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?

I uncovered the sparrow’s nest in the woodpile. It was made of hay, stiff, strong and light with a perfect oval dent. My brother, the engineer.

Have you ever wondered – he says one Thursday night –whether most of what we call lifeis – actually –just static?Is day-to-day reality the popcorn at the movieor the back-of-class giggling?Is it the squeak in the trunkor the clicking of the fridge?Is it possible the news and the socialsand the jobs and the Dowsare the…

Those loons, which must knowtheir warm water will shortly freeze.Do they worry? Or do they just fly? The monarchs, so tissue-flimsyand buffeted by the wind,they have an odyssey ahead.But are they afraid? And the woodchuck,hungry all summerfor a winter at rest.Does it care how the snow will pile? The world turns and they turn with…

What is it to breathe in the worldand let the lungs fillwith damp leaves, sandy dunes, rot? Can we sense the pine, the hay,feel the stream, touch the rock? Will we let the world permeate and saturate,so we know – at last – it’s where we belong?

I watched the sun go down last night. And I thought, how strange: the perfect distance, the ideal gravity, the right molecules. All of itso I could witness a sinking star and wonder what to make for dinner.

What do we do when there are no right answers?When things are complicated, inexplicable,uncertain? Where do we send our desperate, hunting mindsthat are famished to know? Do we make up an answer, a story?A belief? Or can we dive into the deep, blue poolof unknowing,throw our heads backand float?

Somewhere deep inside the chest, perhapsbetween the lungs and certainly behindthe jailhouse ribs, is a little box of OKness. We were born with this boxand we will die with this box, but formost of our lives we forget it’s there. Instead, we occupy ourselves with ourday-to-day. We launch careersand start families, we cook dinnersand watch…

At the start of autumn,when the leaves are falling,a bird flutters upwards. Such a curious joy.

Whenever there’s a tinge of upsetness or not-rightness,I like to ask my body:Hi, body, what’s up? Is there anything going on you’d like to tell me?And my body would say:You know what? I’m feeling a little fluttery in the gut or my shoulders are tight.And so I’d sit and let my body send its signals,like…

Can we, just for a moment,arrest the desire to name and claim,to identifyand investigate? Can we stop the whens, the whats, the hows,and the becauses? Can we instead sink into the not-knowing,the nothing and the everything,and allow its beautyto saturate us?

Today is a day for the small things. The sparrow, which so bravely sang,is now half-bird, half-leaf,shyly rustling the raspberry,while a bee nuzzling the ragweedthirstily races the setting sunand a brave, blue flowerthis morning dares bloom— frost tonight. Today is a day to notice the small thingsand know they – too –are part of the…

At equinox twilight the world hangs,half day, half night,while the wind holds its breathand only the squirrels cheekily darelaugh at tomorrow. Because they made plans.

When the sky’s as blue as it is today,I want to dive into it and swim,to lose myself in its clearness and pureness. Until I realize it’s the thinnest of stripes,and beyond, there’s blackness and airlessness and gamma raysthat would zap me. So I stay down here and make a cup of tea.

Amid the blackened thistles,the frayed leaves,the stealthy fungusand the last white daisies. Amid the crow’s squawk,the osprey’s peepand the maple’s creak. Amid the dusty barkand the rotting log. There is the scent of decay. And then a mouse flits across the road.Like a living ghost.

The woodchuck, which one day sniffed my shoebefore waddling to seek more clover,is gone. Like the summer that closed when the chill cameand the frost threatened,it departed too soon. Was I wrong to love something that could leave so easily?

Sometimes, when the day’s been long …

I challenge you to go outside
and feel the sun and smell the air
and hear the crickets and see the daisy…
and not fall back in love with the world you’re part of.

The slabby rock behind my house has been around for a billion years, give or take. It will outlast me, already halfway through this thing called life. But when I scramble up close and investigate, when I poke my fingers at its scaly surface or find the maple saplings prying open its crevices, I notice…

There’s that moment, at the edge of a cloud, when the rain considers.A splatter of drops, then none, then a splatter more.Until the cloud says, let’s be done with it, let’s let loose, here we go.And the rain barrels down, unconstrained, because to hell with it.Until, relaxed, the cloud moves on with an end-of-party fade,…

Sometimes I can be still and breathe,and steep in the mellow soup of OKness,where I know that nothing can harm meand that all is well and all is good.And then I remember I’ve got to pay the Visa bill.

I know that 2 + 2 = 4 and it’s πr2 for something else.And if I drive 60 mph for half an hour, I’ll be 30 miles away. This tree is made of atoms,which are made of protons and neutrons and electrons,which are made of smaller particles like a quark,or another thing, teeny and strangely…

Sometimes I find my heart racing and my breath short as I twist on yesterday’s problems and tomorrow’s to-dos. Then I notice a chickadee on the tree outside. It’s so light and fluffy and OK.

An empty, empty morning with nothing but the wind. That breeze, touching the leaves of the aspen. Those leaves, which jostle and chatter. And through the window, I see shivering. That wind, from Huron or Calgary, filling my senses. Because I’m part of the world which is part of me.

They’re burning the old cottage at the bottom of the hill.Gone are the beams that held up the roof,which shouldered the snow.Ash are the planks that made the floorand shielded dry socks.Cinders are the panels that covered the walls,which hung the painting of a moose in the woods.And then there’s me, sitting on my bench…

Most mornings, I’m a little in awe when the sun comes up and the world fills with light and I get to say good morning to the one I love. I guess there’s a part inside me that thinks it’s all so improbable.

There’s a ripe peach inside my chest, delicate and soft. Why do I carry that peach with me, so easily hurt and vulnerable? Is the peach part of me? Can I let it out? Can I protect it in a stiff, hard case? Or can I allow it to be squished a little, knowing its…

I’ve lived in many places; I’ve traveled to even more. There’s succulent London, with its trains and Tubes, it’s vascular Thames and shiny shops. Or proud Leeds, Victoria’s finest just a skip from the limestone Dales and their gurgling streams and noisy sheep. Or solid Birmingham, with its roads and its canals; its criss-crossing railways…

I don’t know where that wind is from or why the air’s so chill. I’ve no clue where the woodchuck is – sleeping or plucking fruit in the berry field? Why have the birds disappeared? Where have they flown and when? That plant newly flowering when its brother is dead – a mystery I cannot…

Snarl on the highway. Lineup at Foodland. Out of mint tea and only four sprouts left. Computer’s updating. Door’s blowing open. There’s a wasp elbow deep in my cold can of Coke. Garbage is stinking. Windows are streaking. Gooey mud on my shoes from the flood on the hill. Rocks formed of stardust. Oaks making…

Once I drove into a moose and believed I was going to die. In the future I might be poor, alone and living by the side of the road. Here’s a bowl of strawberry ice cream and it’s delicious.

They’re chipping wood at the bottom of the hill. I can smell tree meat; it smells good and now I feel guilty. Because look what I’ve done. Inconvenient branches, sawed, blitzed. A beautiful form, destroyed. But maybe… Tree branches, to chips, to mulch, to rot, to soil – to trees? (Humans, to corpses, to coffins,…