Ancient Stones

Sitting on a giant rock, in the woods.

It’s been here since the Ice Age, they say, like all the stones here.

I find comfort in this ancient place. It was here before we were, and it will be here when we’re gone.

And there are times when that is the only thing that makes sense to me in all of the universe.

Dancing

A dancing leaf

In the gentle breeze

Held invisibly

By gossamer threads

Perhaps left

By a weaver of webs

The leaf has no agenda

As it dances

And, as I watch it

I find, neither do I

In Whose Image?

There’s no denying autumn here, many leaves have already fallen and many others are turning. This is happening earlier every year.

Of course, that’s our fault. September has become an extension of summer. 

Here, the trees roots are in the Earth. Dozens of species of plants and animals with mutually beneficial, endlessly overlapping, symbiotic relationships thrive here, mostly undisturbed. 

Of course, we don’t see most of that. If something can’t be explained in anthropomorphic terms, it’s invisible, or if we do see it, we decide it’s not important. We are not rooted in Mother Earth. We walk on the Earth like we’re walking down a fashion runway, or like little kings and queens greeting their subjects, expecting to be served. 

We think that we are so far above the life in places like this. Created in God’s image? Really? We are blasphemous, disgusting warts, a pox on this planet. 

Nothing that treats the earth the way we do and uses our intelligence as poorly as we do can claim any connection with any life-giving force.

Humans are created in gods image? Not likely. More like we’ve created him in our own image, and then placed the force of creation in a little shoebox trying to define it in terms we are comfortable with, terms that reflect us. 

Until you can sit in a place like this, drop your preconceived notions and see what creation really is, and really does will you ever know anything about creation or life or holiness for that matter. 

No. I’m no brilliant one, no guru. I’m just a girl who sits in the woods. You should try it sometime. 

*Written at Purgatory Chasm State Park, Sutton MA

Sittin’ On Earl’s Bench

There’s a fern by the wall

With her bright green hue

And the sweet pink roses

Are still going strong too 

Mugwort dwells in the corner ‘round the side

Doing as she pleases 

With no need to hide 

The burning bush up front 

Just beginning to get some red 

Causing my summer loving friends to feel some dread

Crow and Blue Jay mouthing off 

But you won’t find me needing to scoff

Warm in the sun

Cool in the shade 

September is beautiful 

Today I wouldn’t trade

Cars going by 

Since I don’t live in the woods 

Although quite frequently 

I feel like I should 

Sitting on this bench 

In my own little space 

It may not be a palace 

But it puts a smile on my face

Chilly Night In The Neighborhood

The air has that early fall crispness 

The land anchors life 

The trees, perfection in liminality

Some of these houses 

Here for more than a hundred years 

Smiling spirits 

They’ve witnessed a thing or two

Time itself 

We cling to it’s structure 

Yet it doesn’t exist 

All that has been 

Is, still and always 

Energy never dies, it simply changes shape 

Essence and truth 

The pulse within

It’s all available to you 

The library of the Universe 

Hoodie and a hot tea

Hands around the mug

Continuity 

Life

The Neighborhood? 

It’s bigger than you thought 

Chilly night in the neighborhood 

History, Books and Me

I have always had a very strong affinity for history and nature. I feel safe, connected and inspired either out in nature or in old historical buildings.

Libraries are my very favorite place. Especially little town libraries that have been kept up for the last 150 years or so. It gives my heart so much joy to see these buildings being cared for and retained as an important part of the community.

Born on the cusp of the beginning of Gen X, I came of age at a time when Reaganomics opened the door to the life that we are all living now. Productivity and getting ahead in life was how you proved your worth and your permission to be on the planet.

I have always been someone who is far more on the creative side than the logical side.(Despite my huge affinity for a certain pointy eared first officer on Star Trek) I’ve never been the girl who was good at assembly lines, rushing, multitasking, putting out as many cogs per hour as possible to prove your worth. Yet, ironically… It’s pretty much how I’ve made my living since 1982.

What am I drawn to? Quiet, peace, books and reading, taking care of my home. Time in nature. Genealogy. History, especially the history of New England. 

For me, slow, peaceful, quiet, well ordered, simple, and understated are life giving and good.

Rushing, loudness, boisterousness, partying, excessive focus on productivity, disorder… To me these things are uncivilized, draining, disgusting and bad.

More irony. As a disabled person in the workforce with responsibility for several elderly and disabled relatives, I have never been able to build a life based on the things that I consider life-giving and good. it isn’t really anyone’s fault, and heaven knows it’s not from a lack of trying. It’s just how things ended up.

As a result, as an adult, the world has never been a safe place for me. I know dozens of people who feel like this, the moment one of us finds someone else like us, we have these quiet conversations and admit these things are true.

To bring it back around to history, and libraries. I think of all of the work that went in to our forefathers making sure that each little town here in New England had a library.  In most cases there was one person who donated the library, or few concerns citizens who made sure that it happened.

I love walking through libraries, museums, cemeteries, old bookstores, historic old buildings. I love driving through neighborhoods where the houses are over 100 years old. I have always felt like a transplant from another century, because this one has always been much too harsh and much too quick for me. I long to return to a time when things were done in a more thoughtful manner, and where something other than profit ruled.

Sometimes it feels like too many people these days forget the work that went into things that we take for granted. Things like the library in your town. But more than that, a majority of our ancestors did very hard work with their hands. We are here because of that work. and sometimes when you get a generation or two who have not had to do that kind of work, it feels like maybe we forget - well I haven’t.

So this morning, I will sit in the library till it’s time to go home for lunch before my work shift. I will absorb the vibes in this place and feel comforted being surrounded by books. A place with books in it will always be a good place to me. Every single book is a different world. A place like this is like a portal to everything you could possibly imagine. It feels like safety, it feels like civilization, it feels like goodness, it feels like good sense, it feels like happiness.

The Cat

Every morning

The cat

Through careful observation 

Of his chosen human 

Comes to sit on her lap 

For 15 minutes before the day’s activities begin 

With head butts and snuggles 

Purrs and synchronized heartbeats 

He reminds her 

Of her Center 

And to breathe slowly 

Muscles that had begun to contract 

And thoughts to race 

Stop their ascent 

Fight or flight forgotten 

She breathes, grateful 

Eyes closed 

And returns his blessing 

With a kiss between his ears 

He gets up 

Returns to birdwatching 

At the window 

And the day begins

Poet Always, Poet Forever

 I stacked my books 

Of algebra and biology

For the last time

Not continuing on, as the others 

Come look, they all urged me

You must make plans 

But there was sunshine and warm sand, so I shrugged 

It was a perfect beach day 

A few years later

Walking the long hallways

High heels making that satisfying 

Clickity clack

Faster, they said

I stared at them, puzzled 

The way the cat does when he can't understand what I'm doing  

I went to the cafeteria and created a mocha coffee 

Being rather pleased with myself I must say  

Sitting on the floor, playing with my sons

Asking their opinions

You're doing it wrong, I kept hearing 

Everyone had thoughts on how it was to be done 

I broke eye contact with them and returned to our game 

Often, I searched

Who would have tea, and discuss books 

And the call of the Red Winged Blackbird 

Sometimes, they would stop for a little while 

And it was good 

Soon, they would have to go

And I would make more tea 

Sitting out front with my roses

Listening to the Robins and Sparrows

I arranged my memere's glassware 

Just so

And dusted my mother-in-law's pretty bowl 

I thought of them

Their stories alive in me as I worked 

Why does she do that

Their eyes would say 

She'd have more space

If these old things were gone 

I just smiled 

And kept dusting the treasures

Always and forever

The poet knows

Just who and what they are 

To an extent

We are other

We watch

We immerse ourselves

Finding the keys to the Universe

In the tiny design on an old teacup

Or in the ladybug

Landing on our hand

We dip our toes into your world

That values productivity above all else 

Because shelter, food, and health care 

It drains us 

So we come back to the poems

To our notebooks and cups of hot tea 

And the pretty chimes mom gave us 

Swaying in the spring breeze 

A poet is always a poet 

Thank all that is good in creation for that