The Territory...

True, a poem for winter

2012-01-28T21:02:00.000-08:00

True to their nature

the bright finch

the lone hummingbird

fly in to their different feeders, hungry.

True to my nature

standing on the earth

breathing in and out

aware I am watching, listening, hungry.

I’ve stopped here for now to remember the allure

of bright blue skies

of tall, dark evergreens

of high circling birds

of twinkling waters running over rocks.

I am remembering the call of this earth and its fruitful forms.

I am remembering my response to that call, and the moment

of remembering again is what is most real in the world.

More often I’ve been fooled by other appearances: by the circumstances of my days, by the conditions in and of the world, by the feelings launched through the labyrinth of thoughts spilling from my mind—that treasonous and treacherous playhouse.

For now, for awhile instead,

I remember how to flow on like a river,

breathe in and out like a tree,

shine out like the light of the moon and stars.

This one is who will imagine the world

as I look into the eyes of the grandchildren,

as I trust the remembering in their souls.

Clear Cut

2012-01-12T23:35:00.000-08:00

She was five years old. She heard it before she saw it. It was loud, high pitched and whining against the gears. She watched with wonder at the size and noise of the huge truck as it barreled down the asphalt road of her street, bright silver strip where a mouth might be, coming on fast. She felt the ground shake and saw the huge trunks of trees stacked one on top of the other, higher than she could see. She watched as it rumbled by, leaving a swirl of dust and heat rising up and out to meet her nose. She stood for a long time after it passed, feeling frightened, yet glad for being there, awestruck and full of amazement. Full of love and full of confusion, aware of something terrible happening, not knowing what.

She is still standing there still.

I stand here now, still watching in amazement and still feeling frightened and also now full of fire for knowing now the meaning of ‘clear cut’.

It isn’t, it never will be, to either one of us.

Dedicated to Nan and the Trees whose lives she has shared, and whose deaths she now endures. Blessings to them each.

Go To Woods Witness http://woodswitness.blogspot.com

Opening to Possibilities Unknown to Me

2012-01-01T11:56:00.000-08:00

January 1st, 2012

Dreaming into my Future

Where is the simple man?

The one at ease in his life, his spirit, his body, his work and relationships?

The one who is unassuming and unimpressing rather than out to prove his worth?

Self-assured and comfortable in his skin rather than seeking perfection forever?

Not perfect, not a freak of nature, just fairly low maintenance and high delight?

Where is the man who seeks pleasure in the simple joys and gifts of life,

and is not distracted by TV, dotcoms and corporate lustings after money and fame?

Does he long for the same kind of connection as I do?

Or am I simply dreaming?

Thanksgiving Day Dream in America, the Beautiful

2011-11-24T11:21:00.000-08:00

Today I am remembering when we held our breath at the turn of the 20th century:

all that anticipation, nervousness about our friendly, clever technology turning on us somehow. We stashed food and water in our basements, just in case;
the looking back, assessing endlessly our path to now, our airways telling grim stories, our magazines and newspapers sharing the daily bad news in living colors, our journalists reporting thoroughly so we missed not one iota of bad information.

There were those who hoped for something actually new: a change of tactics, mind or heart or human condition...but a Demi-Republi-Crat (they aren't so very different, as you may notice) was sitting in our Chair of State, so hope was mixed with dreaming...which is how those times also found me: dreaming.

When my grandchildren are fifty or sixty, it will seem so long ago and far away from their then understanding and their then lives. It may seem to them, as it did to me as my grandmother at 100 recounted her life in the early 19th century, nearly unbelievable. What will they think of these times?

America my Beautiful America, you've grown wayward. Your naive vision of freedom, progress, and equality, of land of milk and honey and happiness for all is, on this national holiday, a kind of cruel joke on the great majority of the people who are, if they can, gathered today at homes, kitchens, and tables in every corner of the country, giving thanks. Speaking of the great fullness of their lives. Creating happiness. They are the Dreamers still.

Ready, Set, Wait. Part 1

2011-11-06T17:23:00.000-08:00

Crow in tree. Jay down river. Small bird overhead. 2 guys at truck putting away fishing gear; no fish. Not much rain for days. Leaves are dry, curling and crisp, some slow to fall hold color still.
I am spending woods and river time today, and invited others to come too, but no one arrives. Fortunately, others are not necessary to my own happiness today. On the other hand, I do desire to share this connection, this ease of going out (and thus 'going in') and staying out awhile to join air, earth, sky, trees, river and all of it. And, my hope is to help open this easy, simple, natural way, for others. I wonder what are the barriers: me? them? day of week? time of day? length of time? place? what?
My friend Paul, several years ago said, "I could pack my lunch and go to the woods on my own, anyway. But I don't. I don't know why." I think it just doesn't come up as a priority against all those louder things in our lives, all those cultural demands we've made up. So, what WILL get us out into nature, to be, to stop, to look, to listen, to feel? What WILL return us, even for a few hours, to this obvious source of our good life? Grief? Fear? Tragedy? Worry? Desire? What WILL motivate us to re-connect ourselves with nature?
I hear the chip-chip of a little bird above and I smile. At the same moment, a few sunny rays break through clouds and shine on bright cedar boughs and bright orange cedar fronds on the ground and I am happy to be here, alive, breathing, moving, even in the midst of my confounding wonderings. I determine the only thing there is to do is to remove my boots and sox and walk among them and over the soft mosses and dark earth and watch the leaves drift down, letting go.

An Autumn Day at Oxbow on the Sandy River, October 23, 2011

Part 2 of Ready, Set, Wait.

2011-11-06T17:20:00.000-08:00

I take photos of me practicing staying in my body, noticing where I put my feet: on needles of fir, on trunks of cedars, on mossy outcroppings, with a collection of leaves against my cheek—to try to see what is here, including me. Crow caws consent. I look at one of the pictures and see a green aura around my head, glowing! A first! I wonder if it will re-appear when I look on a flat screen? My bare toes are cool and pink and tingling. They feel alive and happy. “Move” the left foot reports.

I head down the path towards the river. On the bank I sit among the deer tracks in the warm sand. It’s midday and the sun is dancing among the high, cotton ball clouds. The river rocks worn smooth in all sizes and colors litter the sandy shore and move like little marchers into the water, disappearing into mud and depth somewhere under the water’s shine. I watch for salmon I expect to see, swimming by, finding their way back, heading up river to a spawning bench I know. A lone fisherman up the river 100 yards is in up to his ankles actively hopeful with fly line and fly. We both know they won’t desire any food now, but a line in the water is as good as a seat upon the shore today, and each of us is quiet as breath—waiting, watching. The sun filters in and across the stream to shine through a bouquet of alders with variegated yellow leaves who are busy chattering crisply as two ducks zoom by so fast I don’t catch their names.

I see the river has dropped since I last sat here a few short weeks ago: the brushy overhang that looked like a water’s edge muskrat hole to its under-bank home is now considerably higher up the bank. I still can’t make out any tracks from here, so don’t know if it is active, or whose home it might be. Every few minutes an alder leaf lets go and flies out and down, tipping one edge then the other as if seeking an autumn nest within the ferns and grasses down at the base of the trees. They all settle in and disappear. Suddenly a fish jumps out of the river water, its bright body a silver shine streak against the murky brown water. A jay raises hell in the tree above the splash. If nothing else happens today, this is enough. They are coming; they are here, in the river now. Nature again stakes her claim on the river, these salmon and my heart.

WHAT SHOULD I DO? (Or, Taking Time for This One)

2011-10-19T12:03:00.001-07:00

There as so many things I should be doing: paid work and volunteer work and yard work, dish and house and clothes cleaning, books and news and magazine reading, completing reports, commitments and projects, cleaning out closets and basements and flower pots, adding to the To Do List. I should put friends and family on that list, meaning to call, write, visit them each and every one.
And, what about the messy times we are in the middle of? Shouldn't I be doing SOMETHING about that? Writing letters, signing petitions, donating money or time, joining the 99% in the street, feeding soup to the Homeless? Sending $$ to a Good Cause on PayPal? And the animals, birds and fish going extinct--that 60 million so far, shouldn't I be doing SOMETHING about that? What can I DO? What should I DO?
Maybe I should just mind my own business. Maybe I should rent all the DVD's from all the movies and TV series I missed. Maybe I should bake cookies. Maybe I should plan a trip to somewhere. Maybe I should figure out my astrology chart. Maybe I should find some excuse to be busy in some way, whether or not it matters to me. Maybe I should do only what matters--maybe make a difference. Maybe I should figure out what that should be.
Ad infinitum. Sound familiar? Sound exhausting? Sound like our Western Civilization Culture of the Busy? Culture of the Confused Consumer? Culture of the Clever yet Clueless? Not necessarily happy or personally meaningful, BUT BUSY. And, SHOULDING all over the place, whether or not we say it out loud, it feels that way inside.
Here's is what I say: Stop. Step outside, step away from your thoughts and shoulds and coulds and ifs and stand under a tree or in the grass or the dying-off garden flowers. Do nothing. Do it as long as you can stand it. Do it every day you can. Do it barefoot, or in sox. Or on your butt or your back or belly. Or, said another way:

"The most remarkable feature of this historical moment on Earth is not that we are on the way to destroying the world-we've actually been on the way for quite a while. It is that we are beginning to wake up, as from a millennia-long sleep, to a whole new relationship to our world, to ourselves and each other." -Joanna Macy, sage crone

Power & Poetry--A tribute by Alla Rene Bozarth worth spending your time here!

2011-09-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

WORLD | September 27, 2011 New York Times
Wangari Maathai, Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, Dies at 71

Wangari Maathai, Nobel Peace Prize Laureate

“In the course of history, there comes a time when humanity is called to shift to a new level of consciousness, to reach a higher moral ground. A time when we have to shed our fear and give hope to each other. That time is now.”

Wangari Maathai

Unbowed toward men

she bows only to Earth, our Mother.

She speaks truth to men with brutality in their brains

and they beat her and imprison her, but while her body heals

her mind grows stronger and her voice grows freer.

She continues to speak.

She speaks for our Mother in a clear mother’s voice:

Harm not the Earth nor Her children.

The men with brutality in their brains beat her again when she demands

that they abandon their insane plan to tear up a garden in the city

and replace it with another phallic skyscraper. She wins that one.

Victory after victory, Earth wins through her persistent labor.

She shows how poverty and the degradation of Earth

and the oppression of women and children are one.

She dreams of trees and plants them.

But it is not enough. She dreams of poor women

throughout the land receiving livelihood and planting trees.

She calls the women into alliance— The Green Belt Movement.

She gives them momentum and they do not stop moving.

Professor of veterinary science and champion of all living beings,

she pays a small stipend to poor women to plant trees.

One by one, the forests return to her homeland of Kenya.

She remembers the spirits of rivers and streams she loved as a child.

She remembers how Mother Earth used to be before the greedy

men with brutality in their brains assaulted Her.

When personal and professional attacks come, she runs for Parliament

as candidate for the National Rainbow Coalition and wins,

defeating the ruling party.

She is appointed Assistant Minister in the Ministry for Environment

and Natural Resources. She founds the Mazingira Green Party of Kenya

to allow candidates to run on a conservation platform as modeled by

the Green Belt Movement. It becomes a member of the Federation

of Green Parties of Africa and of the Global Greens.

When the people of France award her the Legion of Honor in thanks,

the men with brutality in their brains try to beat her.

When the world gives her the Nobel Peace Prize for her work

to make peace between humanity and Earth—

the foaming-mouth men with brutality in their brains

try to beat her with words and false accusations,

but her Truth wins out.

She has left us now, but her clear mother’s voice rings loud and clear.

Her true-speaking voice rings loud and clear.

She can be beaten no more, and her spirit still speaks.

For all we who have heard and been blessed by the truth

are her voices now. Inspiring each other, we sisters and brothers

who hear and speak out give strength and hope to our children,

who will speak out for the future.

All you who hear today,

make it so for tomorrow—

Alla Renée Bozarth

Alla in her garden near Wy'east (Mt. Hood)

What To Do? Get Radical.

2011-09-26T17:27:00.000-07:00

Clearly, action speaks loudly and some people I know are putting their b...s on the line to make the point about Tar Sands.
The Tar Sands Action headed by Bill McKibben and others is brave and direct and asks us to stand with them, including the risk of jail. (See http://www.tarsandsaction.org.) And they are not alone, of course. Many groups around the globe know more extraction, by any means, is in the short term a disaster for the lives and landscapes it disrupts and destroys, and inevitably a failure of our collective, political, and personal imaginations.

From the NRDC website: "The Canadian pipeline company TransCanada has proposed a tar sands pipeline that could bring as much as 900,000 barrels per day (bpd) of costly and polluting fuel to the U.S. Gulf Coast. This pipeline, called Keystone XL, will lock the United States into a dependence on hard-to-extract oil and generate a massive expansion of the destructive tar sands oil operations in Canada. In addition to the damage that would be caused by the increased tar sands extraction, the pipeline threatens to pollute freshwater supplies in America’s agricultural heartland and increase emissions in already-polluted communities of the Gulf Coast."

We can imagine much more--and yet we seem to lean towards disaster more often than we use our imagination in more useful ways. I don't support fear of the future, of change, or no more oil, of no more easy money, or any number of current culture's "gotta have it's", In fact, none of those conditions cause me any fear at all. They DO cause me to imagine: how might I live in such a life? YES. That's the imagination I invite here...and the one I invite YOU to engage in your own life.
It's the kind of radical thinking and acting that may have greater life impact than anything the corporate consumer climate can muster up as counter-threats to keep things going like they are...which ain't so great, if you hadn't noticed lately. Extinctions, pollution, wars, more clear cuts, poverty, illness and disease, refugees, on and on goes the list. These conditions are the underbelly of the 'good life' we are told we need to protect...and pay for, at all costs. Ignore the rabble-rousers, the dangerous ones, like the Bill McKibbens, the Raging Grannies, Wangari Maathai, the Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers, all those dot orgs listed in Paul Hawken's Blessed Unrest and others like you and me. Get Radical: Imagine something else.

The Autumn Equinox

2011-09-18T11:06:00.000-07:00

I am noticing how the approach into fall this year is re-arranging things, including me. I had big plans for a 4 day NatureConnect Excursion to the Oregon Coast. I secured a friend's beautiful beach place in the Neskowin area, high about the ocean's edge. I checked with the weather Gods and determined there would be a strong likelihood of beautiful sky, bright, fast clouds, and cooling nights: weather perfect for the move into autumn: room for beach and forest and inner explorations all.
Next, I sat within my own preparation: quietly listened to the nearby birds, the wind and the trees, the moon and the river. I read timely words of others, I wrote, I dreamed dreams, I sang to no one, I ate well. I considered my own 'current state' as part of my preparation, knowing we are all interconnected, and what is present in my world will have its reflection in other's worlds. I trust that as I prepare.
So, I sent out my news and invitations, my messages, receiving many replies and much 'interest'. Two people 'committed'. And then the flow stopped. I waited. I re-committed to my own connection and took myself to the Sandy River and spent precious hours in communion. I waited.
And then, as sometimes happens, I noticed I was worrying this circumstance around, wondering 'what will people think?' , and 'what do I think?' When it got loud enough, I stopped. We are all making our way into an uncertain autumn, worrying our minds, burdening our hearts, feeling the pain and grief, acknowledged or not, of the desecration of Earth, the Water, the Sky. We are all in remembrance of 9/11 whether or not we participated in some prayerful, heart-opened way. Because we are in this life TOGETHER, all of us, we cannot but be affected.
So, I will go again, quietly and alone, to a place I know on naked Earth and sit with the change here now. I will sing, listen, pray, and give gratitude to all of it. Join me, wherever you are.

9/16/11 -- On the Sandy River, Oxbow Park

2011-09-16T22:18:00.000-07:00

The air stirs leaves, fir branches, cedar tips, fir needles, bits of moss, yellowing leaves. Fall is arriving here with the scent of rich fir resin, cedar, and warm summer earth. It all smells like the color of these alder and birch leaves swinging and dropping through the trees on their way down to the ground where I sit. The Oregon grape is brilliant green, the dry grass blond, and the few small blackberries bright black and luscious. I can hear the river 100 yards away through the trees in this sandy bottomed flood plain. I walked out when I first arrived, following the deer tracks through brush and trees, up and down the washouts to the edge of the water where round river rock lines the bank and reaches into the water. It is moving slow now, after flooding spring torrents pushed it madly along, pulling logs, trees, parts of the bank and winter's detritus in.

I hear a bird call, maybe an osprey, somewhere high above in the tall firs along the upper ridge to my north. I hear a flicker moving through, and bright bees buzzing close by. All is alive in this warm sun today. I gaze up to bright needles, illuminated by sunlight, moved by air, floating through sky to earth, to me. A blessing falls on my leg, my open page. Orange red like a flame. The scent is overwhelming and all else fades away as it enters my nose, my brain, lungs and blood. Another needle drops, this one flame yellow and lands on my forehead. I drop my head and notice a dandelion bright as the sun at my feet. Each thing is like a small and beautiful prayer and I smile back at everyone I see.

I am reminded of a recent teaching from stones: thank each beauty being, bring its gift in with a tap of gratitude to my heart to place it there, and release any desire to have or use the beauty being. Instead leave it in its own nature, at its own source. I practice that today remembering that my hands are now free to pick up a few stray bits of litter that degrades this place today.

Failure or Fright?

2011-09-15T17:47:00.000-07:00

I have failed to write for any public consumption, even the small amount of folks who might possibly be interested in reading anything I have to say, since before I left for 2 weeks in Haida Gwaii in June. February was my last post, with a promise to share about what 'Give Away' I returned with from the experience. The trip, and the days and months since, have NOT been a failure. However, any understanding of the deeper currents of change as a result of that time, and the events and landscapes since then I am still attempting to discern and quantify in some legible way.

Mostly, I am moved to some fright by what I am perceiving as what there is to 'give' to my people. I don't mean to be dramatic, or mystical, or strange in this. And, it feels all of that to me so far. I have not found words or ways to sort and understand how and why I have been so affected by the changes I have experienced and in some ways, we are all experiencing, as our longevity as a thriving species is called into question.

I have thought of myself as mostly 'awake' and willing to face reality--even knowing I do so as a privileged, white, western civilization recipient of the best and worst of the inventions, culture and values of modern times: industrialization, globalization, politicizing values, monetizing everything, taking more than our share day after day while others suffer and die. I don't know how to begin to reconcile this. It mostly frightens me to consider our condition of unconscious kindness.

I am, as a result, committing to staying true to writing about it. And, to listening to wise teachers, to new and radical ideas, to the voices of the young, creative and beautiful ones of all the species. I will do my best to share what seems worthy of other's time. That, however, is up to you. Keep me true by letting me know, by challenging me, by sharing your truth.

Privilege

2011-02-24T21:06:00.000-08:00

Haida Gwaii Poles

   I had been saying it's the 'trip of a lifetime' and then, a few weeks later, I got cold feet. OK, what happened was the money scared me.
   Instead of dreaming, imagining, cruising over via Google Earth, learning the maps, searching out old photos, studying the art of Emily Carr, reading the books of the Haida people...all the reasons it IS the 'trip of a lifetime', I got scared.
   I forgot how to get outside my own mind. My limited thinking about my own sufficiency and my ability to make things that matter happen in my life took over. Enter scarcity thinking. Once it's in, have you noticed it takes over? Suddenly, I was seeing limits everywhere: food, time, work, friends, love, even life yet to live.
   Some part of me knows this is crazy, even when its happening. But, that doesn't mean I can just STOP IT! It took days. It took giving up. It took listening to the news. It took being unhappy for no apparent reason. Everything lost the shine and quiver of aliveness, mostly me.
   Then, I began to remember. I listened to a few good teachers, Barbara Kingsolver, Ram Dass, Shiela Belanger, Classic Radio and more. Finally, I told my 3 traveling companions that I was afraid. I began to return to myself.
   I began to remember how fortunate, by the accident of birth (a privileged white woman of the 21st century) I am. I found myself embarrassed, knowing that what I am able to do in my life is unthinkable to about 85% of the world's population.
   I re-examined my intention, my hopes for this amazing trip to Haida Gwaii, and committed myself to making it a 'trip of a lifetime' and bringing back what I learn there as a Give-Away to my people.
I don't know yet what that will be, but I'll be sure to let you know when I get back.

Patterns of Change

2011-01-27T11:14:00.000-08:00

As do many, I spend time reviewing the previous year as one way to discern its gifts and challenges from a slight distance. That distance gives me the breathing space I need to come to it less attached to the reactions, desires or disappointments felt closer to its actual unfolding. I hope to thus bring clearer eyes to see themes and patterns more easily and to better understand how elements of my life are its art.

Last winter I finished a period of living and working on Whidbey Island. I had sought and was accepted into a Service and Sanctuary program at a place I had by lucky accident come across a few years before, and fallen into love with the sanctuary of the place. Through some alchemy of amazement, that time transformed into expression of some of the best work of my life to date. And, while it was unexpected, it also ended sooner than I would have liked. I had to leave the beauty of the place and people and seek new living and working ways.

Traveling from a beloved place into an unknown next before I was ready is likely the closest I have been to being a refugee, and yet I found refuge in the beauty and strangeness of places I traveled on my exit from the Puget Sound country. I was accompanied always by steadfast companions, not the least of which were clouds, hills, trees, birds, animals, winds, rain and rays of sun and moon light. And so I spent those last days of winter moving from the Kitsap Peninsula to the Ho Valley and north through Deception Pass to Bellingham to Lummi Island, struck again and again by the patterns of living in the unexpected and new.

Next: Odyssey through Oregon

Sometimes I Just Don't Get It

2010-12-12T21:42:00.000-08:00

One might think that having a body that carries me about the world would be rather obvious. I discovered this week, how clueless I have been in fundamental ways about this fact. It wasn't the kind of revelation I expected, instead I was just doing my daily life, when

Suddenly, after 63 years—

(that’s 22,890 days or 549,360 hours, or imagine the 32,961,600 separate minutes)

there the body was: wet, warm, and wonderful. Miraculous even.

Nearly unrecognizable after so long a time

most nearly unloved.

Like most of my revelations

(unlike the ancient ones who found revelations nightly just gazing at stars)

it was already, always there, but

unnoticed. No, invisible,

though

sought for years.

Vulnerability

2010-11-26T01:00:00.000-08:00

Brené Brown, Ph.D., LMSW is a research professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work. My friend Jade sent me a link to her Ted Talk on vulnerability and I was immediately won over, mind, heart and spirit! You may be too.

You may want to visit her website (www.brenebrown.com), check out her books at your local library, watch the Ted Talks on uTube, and then take time to contemplate what she is saying about vulnerability and how and why we avoid it.

The desire for 'control' is part of the story she tells, and the cost is the current insanity with which we are living in America and which sometimes seems 'normal' to us: the addictions, the over-medicating, the obesity, the deep indebtedness and the incessant busy-ness with which our lives are surrounded.

Many of us are, or have been, suffering from several of these insanities, wondering where our joy has fled...where our ease with breathing disappeared to...why we work harder and longer for less and less.

Brene's view may surprise you. Then again, if you are reading this, it probably won't because you already know why we must risk being vulnerable...it's the way back to Joy, Curiosity, Courage and Authenticity in our lives.

Where I Like To Wander in Winter

2010-11-22T11:52:00.001-08:00

Since about the turn of the century I've noticed a shift in my winter wanderings...and moved into a time and place of less of everything...less Consumerism, less Commerce, less Capitalistic tendencies, less Clutter, less pop-Culture...can you relate?

What I am finding myself doing instead? Being Curious about everything that points to how I might be more Courageous and Creative, what more I can do to de-Clutter and de-Congest from 'stuff' I don't really need to have a sufficient and satisfying life, exploring what Community and Cooperation mean to me in my daily life.

I've wondered if it's an age-related difference, but I see it in others of all ages. I think it is an 'age phenomenon' of a different order: it's what people like me AND the planet need to return to sane and conscious living in a culture based too much on fear, lies, violence and looking the other way.

Now I spend time Courting My Muse (a cross between the Fool of the Tarot and Baubo, cosmic bawdy goddess of yore) where once I courted TV sit coms and pop culture magazines.
Now I plan as much time as I can outdoors sharing my love of Earth with others, where once I dreamed about where I might go in 'Retirement'.
Now I seek opportunities together with others nearby, wherever I go, to learn more of one another and how we are connected, regardless of what it "looks like".
This season I am arranging to spend time with friends on the telephone (remember when?) and in person as much as time allows, where once I scheduled window-shopping trips as my solo get-away.
I am wandering more deeply into my own precious life and finding it distinct and delicious, where once I spent every Sunday reading the paper cover to cover to learn about 'the others' and their more unfortunate or more fortunate lives.

Where do you find yourself wandering these days?

April Showers on my mind...click here for more

2010-04-01T16:54:00.000-07:00

Vernal Dream

And yet, while we slumber,

dreaming of shaking our rude fists

at the rain,

beauty in scent, color and texture

will creep

into our world and our garden

and even our waiting arms.

And, if in our deep sleep,

we forget to awaken,

to thank the trees and praise the earth

and regard the heavenly clouds

with loving eyes—

even if we forget all that—

still the stars burn in the

galaxy, the wind pushes against the

skirts of old women, skin

meets skin in a dance of duplication

and still things turn and change

and die. And renew.

And whether we awaken or no,

we were once

among the breathing, hopeful

ones. And then, trillium-like, gone.

Who is your muse? Your inspiration? For me, Mary Oliver qualifies...

2010-01-05T23:12:00.000-08:00

In Mary Oliver's Red Bird, a collection of poems and prose poems, I came across 'Summer Story', and found myself inspired by these words: “…watching until the watching turns into feeling….”

My time came this winter. As the wan sun lit the nearby trees, I watched doves, several mornings at the same hour each morning, visiting the same branches, repeating the same movements that seemed to be designed to warm them in turns, ever so slightly. I was captivated. Here's what emerged from my pen.

this is what draws me

again and again

to my window

to hope for moments

when i can nearly understand

my life and who i am

and why

perhaps a certain light or

the subtle movement of the bird moving

through the tree's branches

or the tree itself with so many

mysterious years spent

standing

perhaps it will come

when once again

my glance meets

that moment i desire

and i know i am

nothing

and everything

Stars in Your Bones

2009-07-15T16:41:00.000-07:00

Isn’t it now nearly the time
for that long sought after
peace and love to
overcome the crowding
which strife and holding
fast to territory
fastens to our wombs?

We women ken
the secrets of birth and life—
and yet
our shadows still
dance the edges of
that great revealing
fire—and know not
what to birth!

Does not our suckling
child become
the champion of our heart
and
does not the champion
aid and tend the trodden
and
do not the trodden
lend heart to the
weary traveler on
this great road
to the glory-life
we’ve ALL been gifted?

What happened on that road
was blinkered
silenced
and secured
wanting more
than violence and despair.

Rise up!
From that place
move towards the dawn of this
possible time. It’s not yet too
late.

~ Judy Todd 2009

Stars in Your Bones by Alla Renee Bozarth, Julia Barkley & Terri Berthiaume Hawthorne, from North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc. 1990; Art by Julia Barkley

In the Middle of Things

2009-05-12T15:46:00.000-07:00

The Play of Light

I’m holding on to the way the maple trees in winter decorate my window view—dark, straight, reliable branches. At night, ambient light helps them cast their peculiar shadows of dance upon my wall and lead me into dreams. Across the street a looming oak fills the sky and my view. Steadfast stanchion, crows love its lofty heights. The other trees are mostly in other yards, yet equally vital to my sight. They break the light in the southern sky, give the birds dancing, swirling space, and build a visual treetop fence that holds me securely here. The trees work with light, birds and sky has become my security, my IRA. I’ve come to love these neighbors who always welcome me and shed such beauty upon my humble home. As I pack to leave, I’m watching with anticipation for the sudden emergence of the deep yellow flags of new growth in the small maples, and their rapid unfurling from tightness to fully flying deep greens as springtime intensifies. That transition I also know.

Before these, there were others—other birds, other views, other trees. A tree of gold stands out in my memory. From my shared bed, I watched the seasons and my life turn—from early spring’s bright green leaves through the darker greens of summer to the gold shimmer of sun on late fall leaves that made me feel wealthy with good fortune. As those leaves fell my last season there, I was in mourning for all I’d lost in life—for the years the locusts had eaten—while I had not been tending my gardens. Yet, what stays is the gold. It is with me still.

I met the moon in my skylight in my next home, my first home alone. She bathed me in her energy of love and light, and pulled, like a current, my tears to her. That ebb and flow she offered and I joined was a healing balm of deep feelings arising and departing. Here I began tuning from the bleeding cycles of my matron years to the gleaming cycles of the moon, rising to a new cadence of mystery and wonder. I can still see her face slide into view along the edge of the skylight above my bed—night after night a harbinger to the changes yet to come in my own life rhythms.

Across the street from my first Portland home was my view of the granite stone and stained glass windows of Westminster Episcopal Church. Backdrop to the finches and small wrens feeding just outside my window, it granted a solid and stately quiet and gave my then quaking life a firmer grasp. I met Hildegard and Brian during those days, and other mystics and teachers. Their many voices sang canticles to me and I sang back, sometimes in great joy, sometimes in great pain and confusion—but I sang until it was done and then moved out from that confinement to a greater freedom and a greater love.

Later, at Nancy’s, outside my bedroom window, it was the Clerodendron tree with its aromatic play of blossoms under the full moon in the back yard I came to love. It swept in on summer nights and held me captive, scarcely able to move from the delight. There, the bigness of the sky impressed my life and added spaciousness to my view. I responded by finding a home in concert with others on an oversized acre of garden of rampant growth high above the Columbia River. The trees, shrubs, grounds and flowers were too numerous to learn well in my short duration. In this I discovered that simplicity and the attention to the one small thing became my mantra.

As I review my progress, noting what was found, what lost, I look now into an unknown future and welcome those views, birds and trees I’ve yet to know. I trust they will inform my life, protect and keep me in all the times ahead.

Watching the Moon in Winter

2009-03-12T22:35:00.001-07:00

Winter is beginning to loosen its cold and harsher grip upon the trees, and the birds are starting to come to the feeder every day, fluffing feathers and pushing one another off the perch. A lovely pileated woodpecker even stopped by, balancing upside down and finding a way to get his elongated beak to shake out seed.

Tonight it froze again, and as the moon rose to reach her fullness, I found myself at the edge of camp, in a stony glen, in darkness.

The Moon and The Labyrinth

She rises.

Shadows emerge on stones

where tall firs encircle;

high cirrus clouds knit,

unknit, across Her face above.

Small creatures breathe quietly

in their nests. The wind barely

rustles old alders beyond. Venus

in the southern sky is counterpoint

with her own brightness.

I step into moonlight as I enter.

It’s so inviting I continue, circling,

turning, curving east, west, then south

and north: all directions. Memories flood,

then wisp away—the pains,

the losses and disappointments,

the joys and exaltations, all are here.

I can barely discern them as my inner eye

blurs them into one, like a sea

filled with all its assortment of life,

all a part of something more immense.

The waters slide off my body

as I reach the center and find

myself sinking to the earth, to lie

upon this great dark body and weep.

In Her moonbeams I surrender

to those griefs and joys. Not as exchange,

but wholly. I am struck, walking out,

by the size of the unknown future: mine, yours, ours.

My breath catches. Is it a cry, or laughter?

Barack, Elizabeth and Me

2009-02-28T15:07:00.000-08:00

Praise Song for the Day, a poem

Elizabeth Alexander recited her poem at Barack's inauguration on January 20th this year. She wrote it to capture the essence of the time, the day and our future, on behalf of his request. In it, towards the end, she proffers:

"What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light."

She captured my attention and my ear, in her turn towards the possibility and the power of love. It works well with hope, and compassion, but often runs into disbelief and hardness. I found out newly about love one winter day, as I sat, cold and hardened in ways I didn't realize, as small birds flew circles around and over me. Here's what I heard then, and what I know now, having heard Elizabeth's echos so recently:

Love Replies

Love. It’s all about love.

Where do you think it lies? In your perception or experience? Why would the divine and captivating knowledge of love be in such a limited space? No. It lies everywhere, all the time. Can you join with it? Or is your personal mood or view a barrier to having what you truly desire: the immanent and permanent and continual presence of love?

The barriers are your own. Ideas, thoughts, habits of feeling and habits of doing. It’s simply a lack of recognition by you that keeps the presence of love from being a part of each and every aspect of your human experience.

It’s not true, you know.

Love is there.

You aren’t asking for it, opening to it in all those moments and events and actions in those waking and sleeping hours, that’s all. Can you imagine asking and receiving all the time? Perhaps that’s what ‘pray without ceasing’ really means. You could try it. You could have a love experiment—feel the presence like you feel the presence of small birds encircling you—it’s really not so different from that, you know. You’ve simply missed the possible continuation of love in all its forms.

Ah, your worry comes up. That shadowy idea that you might fail. That love might fail you and prove you to be a fool: listening, asking and hoping for some unreal, non-existent thing.

You fear the risk of hoping? For love? For it to be in everything and everywhere and available all the time to you? Do you hear how hardened and hopeless you’ve grown? Ungrow those ideas! Give up the mischief and disbelief and dare the adventure into a relationship with love! Invite love, beg love to come and fill you every moment, to grace your every breath. Tune yourself like a fine string and lay upon the instruments of love: the air, the earth, the waters, as they are with you at any moment.

Reclaim love as yours—ah, but you must be willing to have it, desire it, for it to be so. You’re the one, even those parts of you that are hurt, tired and scared, those parts that are keeping it away.

It’s there, love is there, with you in mind already.

National Basic Speed Limit? Weigh In

2009-02-22T17:47:00.000-08:00

Really Right Argument:
Regarding the Consideration of a 55 mile per hour
National Basic Speed Limit

I recently returned from a worrisome ride on Interstate I-5, traveling south from Portland to Eugene, Oregon. I spent the ride worrying about how traffic and travel on our freeways would potentially change if a national bill setting a 55 mile per ho0ur speed limit were enacted. Conservation was on my mind. How might it affect our energy concerns in the coming days? I determined to pay particular attention to the potential impact a reduction in speed might have, given the current statistics on MPG and rate of speed. Forthwith I posit my observations and end with a summary conclusion.

On my way out of town, I closely observed several drivers and their passengers to launch my research. It seemed there were many mom-types with children in tow. I could only assume that they were picking up and delivering children of all ages, likely needing to keep the young safe from exposure to walking, biking or unsavory interactions with the natural world. Such exposure can also cause dirty and sweaty bodies and clothes, which would use more water with more frequent washings. It’s a trade-off I concluded: save gas or save water?

Entering the freeway, I set my cruise control to within 2 miles of the posted speed limit (under, not over). I noted most cars were traveling at changing speeds, mostly a result of sudden or frequent lane changing; none that I could discern was steadily at the actual posted speed limit. The cruise feature is apparently hidden on many of the newer car models, or it could be something else. Recalling the dreaded story problems from junior high math, I admit that the idea of variable speed still eludes me. ‘If two cars are traveling no less than two and no more than five mph of one another's speed, how long before the slightly higher catches up to the slightly slower speed speed, given a 120 mile distance from start to finish? And which car will consume the most gas? And what about the tire tread?’ I never did answer those problems correctly. Given my disinclination to integrate the information dished up through "new" math story problems like this, it is impossible to know whether the statistics on gas consumption reduction are even believable.

Trucks, their speed generally posted at 10 MPH lower than cars, seemed not to be bothering with cruise control or odometers. Then I realized the larger the rig, the more goods within and the more likely each is saving time by going faster. This is a commendable effort by industry to reduce the cost of the products being carried by getting them to the stores more quickly, reducing consumer wait and thus consumer demand, ultimately holding prices at the cash register down. I credit that cost saving measure to our corporations and their consideration for the end user: you and I, the consumer. How often do we feel empowered to influence the corporate bottom line, after all? Since to many stockholders, a healthy bottom lines is seen as an ultimate business and societal end goal, we may only hope this speed becomes a nationwide trend.

I was encouraged along this same vein with the good news from the radio as I drove on. Exxon-Mobil had just posted a 40% quarterly profit, the biggest such profit in the timeframe ever on the planet. Wow! I thought, we are really helping our economy here! If adding drilling in Alaska’s NWR could just get the nod now—not for any gasoline cost savings at the pump of course, but for the market expansion it will add to the gas companies. We all know that as long as our beleaguered corporations can keep it going, we are assured of a GNP that will continue to support the Baby Boomer’s Social Security Insurance at retirement. (Lots of people I know, how about you?)

That made me so much happier than ever about all those trucks holding their own in the middle lane, and regularly using the passing lane speeding by me and on into the fecund future of America. As I artfully dodged one semi especially close to my rear bumper, I realized a darker benefit might be to reduce the over-population by running over a few of the slow ones. I had to consider that such a reduction via "survival of the fastest” could be a probable boon to others who would never mean to hurt you or me, but would actually benefit from fewer people like you and I on the roads, and in the jobs market, or in the soup lines. Ouch!

There is another benefit, which I think travel like I continued to observe of 10 to 30+ MPH over the posted speed , might eventually help to insure. That is the emergence of new sources of energy--and the concomitant freeing up of our creativity as we find new solutions for travel and excitement, as important an American pastime as shopping. Since the head count of craziness, depression, homelessness and post-traumatic stress syndrome has up to now been advancing alarmingly year after year, the timing of reducing personal pleasures and a few small, immediate gratifications seems unwise. It will just worsen the statistics and further depress us all. It could even adversely affect the housing market.

In light of all this worry, the notion of a fixed lower speed limit seems foolhardy indeed. Raising the speed limit is a more progressive and enlightened approach to addressing our modern complexities. After all, it’s the 21st Century, stupid!

First campsite.

2009-02-02T18:51:00.000-08:00

The first campsite is here on an island in the Puget Sound, in NW Territory. It's winter and the animals are mostly quiet, hunkered down. The air is full of moisture and promise.

I've been thinking about animals and remembering some of the ones who have left an indelible mark, like a faint scar, upon me. Here is a telling of one, a coyote, and what I learned...

I keep seeing that coyote. In fact, it has been haunting me since last fall. That “tiny brown glitch in a distant field of blond wheat stubble”. It weighed about 90 pounds and had been squeezed into smaller and smaller territories, relentlessly hunted year after year because it was a coyote. This time was no different.

It wasn’t being hunted because it had damaged the environment, stolen pension fund money from widows, started brush fires illegally or held the wrong faith. It was being hunted because it was born a coyote. Because it knows how to watch, how to catch a scent and circle its prey, trotting the miles away as needed, how to wait for the moment.

It doesn’t do this using upgraded gear, new technology or additional weapons. It was born a coyote and so it has all of what coyote’s have: pack-sense, tracking savvy, quickness, patience, and good feet for long travel over hard ground. It doesn’t know how beautiful its pelt is, tanned and trimmed, made into slippers. Or hung on a barn wall.

Some, like John B., make their living by being good at hunting coyotes and teaching others to hunt coyotes. And kill them. Well, in this case, with this coyote, “hunt” is not exactly the best word choice. It takes all the machinery, bait, and technology so far imagined and invented by humans to out-match this coyote.

This time, John shows up with his electronics and gear: loudspeakers, wire, batteries, spotting scopes, AR-15 Range-Finder scope, shotguns, binoculars, coyote-urine scent oils, camouflage hat, clothes and rifle, remote controlled digital caller, hand-held callers, plus a working knowledge of what precise calls of coyote and rabbit bring coyote in closer for a look-see.

John’s knowledge of sound is legion, he can accurately imitate the pack’s call to dinner, the cry of wounded rabbit, and the distress sounds of death of the coyote’s natural prey. He has mastered the howling call used during denning season when the coyote and its mate are calling in the pups for food and safety. And he can broadcast these calls with speakers onto the land of coyote-hating ranchers and landowners, to their eventual delight when he meets with success.

Give up, tiny brown glitch, John’s got you bested and beat.