Young'uns

wandering around

looking confused

should I go 

this way                        

                    or that?

wait for the wave 

to rush over my feet

or run up into the hot sand?

we were so eager 

get away from the

overbearing parents

always telling us

what to do                    

                    what not to

freedom seemed so appealing

back then

the adults made it look 

so easy

floating on waves

dip your bill for a fish

lift up into the sky

sail through the air

but now

on our own

with my mottle-feathered gang

I'm hungry and bored

kind of cold too

missing mom and dad

Winter Winds

Wintertime can be harsh

for those who live outdoors

birds flock to black sunflower seeds

scattered over frozen earth

as squirrels perform acrobatics

upending the feeder

What was a cozy nest in springtime

now hangs by threads

woven branches and fluff

exposed

offering no respite

from these winter winds

My friend and I wandered through the town cemetery today, talking about our lives, stopping to marvel at ancient cedars, inscriptions on the gravestones, and to watch a hawk fly. Somehow, being in the cemetery, with its evidence of so many lives lived, did something to my heart. The air was cold, and it was windy. When we came upon this broken-down nest, it made me think of those who do not have a home where they can shelter from the cold. It seemed symbolic of the unravelling of safety nets in our country.

I know we can do better. We can care for one another. If we put our hearts into it, we can push aside power-hungry greed and make way for kindness and compassion. We can ensure that all are protected from the harsh winter winds.

 

So Many Decembers

so many Decembers

I long for snow

for some sign

that the season is 

more than sticks of brown 

against grey skies

today, a gift

bright blue overhead

cumulous clouds floating by

sparkles everywhere

as snow continues to fall

 

Bear Tracks & Gratitude

When I visit my sister, down in New Jersey, we make sure to take a nice long walk together. It was late afternoon when we found our way to the trail on this snowy and cold December day. "Let's go to the second bridge," she suggested, and I agreed. 

We walked along, talking about our lives. Fresh from our uncle's funeral, we reminisced about our childhood, when our families gathered to celebrate the holidays. The length of time between then and now took our breath away. We walked in silence for a while.

Reaching the second bridge, I saw tracks in the snow. Bear tracks. Sue went on ahead of me, while I stood over the tracks, taking pictures and marveling that only a short time ago, a bear had walked this very path! 

The encounter got me to wondering about all the creatures who walk along the same paths as we, of whom we never see any sign. I thought about our responsibility for those hidden neighbors, to ensure the waters run clear and the winds blow fresh. To ensure that there is freedom and space for the wild ones who prefer to keep their distance.

I also contemplated the uplift my heart feels whenever I see a sign that some rare (or common) creature has passed this way. The gift of knowing that we share this place, this earth, with those who are so different from us, and yet who are also, in some unique ways, so similar.

Gratitude filled me up, and buoyed my spirit as Sue and I, and her faithful dog, Nik turned back toward home.

Beautiful Silence

The snow is falling steadily today

beautiful

just beautiful

but

when it comes to snow

vision is not primary

such silence

everything hushed so profoundly

I hear each snowflake

fall through the sky

a descant

coming down to earth

landing as a tiny secret

indistinguishable to the eye

 from all the rest

beautiful

just beautiful

 

Last Tomato

sitting on the cutting board

half gone already

to Gary's salad

unaware

(both he and perhaps the tomato)

this was the last one

fresh from the garden

of good friends

shared with generosity

out of abundance, yes,

but frosty nights 

loomed

And here we are

the last of a whole red basketful

bursting with flavor

sweet in a way

store-bought cannot comprehend

delighted in with

slow breaths

closed eyes

wide smile

ecstatic tastebuds

savoring summer

 

Golden Light

Golden light 

surrounds me

just for a week or so

when the beeches turn

from summer's green

to autumn gold

This gold 

a kaliedescope

of every variant

green to yellow to brown

overwhelms me

every time

I stop my car

trying to take it in

but that is never enough

I get home

climb out of the driver's seat

and walk back

to that beautiful 

tunnel of molten light

stand

taking it in 

with every molecule of awareness

When the leaves are gone

blown by wind

pummeled by rain

too tired to hold on

when stark branches 

lift against wintry skies

remember what it felt like

when golden light

was everywhere

 

While the Sun Shines

 

While the sun shines

there is much to do

fill the woodbox

hang out laundry

mow the lawn

wash the windows

So easy to consider

all the details

making up survival

these, of course

must be done 

sometime

easier in clement weather

But what about thriving?

what about joy?

caring for the soul?

lifting my spirits?

My new list

while the sun is shining: 

wander in the woods

sit by the stream

soak in the golden warmth

stretch out in my hammock

paint the light

write a poem

Sophia's Circle

 

I look around

eight women

from 40-something to 91

so many years

of finding pathways

through the chaos and joys

living brings

Holding faith

in heart and mind

letting it guide

encourage

and simply hold steady

when the storms are rough

roads treacherous

and uncertainty reigns

In this moment

after so many tears

and "opportunities for growth"

wisdom is shared

no clear-cut answers

simply insights and support

as we sit in this circle

face to compassionate face

Halloween Comes with Invitations

Halloween comes with invitations:

choose an identity!

get creative!

dress up!

trick or treat!

dance!

let go of the old!

For the Celts

the veil is thin

Samhain, as they know it 

sits on the cusp

a new year just about to dawn

but first

honor the old

recognize what is yours

and what is not

again, the message comes

let go

now we enter interior time

you are invited 

to go within

ever deeper

breath here

let your shoulders relax

your heartbeat slow

be here now

is all you are asked

 

Rain after Drought

It has been a long, dry autumn here

leaves crunching underfoot

even more pronounced than usual

missing the usual scent

of rich earthy-leafy goodness,

"my" stream dry as a bone

even after a few earlier storms

But I am hopeful today

We woke to rain -

torrents - they would say

two inches an hour

a record of some sort

winds, too

It feels like relief to me

despite almost losing power

and needing to put off my morning walk

so I don't get soaked to the bone

I long to go outside

smell the earth waking up

feel the air ozone-fresh

see the stream flowing

experience something moving 

in me, as well

breaking the drought

 

 

Each Breath a Blessing

I walk a lot

Even when arthritis is acting up

I can't help myself

There is so much that feeds me

out in the world

trees, flowers, mosses, streams, rocks

and all of the creatures

scurrying or flying away in alarm

I murmur my apologies

for upsetting the natural order of things

wishing I was more an accepted part of it all

Settling down by the stream edge

even when the water has gone underground

there is peace here

a quiet

that my soul needs

Breath by breath

blessings given and received

Aware that I am the one

most blessed

by these walks

by these moments

O Christmas Tree!

Today was the day. Early on this cloudy morning I was not sure, but as we approached noon, the skies cleared to that brilliant blue that so beautifully embodies the best of a Vermont winter's day. Gary and I gathered what we needed - hand saw, cornmeal, tarp and gloves - and we drove down the road.

The tree farm is just down the road from our place, and there have been years in which we carried the tree home on a sled or sharing the load with our children, but this year it was just us. Involving the car seemed the sensible option. No need to stress our backs or our bodies unnecessarily. 

We thought we had found the perfect tree almost as soon as we set foot in the field, but that felt strange to me. The choosing of a tree process is supposed to take time, properly reflecting the solemnity of the occasion. So we marked that tree with an arrow pointing toward it in the snow and dutifully wandered through the rows of trees, stopping to check one out here, another out there. Gary called me over to examine one he found and I, in turn, did the same, until we had three contenders, including the first one we spotted. 

We returned to the trees we had marked and gave each of them a thorough going-over. Finally, we settled on a tree that, on close examination showed signs of a bird having nested in its branches, as well as an entire dry snake skin, which seemed auspicious to us. I accept that these "signs" may have been the exact things to turn someone else off, but that's okay with me. I fully embrace our eccentricities... most of the time.

Having made our decision, Gary and I spoke words of gratitude and sprinkled a dusting of corn meal before taking out the saw and cutting our chosen Christmas tree down. (This is a ritual we were taught to show respect for the life of the tree.) I was able to carry it out of the field on my own, leaving Gary free to carry the saw and cornmeal, and slip ahead of me to open the car. Once home, it was a surprisingly simple matter to find the stand and settle the tree into its new home. 

"That almost felt too easy," Gary said.

"Yeah, it seems strange, doesn't it?" I replied, pouring water into the stand.

We both smiled contentedly, breathing in the sharp scent of pine, happy that it was beginning to feel a little more like Christmas. Content also, with the thought that, despite the challenges that are so rampant in the world today, maybe life doesn't have to be a struggle. Maybe some things can be as easy as finding the perfectly imperfect Christmas Tree.

 

A Pilgrimage to the Familiar

 

Every September for the past several years, Gary and I, along with our good friends, Meredith and Ray, make our way to Monhegan Island in Maine. It is a place that I have written about before. Ten miles off the shore, Monhegan is an island inhabited by artists and writers in the summer months, some of whom fell in love with the island long ago and some, like me, who are relative newcomers. 

During the colder months the population dwindles down to about 45, the town water supply is shut off to protect pipes from freezing, most business shut down or depend on the honor system. I have tried to imagine what it might be like to spend a winter there, hunkered down in a cozy cottage to focus on my writing. I wonder if I have what it takes to make it through the isolation and the cold. Would my fascination hold? I like to think so, and maybe some day Gary and I will try it out.

For now, we limit our visits to the "shoulder seasons" of June and September when the island is a bit less populated by day trippers and tourists. (Yes, I know I am technically a tourist too, but loving and spending time on Monhegan when she is a little less hospitable feels like it might win me some small concession in that department.) Remembering to bring my down coat in June, climbing into a full set of rain gear to walk out to the edge of Lobster cove's rocks in a storm, singing at a Jamboree lit by kerosene lights as the evening cools, are all gifts of this time of year.

September is beautiful there. Purple and yellow-gold flowers are in bloom. Migratory birds can be prolific, as can be the butterflies. Sunsets are amazing, and there is nothing like exhausting yourself out on the trails all day before coming back to the cottage to toast the sunset on the porch before settling in for a good meal and a cozy evening with friends.

As I prepared for this latest trip to Monhegan, a friend suggested that I consider it as a pilgrimage. The idea intrigued me. I thought it might deepen my experience in ways that simply showing up for a vacation would not. And so, I brought my journal along and committed to write in it every day. Most days I sketched as well, despite the fact that I really have no talent for that kind of art. ("I am an artist with words" I like to assert, "but not so much with any other methods.")

It felt like my time on Monhegan did go deeper in response to seeing it as a pilgrimage. I was less concerned with doing things and more content to simply be. It felt good to show up for each new day with an open mind, willing to let it unfold as it would. I found myself trusting that whatever happened, wherever I wandered, and whatever I did, would be just what the moment called for, and for the most part this is exactly how it felt. 

Coming home is always a melancholic experience. Leaving behind such a special place and such a golden time is not easy, but somehow when I left this time I felt more prepared for the re-entry back into my everyday life. It felt like I had gleaned what I needed to from my pilgrimage, and would be returning home a little more centered for the effort.

Mud Season Blues

Photo by Gary Lindorff

This in-between season is one of the toughest ones for many of us who live in the Northeast. We know that spring is coming, but winter is not quite done with us yet. There are tantalizing days when the sun shines brilliantly in a crisp blue sky, but when you walk out the door, the freezing temperatures shock the breath out of your lungs. Then there are days when the winds are warm and invite you to take a stroll down one of the trails in the woods, only to sink into mud that threatens to pull the boot right off your foot. 

I live on a dirt road, so driving during mud season is particularly fraught. It can feel as if your vehicle is being taken over by some alien being that grabs your wheels, jerking you this way and that. Staying on the road can be quite a challenge! The ruts are sometimes deep enough that smaller cars have to be abandoned for a couple of days until someone can deliver a load of gravel and make our road passable again. My Subaru can usually negotiate the mud, but there have been a few times when I had to leave it behind and hike home.

I am pretty tired of mud season already, and there is no guarantee of when it will be over. But there is one sweet glimmer of joy that makes its way into our lives this time of year along with the mud, and that is sugaring season. The conditions that make the mud so ubiquitous are the very same ones that make the maple sap flow. Warm days and freezing cold nights. When the conditions are right you can see and smell the sweet vapors rising out of sugaring sheds as the carefully collected sap is boiled down into delicious maple syrup. 

Photo by Meredith Pratt

Anticipating this treat takes the edge off of the frustrations that accompany mud season for many of us. Even if you don't have much of a sweet tooth, it is nice to sample the wares of local maple sugar producers. Before coming to Vermont I didn't give much thought to the difference between light fancy and dark rich grades of syrup, but an early spring taste test can be enlightening. To take a break from the mundanities of mud season, you could try sugar on snow or one of the wide variety of baked goods to be found at a maple festival in one of Vermont's small towns. If you are feeling particularly ambitious, you could try a cup of tea or coffee brewed with maple sap collected from a back yard tree. 

A little maple syrup may not cure you of the mud season blues, but it is a nice respite for sure.

Photo by Ethan Pratt

 

Winds of Change

It was one of our last afternoons at the beach. The winds were blowing so strongly that sand bit at our legs. Sitting down would have been pointless in that kind of intensity, so we had come just to walk, and even that turned out to be challenging. The only folks thrilled with the weather were the kite surfers who dotted the coastline, enthusiastically riding the rough waves beneath their colorful parachute-like kites.

A few days before, I had tried to relax in my beach chair under similar windy conditions, only to have the pages of my book repeatedly ripped out of my hands, my hair blown into my eyes, and the umbrella turned inside out. Within moments of our arrival, sand had coated every surface of our bags, chairs and towels, and there was no reprieve. Those winds were powerfully steady, and the rip currents were strong. None of this showed any signs of letting up. Needless to say, we did not last very long before we abandoned the beach for the relative calm to be found only a few hundred yards inland.

Today, without the expectation of relaxing in a beach chair or swimming in the surf, we were traveling light. Walking along the beach unencumbered by bags or chairs, we were able to notice things that we had not fully appreciated before. Fighting the wind, I bent down close to the sand and saw that underneath each shell was a tiny mountain carved out of the sand. Each tiny shell-protected mountain seemed to be a microcosm of the larger mountain ranges that stretch across the landscape of this and other countries. Walking against the wind, it was easy to imagine we were trekking across steep and difficult places.

With the addition of these intense winds, what had been a welcoming beach became a stark and desolate landscape that challenged us with every step we took. The sound was relentless, a roar that made it hard to hear anything else. It was difficult to tell where the sound of the wind stopped and that of the equally intense waves began. Some birds were careening overhead, but if they were calling out, their cries were swallowed up and could not be heard.

This did not feel like the same beach at which we had spent so many calm, peaceful and relaxed afternoons! My thoughts veered sharply between feeling sad that we could not sit down to enjoy another one of those sweet afternoons, and sensing that the winds were exactly what we needed to be able to walk away from the idyllic world we had participated in for a good long while.

The winds of change were blowing, reminding us that our time in the south had come to an end. It was time to head home, despite the fact that we would miss the warmth, the sun, the beach and the ocean. It was time to head home and see what possibilities were moving toward us on those winds.

 

My Seagull Friend

I was sitting on the beach yesterday, reading a book and minding my own business when this young seagull alighted on the sand a few feet away from me. I turned to look at him, smiled and said something like "I don't have anything for you, buddy," knowing that gulls are often drawn in when a person is eating, but demonstrating that I did not have any food for him or for me.  

I returned to reading my book at which point he took a few steps toward me. When I looked up from my book to take a closer look at him, he looked at me, all innocence. He was young, I could tell that because his head still had the scattering of light brown spots that gulls have for their first year or so. He was so close I could see his yellow legs and noticed the rubbery, slightly grubby texture of them, like a child's toy that had been dragged from place to place accumulating a bit of dirt along the way. 

We looked at each other for a while longer. He took breaks to poke his beak into his shoulder feathers and satisfy an itch, while I glanced back at my book now and then. My book was good, but to be honest it could not compete with the proximity of my seagull friend who persisted in standing at my shoulder, sneaking closer step by step when he thought I wasn't looking.

As he crept nearer, I got a chance to see his beak close up, and was careful to keep my hands tucked in my lap, unsure just how far our friendship would take us, not knowing what role a beak plays in seagull-human relationships. He might think he was just reaching out with a friendly gesture, while for me it could result in a painful nip. At this point, he bent his head down toward the sand and started to screech. "Gosh, his mouth is absolutely bright orange!" I noticed as he verbalized his frustration. 

He flew off and landed a little ways down the beach. I thought that was probably the end of our little encounter, but after a minute or two of poking around the sand down there, he flew back to his sentry post at my shoulder. He looked me in the eye as if to re-establish our rapport, and took a few steps toward me again. At that point he looked away. It seemed studied to me, as if he was attempting to adopt a carefree attitude about whether I was glad to see him or not.

"How are you doing, buddy?" I asked, wanting to put him at ease and reassure him of our continuing bond. I started wondering if he might have been one of those young gulls I saw just days after hatching on Monhegan Island back in June. Gary had returned to his seat next to me by then so together we wondered about gulls and migration. Would a gull born in Maine make his way to Florida for the winter? I had no idea, but I was trying to make sense of the interest this young guy was showing toward me.

For the next hour or so he continued to stand nearby watching me intently, sometimes taking breaks to fly off down the beach for an interaction with another gull, or to shake off some of the excess energy he must have been building up by standing at my shoulder for so long. But he kept coming back.

When it came time for Gary and I to leave I felt like I was abandoning a friend. I assumed he would fly off when we stood up and started packing up our chairs, but no, he stood right there watching us. Even as we walked away, offering encouragement as we left. I worried that he would stand there and watch us until we were out of sight. My heart was already feeling sad at leaving him, and I didn't think I could take it if he kept looking at me so intently. 

When we were about ten feet away, he started moving as if to follow us, but then stopped at a pile of seaweed and started picking it apart, looking for something to eat, I assume. Seeing that he had something new to hold his attention, I felt more comfortable leaving. "Maybe we will see you another day, buddy!" I called out, and who knows, maybe we will?

 

Practicing Presence: A Consideration of Loyalties

Gary and I are spending a couple of months in Florida this winter, staying in the condo that my parents left to us. As a person who has lived in the Northeast all of her life, it feels strange to be in the land of sunshine and warmth while my friends and neighbors back home are shoveling snow. When we used to visit my parents here for a week or so, it always felt like I was cheating on Vermont, engaging in a clandestine affair with the warm sunshine and welcoming ocean. No matter how difficult it might have been, going back home to the snow and cold always seemed like it was the right thing to do.

My attitude shifted the January we returned to the Albany, NY airport after a huge snowstorm. Stumbling off the plane as we entered the chilly terminal, we were in shock after having worn shorts and swim suits for a week. Before going any further, we stopped to pull several layers of clothing out of our luggage as insulation against the cold air. 

A little while later, the shuttle dropped us off in long term parking where we trudged through several inches of snow in our sneakers. Our car was barely visible. Having forgotten to bring the proper equipment, we scrounged around and seized on an empty Christmas cookie tin to scoop the snow off of the car. This was followed up by scraping the windshield with credit cards in order to create a window of visibility. Driving home that night, we questioned our loyalty to the "frozen tundra" as my former mother-in-law used to refer to it. 

After that wintry re-entry ordeal it was not that big of a jump for us to consider spending more time in Florida once I retired. We listed to ourselves and any skeptical friends all of the reasons for our escape - Gary's neuropathy was much better in the heat, I could swim every day, we could write in peace and quiet, and we both knew we would be recharged by walking on the beach which was no more than five minutes away.

Being in Florida, I can say that all of our reasons for coming have played out as well as we hoped. There is an ease that comes from being in an environment that does not threaten you with freezing temperatures or blizzards. The basic warmth, regular opportunities to swim and our proximity to the ocean for daily walks have all contributed to a real feeling of being welcomed here. Sure, we miss our friends. We miss our home in Vermont and the beauty of her wintery landscapes. We miss our sweet cats and the cozy wood fires that heat our house, but we are assured by conversations with friends and texts from our house sitter that these will all be waiting for us when we return. 

Do I feel guilty about escaping the cold? Well, maybe a little, but honestly not nearly as much as I thought I might. This is causing a bit of an identity crisis for me because I like to think of myself as a hardy Vermonter. It is kind of confusing to find myself so comfortable and even complacent with the life we are crafting in Florida. I am starting to feel like I might have a split personality - one being the kind of person who hauls in firewood and walks outside every day no matter how cold it gets, and the other being a relaxed connoisseur of sunshiny warmth and ocean waves. 

This might be confusing, but I also am starting to think that it is just fine.

For years my mindfulness practices have attempted to convince me that being fully present in the here and now is important. I have always found this ability to be elusive, as my mind keeps wandering here and there worrying about what I might be missing out on, when I am attempting to meditate. Mindfulness teachers encourage me to cultivate the ability of being content wherever I find myself, no matter where that is. 

Is it possible, then, that what I am experiencing is a bit of that mindful feeling of presence?  Is it possible that my being content here in Florida, even while knowing I will also be happy in Vermont is an example of mindfulness in real life? I sure hope so. I would love to think that all of those hours of meditation practice are finally paying off.

What Makes It Christmas?

Gary and I will be traveling for Christmas this year, spending it at my daughter and son-in-law's home. Having retired, I am no longer responsible for crafting a Christmas Eve Service. This in itself feels very strange to me. I am used to my holiday celebrations being shaped by the outside forces of work and responsibility. If I am honest, I actually enjoy this part of ministry. I enjoy creating meaningful experiences that help people come closer to the true meaning of Christmas and other celebratory days in the church year. 

There is such an outer pull from the world around us to celebrate in specific ways, ways that skim the surface of the season rather than taking us deeply into its heart. I have always been a person who wanted to go deeper. From the time I was a little girl, I have appreciated the mystery that surrounds Christmas. I loved the candlelight at the evening church service, singing Silent Night acapella and then feeling the hush in the darkness afterward as we walked out into the night, clutching our small candles.

Meister Eckhardt gave voice to this mystery for me, claiming, "unless the Christ is born within me, then it does not matter that he was born 2,000 years ago in a stable in Bethlehem." 

I find myself wondering what will bring the season home for me this year. We aren't getting our usual live Christmas Tree, thinking it doesn't make sense. In an effort at compensating, we bought a rosemary bush shaped like a Christmas tree, but it is really not the same.  I did make wreaths with my friend and hung ours on the door as usual, with a string of lights, so that is one tradition that remains the same. Gary and I set up our tiny creche that spins thanks to the warmth of candles arrayed around its base, and placed some pine boughs in a vase hoping that the scent would permeate the air a bit, too.

It is definitely not the same, and yet the differences are causing me to go deeper in my own thinking about what Christmas is really all about. We will gather with family, which for me is the heart of the holiday. I will most likely continue to write about how this all feels to me. My intention is to spend a fair amount of time reflecting on just how the Christ is being born both within and all around me. Maybe a good question to hold in mind is where is the Holy in this moment, in this experience, in this conversation?

End of Summer

This time of year brings me mixed feelings. I love the colorful autumn leaves - the orange and red maples that pepper the woods and line the meadow, and the yellow beeches that create a golden tunnel over and alongside the dirt road that leads to my home. It is truly breath-taking to be immersed in this cacophony of color, and I make a point of noticing, of taking it in whenever I can, often stopping along the roadside to snap a picture. But along with the colorful beauty, colder temperatures make it less and less comfortable to sit outside in the morning while I sip my tea and read. Today, there has been a steady cold rain that makes me think twice about going out for my daily walk.

Very soon, I will be indoors for the vast majority of the day rather than breezily moving between indoors and out with little thought. Before that happens though, we will extend the life of our vegetable garden and the flowers for a while longer. Before the sun sets on these cold nights, Gary and I drag old sheets and tarps down to the garden to cover the squash, peppers and tomatoes, hoping to get a few more weeks of fresh veggies before we have to let them go.

I am torn, considering the choice between being fully present in this moment, taking in the beauty that is here now, or trying to preserve what I can for the cold winter months. This morning, for instance, has been taken up with making applesauce with a heavy concentration of wild grapes thrown into the mix for extra flavor and a burst of rich, purple color. It will be so nice to open those jars in the midst of winter, when a taste of this season will be even more welcome than the samples I tasted today.

We can put some food by for the colder months, freezing the garden produce, drying herbs and canning this beautiful purple sauce, but we can't preserve the flowers and the colorful leaves, except in our mind's eye or with a camera. We all know that pictures really are not the same as being able to take in the full glory of a favorite flower in full bloom or the hills of Vermont at the peak of autumn. Knowing this can bring a bit of melancholy even to the most optimistic among us.

This gorgeous hydrangea bloomed for us recently. Fittingly enough, its varietal name is End of Summer. (Or is it Endless Summer, which is a whole different story and a whole different blog?) I don't really need another reminder that summer is over, but as reminders go, it is a beautiful one that I make sure to notice and appreciate every day. Speaking of which, it's about time I brought myself outside to take another look.