Life

I wonder if the chickadees, busy all daygathering sunflower seeds to hideamid the trees, worry about the winter–the snow, the ice, the dark, the storms?Or do they just gather sunflower seeds?

What is life if we forget…

One day I might become a tree…

If you were seven and you were luckyyou would come home from schooland your mother or your fatheror someone else who cared for youwould give you a gingerbread manor something with sprinkles on it.Maybe sugar is love in physical form?

After Amazon Prime and Schitt’s Creek…

As I step outsidemy house (where thewood-stove is glowingand there are yellowbananas in the bowl),into the grey, gusty,sogginess of November,I notice the worldlives saturatedwith the cycle of endsand beginningsand love and hope.And so I feel good.

Evenasit’srainingthebirdskeepfeeding.I guess they know a “bird” is mostly water and world-stuff anyway.

When I was a kid, I liked to finda wishing well – the kind you’d droppennies into and hope for a Rubik’s Cube.Sometimes, I’d try to glimpse thebottom of the well, but all I’d seewas a reflection of myself.

I’m going to get lost in the woods…

Is asking questions…

Do you remember, somewhere…

Maybe today it’s enoughto drink mint tea and eatginger biscuits while thechickadees chuckmillet and the squirrelssteal sunflower seeds.I can fix the world another day.

I was clutching my problems so hard my hands were hurting.So I let goanddroppedthem. The funny thing?Nothing broke at all.

We will get out the rakeand scrape away the crudof striving, the golf scores,the quartz counter-tops,the shiny car. We will dig throughthe compacted earth of achievement,the rubble of trinkets and trophies.We will scythe through the bramblesof stories and anxieties, the shouldsand shouldn’ts. And then, revealinga sweet, blossomy meadow,we discover ourselves–our wholeness and our emptiness–and find…

Last night at six o’clockor thereabouts, I flirted withmy dusky side, my uncertain,unstable, darkly side,when grey rocks glowedmoonly and silvery mothsbrushed me. Last night the wind forgotto blow and squirrels crashed likeangry bears while dampness sat close and heavy. And yet the stream, so daytime chuckley,kept gurgling – like it was no big deal at…

Let me remember the stoic things,the stable, stolid, standing things. The rocksslowly cracked by ice and roots,the lightninged pine, the holed hemlock,the bass awaiting a winter blocked by ice.Remember too the daily sun, the runningstream, the deer-stripped maple leafing again. And here I sit, pondering,my heavy head, my anxious heart, my soft bottomsupportedby granite.

There are timeswhen the thing to dois to simply be,to gather pillowsand tea, and watchthe blue jaysand the squirrelslive their ordinarythrough the window.

Is life found in the brackish parts and the misty parts, in the delicious gray of half-knowings and maybes? Are we only fully open when half-in-half-out(half-not-sure)? Perhaps this is where truth lies – in the gorgeous slurry of exist- ence.

One day I’ll let go ofthe screwdriver, the hammerand the wrench. I’ll put the nailsback in their box, the top screwedon the Super Glue. I’ll tear upplan B, plan C and D, stop thehedging and the betting, the analyzing, sketching.And instead, I’ll watch the squirrelleap in hope towards the seedy stashand know – soon –…

Is there anything more delightful than a freshly unwrapped bar of soap, whose corners will never be as sharp as they are today?

I can’t decide if I shouldbuy stocks or sell gold,whether the trail to the right is betterthan the path to the left or ifbutterscotch is superiorto caramel. I seldom knowthe correct answer or whetherit’s kind regards or best regards,or if I should go to the storeat 1 or at 4 or not at all today.…

Let me rememberto loosen my grip onthe steering wheel of life,allow my hands to relax,my elbows to sink. Let the roadtake me, the wheels rolland notice – yes – I’m gettingwhere I need to be.Anyway.

Can I sink into the shades of brown,the mushroom, bark, earth?Let me inhalethe mud, the chestnut horse.Shades of brown so nourishing,I will let red alone.

John,we will call him that,got himself all upsetabout the neighborand what he didand how disrespectfuland rudeand thoughtless he was;so distressedJohn could not sleepand was angrymuch of the time.Then one day,he saw the tiniest of birdssweetly peckingseeds from the pine,and he rememberedthat actually,in reality,when it comes down to it,most things– really –don’t matterthat muchat all.

On a sullen day with agentle breeze, the heavyhemlock, the bronzed beech,the peeling bark – they’re allsoftly moving in a danceof aliveness.

Rocked on the foamy waves…

Let us go nowhere slowlyand find the world –the woodpecker knockand the chickadee float.Let us love the gigglingchoir of the stream andthe brave clover shoots.Let us go nowhere slowlyand feel the rocky, squidgy groundreveal its stories to our feet.

Look at naturewith its thousand treesand their million leaves.Billions of sperm,trillions of bacteria.Mosquitoes,dragonflies,moths. So much,so wastefullyefficient.

It’s curious how autumn can smelldelicious, warmly loamy, earthy, cozy.The crispy leaves trap the heat,the nourishing nuts in woodchuck’s nest.There’s bark and twigs, seeds and thorns.It’s gorgeous, nutritious, scrumptious,death.

Sometimesthe easiest way to get to the place I need to beis by sitting still.

Sometimes when I want toget out of my head I reachfor a beer and other timesI visit a tree and notice itsthirteen shades of brown and itsAppalachian bark, I see its woundsand its peels, its twisty bitsand its shiny bits, I find a life livedin the hot years and the cold years,the gales, the storms,…

Every time I’m herebut not here, I missthe shine on thehard, white, clean porcelain cup.

A fresh leaf in fall,the chipmunk with hiccups,a soft mossy forest,some quartz in a stone.A new blue flower,the breeze in the branches,that cheep from the sparrow,a far wisp of mist. They’re everyday sunsets –all of them.

Will this Monday be the dayI learn to sweep the world’sfallen leaves; when Post-its and dollarscan be brushed aside to revealthe sweet ground of life? Will this be the day I remember there’s alwayssoft earth beneath my feet? Can I be with Monday by uncovering the weekend?

How curious, says he one daywhile sitting on the couch,how life can be full in the headwith its to-dos and its bills,it’s difficult conversationsand its 2pm dates. And yet, says hewhile lying on that couch,how down in the chestit can be empty and spacious,a chamber for love.How curious, says he,while standing up,that what seems emptyis…

The kitchen smells of limethis morning – a zesty Hi!from the night before. Outside is fog,inside is Florida. Like a kick of joy in a groggy dream.

That moment,as I approach an open windowand get my first scent of the outside air.That moment…that moment is life.

When the big things and the terrible thingsget too heavy, I take a step outside,stand still and allow the small things – the feathered things and the leafy things –and know that OKness is always there.

Let me drop into my quiet place,that deep safe of emptinessand everythingness; that warm spaceof home, where all’s OKand what’s not OKis not important. Let the rest of the world, with its heatand its static, its parties and its stories,go about its babbling. It doesn’t matter much.

I wonder if we — as humans — would feel better stripping off the Lululemons,unpopping the AirPods, stepping out of the Lexusand remembering that we — too — are wildlife.

Why do we thinkwe must rushto answers? Aren’t questions enough?

When we’re five,we’re in lovewith fungusand berriesand mud. Then we grow up,buy a houseand wonderwhat’s missing.

Perhaps it’s only when we stop and be stillthat the world begins. Only when we ceaseand rest do we see the paper-white moth,the shiny droplets on the leaf, the birdthat drums on the hemlock trunk. Only thendo we taste the air and notice the wind,glimpse the sun shafting through the cloud.Perhaps it’s only when we’re…

There are minutes when I’m boredand my brain and my fingers don’t knowwhat to do, so I scroll through Twitteror Facebook or the New York Times,allowing each new post to settleon my mind, one by one like motesof silver dust, until I’m blanketedby dirt and detritusand crud. Through the window, meanwhile,the sky is clear and…

In my head, there’s a full executive suite,with a CEO, CFO and a director of operations,who gets hot and busy with all the operationshe has to direct. Then, down in my chest,is a silent sanctuary. It gets ignoredbut the truth is – It’s where the real work gets done.

One Monday morning, my head was heavy as I stressed the to-dos and the emails, Covid and CNN. My shoulders were tense and my jaw was clenched. I’d downed two coffees and needed three more. And then a bright white osprey ghosted past the window
with a fish in its talons.

Have you noticed,when the rain is barreling downin the forest, it sounds likethe trees are applauding?

On the kind of October daywhen the leaves are brownly matted,the clouds three miles heavy,and the wind sears a knifey bite;when winter seems tomorrowand darkness rushes early —a new daisy appears.

Where do we put the thingsthat don’t have names, which cannot startwith A or Z, or sit on this shelfor in this bin? How do we thinkabout the feelings we knowbut won’t describe; when wordsare faint and point askew?How can we talk about truthswe can only sense?Is silence perhapsthe only sound we have?