My last post in June was written from Chehalem Mountain, where I have lived most of the past 10 years. A month ago I moved into "town" - Portland town - Milwaukie to be exact. The Milwaukie in Oregon, not the Milwaukee in Wisconsin. This is the town where my parents met. I live not far from where I must have been conceived, the low income apartments where my family lived when I was born.
It is a transition, to be in the city. Summer is a good time though, with the windows wide open, the sound of the trains passing below in the night as I sleep, or don't sleep as the case may be. Insomnia has not changed with being in town. Not better, not worse.
Tonight we took a little bike ride across the pedestrian/bike bridge into Sellwood. On the way many runners were diligently making their way west. I asked a staff-type person posted at a corner what the event was. In between his cheering of each runner that passed he answered ,"Hood to Coast."
Ah, yes I know that race. I used to live near the coast end of it. There were vans all painted up and the limping team members wandering Seaside, enjoying being tourists after the long relay haul. Tonight we biked in between the many runners. The neighborhood families in houses along the way cheered the racers on. That gives a feeling of cheer to me as well. This is a fortunate example of being in town.
Crickets chirp in the big lots behind us. The light has lowered to darkness. Do I miss the mountain? I miss my neighbors very much, and the view of how the light changes, and my flower garden to care for. I miss my compost pile. The owner of the house we rent won't let us have a compost pile because of rats. Rats.
There is no place which has everything. There is only the sense of peace and contentment at the end of the day. It certainly helps that I also have yoga classes within walking or biking distance. Now that I have a new bike, all I have to do besides ride it is figure out how to lock it and keep it safe. The city is what it is, elements of people in all forms. My practice, to find my own place, how I fit, what I have to give, and how to keep my compost and my bike safe.... Om Shanti.
Friday, August 22, 2014
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Racing the Warm Rain
Workday is almost done,
Just the final touches on the stairway cleaning
last weeds to collect and mulch.
Raindrops fall big and warm on my bare shoulders,
The garden watering can be crossed off the list.
The work is done for now,
The painting and cleaning, hanging laundry, fixing floor trim.
Summer rain is like a gift,
Coming to open the dirt clods parched,
in a dry spring.
Last week it was the children - my attempts at
teaching them mindfulness with the yoga I know better.
The week began in rain, and we did our poses inside.
By the last day it was hot, and so we walked
the peace path to do
poses at the stations.
Walking toward the Rosa Parks quote, I ask..
"Does anyone know who Rosa Parks was?"
A little girl answers, "I do!
She made the first flag!"
We stand at the station for Rosa, and I explain:
"Rosa sat in her seat, she disobeyed a bad law. "
One can say these kinds of things at the
Quaker Peace Village
Thank god, and God and Goddess
We offered our chair pose to Rosa,
the little kids and me.
The sun beat down upon the path,
we walked with our hearts held high back
to the church-
stopping briefly under the big cypress cedar's shade
to practice the splits.
Just the final touches on the stairway cleaning
last weeds to collect and mulch.
Raindrops fall big and warm on my bare shoulders,
The garden watering can be crossed off the list.
The work is done for now,
The painting and cleaning, hanging laundry, fixing floor trim.
Summer rain is like a gift,
Coming to open the dirt clods parched,
in a dry spring.
Last week it was the children - my attempts at
teaching them mindfulness with the yoga I know better.
The week began in rain, and we did our poses inside.
By the last day it was hot, and so we walked
the peace path to do
poses at the stations.
Walking toward the Rosa Parks quote, I ask..
"Does anyone know who Rosa Parks was?"
A little girl answers, "I do!
She made the first flag!"
We stand at the station for Rosa, and I explain:
"Rosa sat in her seat, she disobeyed a bad law. "
One can say these kinds of things at the
Quaker Peace Village
Thank god, and God and Goddess
We offered our chair pose to Rosa,
the little kids and me.
The sun beat down upon the path,
we walked with our hearts held high back
to the church-
stopping briefly under the big cypress cedar's shade
to practice the splits.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
What We Came From
We are driving the old roads
Where we used to live at the beach,
my son eating his special taco from the
favorite Stand, at stop lights while driving.
My kid, who hung out in summers with me
in ancient time now
by the river at his Uncle's house.
Three years old, and I can still see him
playing in the sticks and mud at
creekside.
I have strawberries in the back seat.
He reaches back to eat one
periodically as we travel the coast highway we know so well.
I ask if he wants me
to wash one, the berries came straight from a field.
He says , "Dirt is good for you."
and then, all I see is his little face
5 months old
covered in dirt when he crawled off
the blanket next to our cabin
where he was born one night
in the woods.
Where we used to live at the beach,
my son eating his special taco from the
favorite Stand, at stop lights while driving.
My kid, who hung out in summers with me
in ancient time now
by the river at his Uncle's house.
Three years old, and I can still see him
playing in the sticks and mud at
creekside.
I have strawberries in the back seat.
He reaches back to eat one
periodically as we travel the coast highway we know so well.
I ask if he wants me
to wash one, the berries came straight from a field.
He says , "Dirt is good for you."
and then, all I see is his little face
5 months old
covered in dirt when he crawled off
the blanket next to our cabin
where he was born one night
in the woods.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Cruelest April
Another cold
spring morning dawns, when the spring question
asks itself again, and again after more than half
a century of spring questions
What is this mind I
walk around in?
What am I looking for ?
I am - I am who I am looking for.
I am who I want to be.
What if
every one of us 7 billion
wanted most to be
ourselves, and knew
knew like warm sun on the face what that feels like
without trying.
What if we wanted just this body here,
not someone else's, not rich
not younger - only
who and what our first baby soul felt
when we first smiled tentatively at the world.
spring morning dawns, when the spring question
asks itself again, and again after more than half
a century of spring questions
What is this mind I
walk around in?
What am I looking for ?
I am - I am who I am looking for.
I am who I want to be.
What if
every one of us 7 billion
wanted most to be
ourselves, and knew
knew like warm sun on the face what that feels like
without trying.
What if we wanted just this body here,
not someone else's, not rich
not younger - only
who and what our first baby soul felt
when we first smiled tentatively at the world.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Snowstorm Musings
I am trapped in my home by a long snow storm, which
has buried my driveway, frozen my water pipes, and impinged on my 58th
birthday plans to visit my new little grand daughter. Mother nature
reminds me of who is in charge. I have time, and so I write. Practice is
the way, practice. That is what we do in yoga as well, we practice.
Life in practice, practice is life. Instead of railing to the cosmos
that I am trapped, I will let my words out.
Instead of gadding about I have the time to write, a passion of mine since I was about 10. I am pursuing the concept of Heaven. Heaven as an idea, as a state of mind, as fresh garlic, thyme, and sweet summer tomato sauce over homemade pasta in the total silence of a snowy night, as the face of a newborn child who looks like one’s own son in his babyhood 30 years ago, as a poem which turns the heart, as a moment realized that this is life - all we have. We can’t know what the next moment will bring. How then can we know what will happen after we draw our last breath?
I know a man, a man I am very close to, a man I have known all my life. He will be 89 years old this week, and he has written the entire schedule to his memorial service in detail with the proper headings all laid out exactly in the form it should appear on the program. With brevity this might be called expedient. If the last party postmortem is to be right in the opinion of the deceased, then composing it all in advance is the path to satisfaction, satisfaction before the fact. The satisfaction of knowing what songs will be sung, who will sing them, who will carry the body from the church, what church it will be - those details.
On his handwritten page, toward the closing of the ceremony, he notes a short eulogy should occur, which he has assigned to me. Already I am composing this eulogy for one who is still very much alive. Why, I ask myself, is this the way he wants to spend his last years? There always remains, for humans, the mystery of what follows death which causes deep emotion. For some it is fear, but that is too simple an explanation. The not knowing becomes an obsession, especially for those who believe that heaven awaits as a solace, an end to this 'vale of tears'. Heaven - this concept in the minds of men which guides the waking hours across the plains of life like a cowboy guides his cattle. We think we are walking and running with free will, but always at the edges is this black hole, death, the final end
.
The idea of a wonderful realm where there is peace, joy, lack of want, rapture, everything good and forever, this idea is sweet. Even the word is lovely - heaven. It slides over the tongue -cielo, nirvana. I am guessing that the concept is a lovely word in every language which has a word for it. The idea, the word, the image, the visuals, the emotion, the desires, the relief - heaven. A place where the water pipes never freeze. We need the idea of heaven, but we need it now while we still live and breath, and that is more easily written than achieved. Words are magic though, they can cause thought which can be almost anything anywhere. Let my words search for heaven even as I still kick about here in the physical world. Even as I compose a eulogy for a dear guy I cannot imagine being away forever.
I am interested in what you think. If you read this, send me a comment. Tell me if I am missing important elements in this existential question.
Instead of gadding about I have the time to write, a passion of mine since I was about 10. I am pursuing the concept of Heaven. Heaven as an idea, as a state of mind, as fresh garlic, thyme, and sweet summer tomato sauce over homemade pasta in the total silence of a snowy night, as the face of a newborn child who looks like one’s own son in his babyhood 30 years ago, as a poem which turns the heart, as a moment realized that this is life - all we have. We can’t know what the next moment will bring. How then can we know what will happen after we draw our last breath?
I know a man, a man I am very close to, a man I have known all my life. He will be 89 years old this week, and he has written the entire schedule to his memorial service in detail with the proper headings all laid out exactly in the form it should appear on the program. With brevity this might be called expedient. If the last party postmortem is to be right in the opinion of the deceased, then composing it all in advance is the path to satisfaction, satisfaction before the fact. The satisfaction of knowing what songs will be sung, who will sing them, who will carry the body from the church, what church it will be - those details.
On his handwritten page, toward the closing of the ceremony, he notes a short eulogy should occur, which he has assigned to me. Already I am composing this eulogy for one who is still very much alive. Why, I ask myself, is this the way he wants to spend his last years? There always remains, for humans, the mystery of what follows death which causes deep emotion. For some it is fear, but that is too simple an explanation. The not knowing becomes an obsession, especially for those who believe that heaven awaits as a solace, an end to this 'vale of tears'. Heaven - this concept in the minds of men which guides the waking hours across the plains of life like a cowboy guides his cattle. We think we are walking and running with free will, but always at the edges is this black hole, death, the final end
.
The idea of a wonderful realm where there is peace, joy, lack of want, rapture, everything good and forever, this idea is sweet. Even the word is lovely - heaven. It slides over the tongue -cielo, nirvana. I am guessing that the concept is a lovely word in every language which has a word for it. The idea, the word, the image, the visuals, the emotion, the desires, the relief - heaven. A place where the water pipes never freeze. We need the idea of heaven, but we need it now while we still live and breath, and that is more easily written than achieved. Words are magic though, they can cause thought which can be almost anything anywhere. Let my words search for heaven even as I still kick about here in the physical world. Even as I compose a eulogy for a dear guy I cannot imagine being away forever.
I am interested in what you think. If you read this, send me a comment. Tell me if I am missing important elements in this existential question.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Snow and the Little Birdies
The second day of snow falls as the afternoon light lowers into a Friday night with a city closed down. This morning there was a break, and I went out to sweep in front of my doorway. The little junkos, sparrows and towhees come looking. I scour my cupboards to find something for them, these valiant little beings in a cold world. I throw poppy seeds from summer flowers and soy flower. It takes them a few hours to find the spot, but as the day wears on more and more arrive.
I have firewood, and my warm space inside. I look out the windows at the second blizzard. The air is in white-out form, reminiscent of the white-out on the summit of Mt. Hood many years ago, when I climbed it with the man I loved. We scaled the mountain for his 23rd birthday and camped on the summit for 2 nights. He would be 60 this year if he were alive.
The snow piles up, and I make soup. The beans and corn carry me back to summer harvest. The season of warm air, the time of gathering garlic to dry, shucking the beans, picking corn, making tomato sauce. It seems like another world from this white mountain tonight.
There is an acceptance of being stuck here, of having the usual diversions cancelled. Suddenly the time is only now, this moment with the birdies and the the soup simmering over the woodstove. In only one day I celebrate a birthday, my 58th. I don't remember ever having a snowstorm to mark my birthday. Some years it has even been sunny. Mother nature has her way. This pleases me. It gives everyone the little reminder: our world is not our world, it belongs to the cosmos, and we belong to it.
I have firewood, and my warm space inside. I look out the windows at the second blizzard. The air is in white-out form, reminiscent of the white-out on the summit of Mt. Hood many years ago, when I climbed it with the man I loved. We scaled the mountain for his 23rd birthday and camped on the summit for 2 nights. He would be 60 this year if he were alive.
The snow piles up, and I make soup. The beans and corn carry me back to summer harvest. The season of warm air, the time of gathering garlic to dry, shucking the beans, picking corn, making tomato sauce. It seems like another world from this white mountain tonight.
There is an acceptance of being stuck here, of having the usual diversions cancelled. Suddenly the time is only now, this moment with the birdies and the the soup simmering over the woodstove. In only one day I celebrate a birthday, my 58th. I don't remember ever having a snowstorm to mark my birthday. Some years it has even been sunny. Mother nature has her way. This pleases me. It gives everyone the little reminder: our world is not our world, it belongs to the cosmos, and we belong to it.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Woman Born With Her Eyes Open
My little grand daughter, Kaitlyn, she, baby of the world
Born with her eyes open two days before
the full moon.
Her small face looking at her parents, a recognition, yes, there you are now,
We all meet face to face
she held her beautiful and perfectly shaped head up and took in this air, this stark place
a room full of love
two gramas, an auntie, an uncle,
3 midwives, two white Husky doggies,
and holding her, an enraptured Mom and Dad.
Kaitlyn Jean, baby of the world,
I awake thinking of what world you have, of how you see and feel this -
this place of your beginning.
Your first breath a slight cry, so small to wake no night birdies
Barely a call, from the deep beyond of the womb
A call into this new air, this place of light and sound.
I knew you in my heart before you came.
I saw your face and, ah, of course.....you.
You have always been there.
Always
Born with her eyes open two days before
the full moon.
Her small face looking at her parents, a recognition, yes, there you are now,
We all meet face to face
she held her beautiful and perfectly shaped head up and took in this air, this stark place
a room full of love
two gramas, an auntie, an uncle,
3 midwives, two white Husky doggies,
and holding her, an enraptured Mom and Dad.
Kaitlyn Jean, baby of the world,
I awake thinking of what world you have, of how you see and feel this -
this place of your beginning.
Your first breath a slight cry, so small to wake no night birdies
Barely a call, from the deep beyond of the womb
A call into this new air, this place of light and sound.
I knew you in my heart before you came.
I saw your face and, ah, of course.....you.
You have always been there.
Always
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