairy streaks of high cirrus clouds that produce a light airy step in the day, but it only takes a turn of the head and sky is filled with white puffy cotton candy, the cumulus clouds that appear like mounds of whipped cream. I can quickly fall into my childhood memories, lying on the sand at the beach, naming the clouds by the images they depict.

One of my favorite Charlie Brown cartoons depicts Charlie Brown, Linus, and Lucy lying on the top of a hill. Lucy says “If you use your imagination you can see lots of things in the cloud formations. What do you see, Linus?” “Well those clouds up there look to me like the map of British Honduras…that cloud up there looks a little like the profile of Thomas Eakins, the famous painter and sculptor…over there …the impression of the stoning of Stephen…the apostle Paul standing there to one side.” Lucy replies, “That’s very good…what do you see in the clouds, Charlie Brown?” “Well, I was going to say I saw a ducky and a horsie, but I changed my mind?”

It is all a matter or perspective, isn’t it? Now I see great tears in the blanket that has hung overhead all morning; the brilliant blue canvas reappearing. My life is not separate from nature’s painting of the day; I am encouraged by the change that constantly takes place; I am delighted with the beauty, grateful for the warnings; overwhelmed with the thought that this protective embrace has been present for all generations of peoples. My ancestors stood under this sky. Now that’s a story I could tell.

clouds-in-blue-sky

Invitation to “Come What May”

From the beginning – I have scribbled in notebooks since I was eight years old, wanting to make sense of the world through words. I thought that perhaps arriving at the just-right alignment of words in my universe should put everything in perfect order. In January, I celebrated my 70th birthday and to date I am still playing with words. Along the way I learned to love the process rather than the outcome and to embrace the questions more than the answers. Awe and discovery keep me alert and what I don’t know or didn’t realize continues to absolutely amaze me.

When my grandchildren uncovered this truth, they became my echoes. Listening to their adventures, their creative spins on life, and astute observations, I am apt to say “How about that!”. They turn to me with big grins, a shake of their heads and repeat “How about that!”. “It must be an old-people’s thing”, they say. Yes, I am elder-ing and love this curve in my life. All my life I have been nourished by writers, and now that I am moving at a more measured pace, I want to join their ranks, taking my turn at spinning the wheels of wisdom.

Welcoming the privileges of being an old lady, I am also much more willing to “let come what may”. Instead of making my to-do lists, I rely on a notepad shaped like the bottom of my morning coffee cup. I randomly scribble those things I should consider doing inside the circle – something like a daily mandala. Then I pay attention to what floats to the surface, and gives me a nudge. I like to think of this method as an organic approach to my day. My posts will be just that – an organic emerging of “come what may”.  I welcome you to join me in the wanderings and wonderings. How About That!