Here we are.
Here we are awake and creative.
Week 36 of 52 weeks in this one universal year journey.
I cannot tell a lie.
When I began,
I wasn't fully convinced I'd make it to this touchpoint,
Let alone a full 52 weeks,
But here we are.
At the doorstep of autumn.
The threshold.
Let's step through and see what we can find.
This week is going to be a bit different.
Similar.
I simply want to read you two poems.
One of my own,
And one from Mary Oliver.
As the skies shift in tone and temper and we realize the air is cooling.
It's time to stop planning.
It's time to begin contemplating,
Perhaps,
The wonder of where we find ourselves.
And then lean in to the remaining time in this cyclical pattern of life,
This year.
So two poems.
To revisit.
But also,
More importantly,
To give you the opportunity to simply sit back and relax.
Listen.
And let all the energy flow of the innervation.
Settle.
Like sands on the beach.
That yourself be.
Fully trusting that this settling.
Is revealing the truest you.
Mary Oliver when I am among the trees.
When I am among the trees.
Especially the willows and the honey locusts.
Equally the beech,
The oaks,
And the pines.
They give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me,
And daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself.
In which I have goodness and discernment,
And never hurry through the world,
But walk slowly and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out.
Stay a while.
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again.
It's simple.
They say.
And you too have come into this world to do this.
To go easy.
To be filled with light.
And to shine.
Mary Oliver,
When I Am Among the Trees.
And one from my effort.
To find this same beauty and connection with the world.
On my blog,
I write my poems and post them with the same title because the theme is consistent.
So this one,
That same repetitive title.
The world asks to be seen.
I thought it was a poem about everything.
Something so close to music,
Held by every sense.
Is there anything more than the taste of summer watermelon?
Crisp soup.
Sharp lemon on the tongue The chirp of tree frogs at 4 a.
M.
The swish of tire on damp roadway just after a spring storm.
Eyes,
Taking in the plane of the treetops,
Resting gently against the high fluff of clouds,
To also that plane,
Seemingly floating along with a meandering sense of being.
And felt whisper of autumn on the skin.
She said she wanted my pistachios.
I could dream I was puzzled by this request.
The ephemeris fail,
Left hanging there in the cupboard on the top shelf.
They're nestled in between 32 ounces of natural peanut butter.
Chunky.
In a bag of cashew halves.
Surely she would want though something more,
I don't know.
The dark chocolate tucked in behind the bag of King Arthur bread flour.
I don't know,
Something more.
Important.
Impactful.
It is said,
Though,
That they can be good for you.
The body requesting these nutrients they contain.
Is the message then in that?
The value of this mundane.
The richness of this simplicity.
We watched,
She and I,
There in the stream.
The man take the stage to perform his bit.
A speech.
A presentation.
A motivation to engage.
To be.
To take up one's cross.
That's how I imagine the remembering of it.
When in fact.
.
.
It was with a sense of desire.
Or compelling draw.
That we both turned to see what the crowds were applauding.
Okay,
Now.
So,
Here we are.
Where were we?
I remember too not feeling fully there.
Sure.
It was a dream.
And I was surely holding,
In this subconscious space,
A portion of myself protected from the message arriving from this underground.
But still.
It wasn't about applause.
Or pistachios.
Or desire,
Or nutrition.
Hook it out of that.
The long draw of all of that.
One hand.
Taking up the pencil.
One eye,
Absorbing the vista.
I can't say where it finally began to soften.
The edges taking on loose shape,
The smudge of clean line blurred,
The touch of a fingertip against charcoal.
I can only say that the linger left as I turned to walk.
Was that it was.
All of these and every other something you could yourself think to add to the lines scribed across this page until it scrolls into another,
Then another,
Then more,
Then the cloud says it can hold.
Could we put that much into this world if we really tried?
I would like to try.
Tip over the canister of stored capacity.
See how much the world can contain of this tiny human lifeline?
But there,
I have gone on too long.
But there.
I have put down more than intended.
But there,
In truth,
It was.
Only and always,
Mostly it was.
A poem about everything.
Awaken Creative.
Today.
