Followed by a Jackson Pollock Morning

A few evenings ago, I was taken by surprise at the sound of seagulls flying overhead. I've seen them congregating in parking lots where they expect to find fast food flung out of car windows, and they're usually found on larger lakes in the area throughout the summer, but I wasn't expecting to see flocks of them flying over Lonewolf in late April.

To enhance the scene, they were flying against the backdrop of a waxing crescent moon, lit by the sun still sinking in the west. Off the moon's shoulder sat Venus, like a lantern suspended by thick twilight. The sound and the scene kept me standing there for several minutes. It was a really beautiful sight. I thought about my favorite seagull of all, Jonathan Livingston. He taught me valuable lessons way back in the '70's, lessons that have stayed with me and continue to serve me well.

The next morning, as I was leaving to have lunch with a friend, I found my blue car covered in white splotches of seagull poop. It looked like Jackson Pollock had paid a visit. I almost felt avant garde as I drove the ten miles to the nearest car wash. Almost.

Images: Jackson Pollock's 1 - 4

A Maxfield Parrish Evening

It doesn't take much to make me happy. For instance, the sunset this evening ...


"You Reading This, Be Ready"

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a greater gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life.

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

~ William Stafford





www.parrish-house.com

The photograph is mine.

Moving Brush Piles in the Rain

Before turning in last night, I stepped outside to listen to the river churning as it made its way around the bend and under the bridge. It's running high and fast this spring and I love the sound it makes in the dark. However. As I looked down in the hollow I could make out the silhouette of a brush pile I had spontaneously created when I first moved in here two summers ago and to which I have recently been adding. I could see, even in the dark, that the pile will be hiding the many irises that are getting ready to bloom. A couple of days ago I cleaned out a tire full of them that Otis had created nearby. Yes, a tire full of irises. There was a time when I might have blushed at that revelation, but now I view it as a fine form of recycling.

I actually have a few old tires in the back part of the yard that have been used for flowers in the past, before I arrived, that I'm cleaning out and planning to care for, as well as ten very large tractor tires that were used in creating another vegetable garden out near the road. I went by it two evenings ago on a walk with Buddy and thought again of reworking it, cleaning out the tires and planting potatoes in them. I've read where big tires are good for planting several things, potatoes first and foremost. Talk about a nice raised bed. Plus, when spring is in full bloom I will be working next to the lilac bushes which form that corner of my property, another nice bonus. We shall see ...

Back to the brush pile.

When I woke early this morning to the sound of rain and leftover feelings from some unsettling dreams, I thought again of that poorly placed brush pile and decided I should move it as soon as possible. I didn't want anything obstructing my view of the flowers. And as much as I actually like brush piles and the notion that they can be habitat for a variety of creatures, I knew this one needed moving.

So, while Buddy was still sleeping I quietly left the house, went into the rain and did just that. I can't remember feeling this happy about outside work. It was so peaceful and satisfying. As I worked, I thought about a Robert Morgan poem I had read many months ago. It's been waiting in the wings for the perfect morning to be shared. And this is the perfect morning.


"Working in the Rain"

My father loved more than anything to
work outside in wet weather. Beginning
at daylight he'd go out in dripping brush
to mow or pull weeds for hogs and chickens.
First his shoulders got damp and the drops from
his hat ran down his back. When even his
armpits were soaked he came in to dry out
by the fire, make coffee, read a little.
But if the rain continued he'd soon be
restless, and go out to sharpen tools in
the shed or carry wood in from the pile,
then open up a puddle to the drain,
working by steps back into the downpour.
I thought he sought the privacy of rain,
the one time no one was likely to be
out and he was left to the intimacy
of drops touching every leaf and tree in
the woods and the easy muttering of
drip and runoff, the shine of pools behind
grass dams. He could not resist the long
ritual, the companionship and freedom
of falling weather, or even the cold
drenching, the heavy soak and chill of clothes
and sobbing of fingers and sacrifice
of shoes that earned a baking by the fire
and washed fatigue after the wandering
and loneliness in the country of rain.

~ Robert Morgan

P.S. Robert Morgan is the same poet who wrote "White Autumn." Remember the woman in the rocking chair with clay pipe hidden in the cabinet?  Same poet.  Here it is if you'd like a reminder: teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/2012/01/everything-is-ok-just-way-it-is.html

The images were taken last year, later in the spring, when the irises were blooming and things had greened up considerably.

Blackbirds in the Snow

After several weeks of spring yard work and cleaning out the gardens to reveal the tiny shoots of greenery just peeking through the damp earth, I woke up to several inches of snow this morning. I knew it was coming, had read the news the evening before, and when I finally went to bed shortly before midnight the snow was already starting to come down. I have to say, I not only don't mind, but I'm feeling quite peaceful about it. There's something very calming about a late snow, as though the momentum we had been riding requires a hiatus, a breather, a reminder to Be Here Now,* to be a part of the great I Am.

"Manna"

Everywhere, everywhere, snow sifting down,
a world becoming white, no more sounds,
no longer possible to find the heart of the day,
the sun is gone, the sky is nowhere, and of all
I wanted in life -- so be it -- whatever it is
that brought me here, chance, fortune, whatever
blessing each flake of snow is the hint of, I am
grateful, I bear witness, I hold out my arms,
palms up, I know it is impossible to hold
for long what we love of the world, but look
at me, is it foolish, shameful, arrogant to say this,
see how the snow drifts down, look how happy
I am.

~ Joseph Stroud

*Be Here Now, by Ram Dass.

Joseph Stroud is an American poet born in 1943.

The photographs are mine.

To Drink Water from Cupped Hands

A beautiful male cardinal, who appeared to be flying solo, stopped by my yard this morning and sat in the crab apple tree long enough for me to take a few photos. Last year a lone cardinal passed through and I couldn't help but wonder if it's the same one, returning along a traditional route to his summer home.

The trees are budding out despite very cold nighttime temps and several gloomy, not-so-warm days. But today the sun is shining and so I stopped to admire the trees at the far end of the rock garden near the hollow. Their tiny tips of red and green waving in the wind against the blue sky remind me that everything is going according to plan. The world knows what it's doing without me having to do a thing except witness its effortless awakening.

Passing a bird house that had gone unnoticed when I first moved here, I stopped to admire the peeling paint of what must have been a rather colorful little dwelling once upon a time. I thought about Otis, the man who cared for this place so lovingly, noted the date he'd painted on the back of the birdhouse, and renewed my own commitment to the land.

As I walked up the sloping lawn, my father came to mind and I was momentarily filled with a sadness over the fact that he is no longer in this world. This man who loved the world and yet struggled at times to find peace within it, who saw eighty-four springs (it seems like such a paltry number now), is not here to see this spring. And now, I can't seem to shake a Raymond Carver poem I read a few days ago. It speaks to why I returned to this place of my childhood. I thought you might like it, too.


"The Trestle"

I've wasted my time this morning, and I'm deeply ashamed.
I went to bed last night thinking about my dad.
About that little river we used to fish -- Butte Creek --
near Lake Almanor. Water lulled me to sleep.
In my dream, it was all I could do not to get up
and move around. But when I woke early this morning
I went to the telephone instead. Even though
the river was flowing down there in the valley,
in the meadows, moving through ditch clover.
Fir trees stood on both sides of the meadows. And I was there.
A kid sitting on a timber trestle, looking down.
Watching my dad drink from his cupped hands.
Then he said, "This water's so good.
I wish I could give my mother some of this water."
My father still loved her, though she was dead
and he'd been away from her for a long time.
He had to wait some more years
until he could go where she was. But he loved
this country where he found himself. The West.
For thirty years it had him around the heart,
and then it let him go. He went to sleep one night
in a town in northern California
and didn't wake up. What could be simpler?

I wish my own life, and death, could be so simple.
So that when I woke on a fine morning like this,
after being somewhere I wanted to be all night,
somewhere important, I could move most naturally
and without thinking about it, to my desk.

Say I did that, in the simple way I've described.
From bed to desk back to childhood.
From there it's not so far to the trestle.
And from the trestle I could look down
and see my dad when I needed to see him.
My dad drinking that cold water. My sweet father.
The river, its meadows, and firs, and the trestle.
That. Where I once stood.

I wish I could do that
without having to plead with myself for it.
And feel sick of myself
for getting involved in lesser things.
I know it's time I changed my life.
This life -- the one with its complications
and phone calls -- is unbecoming,
and a waste of time.
I want to plunge my hands in clear water. The way
he did. Again and then again.

~ Raymond Carver

The photographs are mine.

So Much is Happening Out There

Early this morning, I mean really early this morning, even before the light was glinting off the metal roof of the old chicken coop, I was sitting here thinking about all that is going on out there, 'there' being the world of nature ... all the creatures sleeping in their burrows or nests, perhaps nestled in among their young ... those sleeping in the meadow and under the pines, or returning to their places of rest after spending several hours roaming the night ... and those who are waking to another day. And, I just read the perfect poem to fit these early morning thoughts ... but first, let me tell you what led to them.

Late yesterday afternoon I stepped outside to take the sheets off the clothesline and a bald eagle was soaring overhead. He visits quite regularly now, often landing on the scraggly pine tree at the end of the driveway. At about the same time Buddy was all excited by the chipmunk that lives under our porch. He followed his scurrying with a great deal of enthusiasm as though expecting any moment the chipmunk would stop and play with him.

Then, later in the evening, an owl was hooting, quite boldly, in the woods just beyond the hollow. I couldn't see him, only hear him, but his call was loud and persistent. Other birds were calling so enthusiastically it was almost a cacophony ... but a rather nice one.

As I stood and listened, all the insects seemed to come to life. So many insects cover even one acre of ground. Millions. Many millions. Really. There's so much going on out there. When I think of all that's happening in the natural world all around this planet at any given moment ... it's mind-boggling. Also, very life-affirming.

Mary Oliver, as always, says it with love:

"It Was Early"

It was early,
  which has always been my hour
    to begin looking
      at the world

and of course,
  even in the darkness,
    to begin
      listening into it,

especially
  under the pines
    where the owl lives
      and sometimes calls out

as I walk by,
  as he did
    on this morning.
      So many gifts!

What do they mean?
  In the marshes
    where the pink light
      was just arriving

the mink
  with his bristle tail
    was stalking
      the soft-eared mice,

and in the pines
  the cones were heavy,
    each one
      ordained to open.

Sometimes I need
  only to stand
    wherever I am
      to be blessed.

Little mink, let me watch you.
  Little mice, run and run.
    Dear pine cone, let me hold you
      as you open.


~ Mary Oliver, from Evidence





For more on just how much life is out there, here's a good page, with fascinating information. I mean it. Fascinating: www.si.edu/Encyclopedia_SI/nmnh/buginfo/bugnos.htm

The photograph is mine.

Where the Lawn Meets the Meadow

Spring is here and the red-winged blackbirds have returned, having arrived outside my kitchen window some time last week. They fly to the feeder every morning, flaunting their red and yellow shoulder pads, then leave it to the finches and several others that congregate there for the remainder of the day, not returning until early evening.

Several trumpeter swans flew over again yesterday followed by sandhill cranes, too high to see beneath a gray flannel sky, but not so much that I couldn't hear their distinctive sound. And last night, just after dark, I stepped out onto the porch in time to hear Canada geese passing overhead. I could almost feel their wings pressing them onward through the night.

The deer have gotten a little braver and I now see them browsing in the backyard just before sunup. Their droppings in the meadow behind the house, along with signs of a red fox I believe may be living nearby, have been joined recently by fresh bear scat. The path that the animals all seem to use behind the house, where the lawn meets the meadow, have more than a few indications of its return.

Buddy and I continue to take our walks in the meadow, then follow the fence line looking for crows in the field and on through the plantation of smaller Norway pines, most of which are now between fifteen and twenty feet high. They form a nice canopy for the deer where they bed down at night. I love seeing those little ovals of grass formed by their warm bodies. When the smallest of the ovals show up, I know that fawns have been born. I can well imagine the protection the small family of deer provides for them in case the coyotes venture too near. They all seem to have developed a respect for one another, no signs of otherwise, so I will continue to see it that way and hope they will, too.

Spring also means a return to yard work, but my friend, Anne Robey, from New Mexico, suggested we see this ongoing work as the work of eternity, which is really suggesting we keep it in the now, all that really exists. Having no constraints of time, except those we foolishly impose upon ourselves, allows us to let go with no expectation of anything but our growing awareness of the ever-unfolding beauty all around us.

Our mutual friend, Jamie Ross, an uncommonly fine poet, wrote last evening of his impending return from San Miguel de Allende to the cold, clear waters of the Vallecitos River that runs through the Carson National Forest near his home. He wrote of listening to our instincts and allowing the form of our writing to simply emerge. It's the season of returning.

For the past few days, I've had a song stuck in my head, a song from my much younger days, when George Jones was on every jukebox, as well as our turntable at home. I've been singing it to Buddy and, so far, he hasn't started howling. He has, however, spent an inordinate amount of time out on the porch. I'll spare you my version. Here's George:

Pink Lightning Over the San Juan

In the spring of 2001, JB and I were exploring the southwest, living out of a van and trying to keep from doing each other bodily harm. We'd spent the day on Cedar Mesa before heading to the Mokee Dugway, a dirt road (not for the faint of heart) that snakes its way along the edge of the mesa and down to the Valley of the Gods below. We'd taken this road many times and each time we said, 'Never again.'  But, there we were, arguing over who would drive and who would ride shotgun. Truth be told, I like to drive. And, if we were to go over the edge, I'd have no one to blame but myself.

Eventually, we arrived at the bottom, all in one piece, then took a break to check out a habitation site JB had spotted from above. In canyon country, that's what riding shotgun is all about, spotting habitation sites and the ruins of cliff dwellings tucked into canyon walls. He's better at it than I am. But then, he's had more practice.

Note: JB has been living in Moab, Utah for five and a half years now. During this time, he's been on 423 day hikes - he's a Virgo, he keeps track - several of them ten miles long. This is in Canyon Country. And he's almost 65 (he told me I could say that). Darn his desert hide.

Back to my story ...

A little further down the highway that runs through this valley, there's a side road which leads to Goosenecks State Park. There, at an overlook, the San Juan River winds through a gorge with a view that's almost a mirror image of the beautiful and breathtaking road we'd just come down. We arrived late in the evening, in time to take a look before dusk settled in.

Aerial View of the San Juan, not at all unlike the Mokee Dugway.

We walked down a small, rocky path leading to a ledge and a somewhat closer view of the river. One could say we like living on the edge, or our version of it, anyway. While we were there, a storm started brewing. We could see it developing on the mesa across the river and, despite having some concerns, decided to watch for a few minutes. Awestruck by the pink lightning (that might be a poor choice of words), we stood there a bit longer than wisdom would dictate, proving Mr. Shakespeare right:  "What fools these mortals be."

Hugging the rock wall, we followed the path back to the top as quickly as that path would allow. By this time, we could feel our skin starting to tingle from the electrically charged air. Once we were safely ensconced in the car, we sat in silence and watched as, all across the distant mesa, deep pink lightning flashed again and again and again, against the darkening sky.




P.S. Today would have been Jack Kerouac's birthday.  You might think me mad (I won't refute it), but, sometimes, I feel as though he's here and we silently talk. Today, I touched a book of his poetry and ... I started to cry. I heard him say, "You can cry a thousand tears, sweetie, and it's still going to be just perfect."


 Images from Google, unattributed.

Standing in Awe of the World

For the past couple of weeks I've been feeling a call to spend even more time in the quiet of life, thinking less, reading less, speaking less. I even told a friend while visiting on the phone, "I'm tired of hearing my own voice. I find myself wanting to be still, to just listen and witness, to simply be present to the beauty of this world."

Last Sunday morning, as I was walking to the kitchen to put the coffee on, I paused at the living room window to look out and see what new tracks had been left in the freshly-fallen snow. Every day I'm rewarded with a variety of fresh animal tracks showing me they've been here but have become rather surreptitious in their timing. Which is to say, when Buddy's sleeping. In that moment I was able to condense this wish for quiet witnessing of the world into a simple phrase or two asking for more opportunities.

A short while later, I could hear something calling in the distance. Knowing there was no time to waste I flew out the front door and quickly rounded the corner of my house. There they were, coming towards me right above the treetops: six trumpeter swans moving as one, trumpeting as they passed. Their beautiful white wings against the deep blue sky seemed to be moving to the rhythm of life itself.  I stood in the snow, watching.  As they flew past me and down the driveway I could see their black bills, a flicker or two of their tongues as they called out, their black feet tucked in and held steady. And then, those luminous wings banked to the left and followed the river, in a perfect triangle of light.



Friend, you have read enough.
If you desire still more,
Then be the poem yourself,
And all that it stands for. 

~ Angelus Silesius  (1624-1677),  from The Cherubinic Wanderer

The photograph, taken yesterday, is of the river that runs along the edge of my home here at Lonewolf.

"I Won't Abandon Him to Mortality"

It seems like a lifetime ago, when I danced to the music of the Monkees in our high school gymnasium. I was wearing a plum colored, "poor boy" sweater, with plum and pink, windowpane checked bell bottoms, an image that has inexplicably remained with me for a long time now.

You've probably heard that Davy Jones, one of the Monkees, passed on a few days ago. As these things go, the news brings with it reactions from those closest to him, or most often associated. So, we heard from Mickey Dolenz, Peter Tork, and Michael Nesmith, his fellow Monkees. I've been an ongoing fan of Michael's and am especially fond of his beautiful and haunting song, "Joanne," something I've written about previously. I was struck by his statement regarding Davy Jones' passing, which seems to mirror my own thoughts about this thing we call death. Michael Nesmith's statement:

"While it is jarring, and sometimes seems unjust, or strange, this transition we call dying and death is a constant in the mortal experience that we know almost nothing about. I am of the mind that it is a transition and I carry with me a certainty of the continuity of existence. While I don't exactly know what happens in these times, there is an ongoing sense of life that reaches in my mind out far beyond the near horizons of mortality and into the reaches of infinity. That David has stepped beyond my view causes me the sadness that it does many of you. I will miss him, but I won't abandon him to mortality. I will think of him as existing with the animating life that insures existence. I will think of him and his family with that gentle regard in spite of all the contrary appearances on the mortal plane. David's spirit and soul live well in my heart, among all the lovely people, who remember with me the good times, and the healing times, that were created for so many, including us. I have fond memories. I wish him safe travels."



Closely tied to this memory of dancing to "I'm a Believer," is another memory, a gift I received from my mother about the time of that school dance. There was a store in the small mid-western town I grew up near, just north of where I'm now living. It had a soda fountain with tourist items in front, along with some magazines and books. A gift area, with slightly higher-priced items, was towards the back. Occasionally, I would wander through that part of the shop and sometimes a particular object would catch my eye. It was on one such visit that a vase, sitting on a glass shelf, captured my attention. I recall standing in front of it, admiring it - the colors, the shape, its smooth hand-painted exterior - imagining how it would feel tucked into the crook of my arm, as though it might contain my secrets, my dreams, the things I held close to my heart. I came back to re-visit it more than once.

My mother knew the woman who owned the store (this was a very small town), and would herself shop there from time to time. Perhaps my mother asked her if there was something I had been admiring, perhaps this woman offered what she knew. Either way, it became my gift for my sixteenth birthday. That this woman would be paying attention and be able to offer this information to my mother, that she cared enough to do so, well, how wonderful is that?

I still have it, carefully packing it for every move that came my way in life. It now sits on an upper shelf of my bookcase where it might well remain for a very long time to come. For some reason, it's been crossing my mind lately, the memory associated with it, the love that my mother brought to her gift-giving, the care with which she selected each of them.

A few weeks back, I came across a poem by the 15th century Indian saint and mystic poet, Kabir. Although the clay jug is referring to the universal memories we all share and carry inside of us - the canyons and mountains, the stars and the oceans, the universe itself - I keep coming back to the vase my mother bought for me and what it means, this vase I can see but really lives here, inside of me.

"The Clay Jug"

Inside this clay jug
there are canyons and
pine mountains,
and the maker of canyons
and pine mountains!

All seven oceans are inside, and
hundreds of millions of stars.

The acid that tests gold is there, and
the one who judges jewels.

And the music
that comes from the strings
that no one touches,
and the source of all water.

If you want the truth, I will tell you the truth:
Friend, listen: the God whom I love is inside.

~ Kabir







Thank you to Tony Zimnoch for introducing this poem to me through one of his posts: everton.blogspot.com

Birdhouses in the Snow

There are three, hanging from the lower branches of a basswood tree right outside my window. These tiny houses, teetering back and forth, buffeted by a late February wind like pendulums on wire fulcrums, take turns moving to the music. First, the white one with a blue roof sways in time to the falling stars of snowflakes landing gently at his feet. Then he rests as the yellow one with green roof turns towards him to signify her entrance, taking up the rhythm the wind has set in motion. The slightly larger white one with green roof, on the other side of the tree, keeps a steady beat next to the shiny bumblebee with wire baton who seems to be conducting the orchestra from his podium further out on the branch. Meanwhile, the rocks below continue to hum a bass line. As the snow increases and the tempo picks up, a solitary cluster of what at first appears to be dead leaves clinging to a nearby branch but are really brown leotards, begins to dance something wildly contemporary. The birdhouses, in fermata, silently watch as the audience, hanging on every note, breathlessly awaits the musical denouement.

P.S. By some odd "coincidence," as I was looking up something else, the word fermata showed up. It's a musical term for holding a note for whatever duration the conductor decides, usually appearing towards the end of a piece. Another term for it is "Bird's Eye."  I couldn't resist.


Paintings:  "Fence Line," by Andrew Wyeth, and, "The Magpie," by Claude Monet

How the World Works When We Let It

My Husband Never Takes Me Anywhere

so I sometimes, you understand,
envy my city friends who have
Twyla Tharp,
"Long Day's Journey Into Night,"
and Wynton Marsalis
at their fingertips.
Oh, I know,
we went for a jeep ride
up the Ramsey Road
stopping at the beaver pond
just in time to see
a flock of mergansers settle in.
And we walked the length of Indian
     Island last July,
picking Indian paintbrush and wading
     in the back cove.
And just this spring
we rode our bikes to Willow Creek
where the fish were running.
So many you could catch them with
     your hands.

Another season goes by.
I guess
Grant Wood,
"Moon for the Misbegotten,"
and Baryshnikov
will have to wait again.
You see, it isn't easy
having a husband who never takes you
     anywhere.
I have to settle for
bald eagles circling the white pines
across the "second bay,"
bumblebees buzzing the lilacs on the
     bank,
and riding with George
as he steers our canoe
through a slice of silver moon
on Whitefish Lake.


~ Teresa Claire Coughlin




I am Teresa Claire Coughlin, or was in an earlier "incarnation."  This poem was published one summer in the mid-1980's by The Christian Science Monitor. This international and well-respected newspaper would sometimes publish unknown or little known poets as well as poets of some note on their Home Forum page. I belonged, of course, in that first category. But, about a week after my poem was published, they published one by Ted Hughes. I felt I was in awfully good company, poetically speaking.

I can still recall how happy I was when I walked the half mile to our mailbox at the end of the road to find an acceptance letter from them which read (believe me, I remember this), "We would be delighted to publish your poem..."

George and I, married for ten years, divorced now for over twenty, have remained friends, for which I'm very grateful, and not just because of our son, Coleman, but because it's how the world should work when relationships change, how the world does work when we let it.

The images are my own, taken last spring, of my place along the river.

Angels in the Treetops

A few days ago, while returning from a walk with Buddy through the meadow, made even more perfect by those beautiful old Norway pines standing nearby, I noticed the treetops leading back to the house and how they sparkled in the sunlight. I couldn't resist taking their pictures.

When I was back at my table, in the warmth of the kitchen, I opened a book of poetry by Mary Oliver that I'd purchased the day before and found this poem:


"About Angels and About Trees"

Where do angels
  fly in the firmament,
and how many can dance
  on the head of a pin?

Well, I don't care
  about that pin dance,
what I know is that
  they rest, sometimes,
in the tops of trees

and you can see them,
  or almost see them,
or, anyway, think: what a
  wonderful idea.

I have lost as you and
  others have possibly lost a
beloved one,
  and wonder, where are they now?

The trees, anyway, are
  miraculous, full of
angels (ideas); even
  empty they are a
good place to look, to put
  the heart at rest -- all those
leaves breathing the air, so

peaceful and diligent, and certainly
  ready to be
the resting place of
  strange, winged creatures
that we, in this world, have loved.

~ Mary Oliver, from Evidence



Even now, on this cold winter day, it's not difficult at all to imagine them there, resting among the shining treetops.

Chicken Pluckin' Time in Elsie's Kitchen

It was a warm afternoon in late August and my siblings had just gone back to school when my father, who was driving over to the neighbors, asked if I wanted to ride along. I don't recall our business, probably something to do with cows, horses, or hay, but he was going over to see Otto, who lived just off the highway about two miles away.

So, there we were, being neighborly, chatting in the kitchen with Elsie, Otto's wife, and a couple of womenfolk I didn't know, waiting for Otto to come in from the fields. I don't recall the conversation as I hadn't been paying any attention to it.  All my senses had been diverted to the ungodly smell invading Elsie's kitchen.

You see, it was getting near suppertime and chickens were being plucked, a job made a whole lot easier by the metal tub full of scalding hot water which sat on the table in front of Elsie. It was a warm day and, despite sitting close to the screen door, the stench of hot, wet chicken feathers, mixed with the heat in that kitchen and what was probably more than a little bit of blood, quickly became unbearable. I was sitting very close to my father, trying not to watch the process of plunging and plucking, plunging and plucking, hoping I could stave off the adverse reaction rising within me. Despite being a farm girl and having been around chickens all my young life, those might well have been the longest minutes I'd ever passed, my own little preview of hell.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. Elsie asked my father if we'd like to stay for supper. My heart stopped as I waited for his answer. Possibly sensing that I was quickly reaching the point of no return, he gently nudged my leg with his as he said thanks, but no, we'd be going on home.  Perhaps he heard my exhalation of relief as I began breathing again and my heart resumed its beating.

A few minutes later, he opened the screen door and we stepped outside, leaving that kitchen far behind us. I followed him out to the barn where Otto was just coming in on the tractor. You might be thinking, 'Surely a barn can't be an improvement on a kitchen,' but you would be wrong. I was used to barns and actually enjoyed spending time there, watching the little chicks under the heat lamp every spring, building forts among the hay bales, the smell of warm milk, fresh from the cows, as it hit the metal pail. While they talked business, I passed the time playing with a mama cat and her kittens in the grassy shade of the barn door. 

Later, when we were safely ensconced in the car, he turned to me with that smile and the slightly conspiratorial tone he used when he wanted me to feel we were in something together, and said, "Were you afraid I might say yes?"  I can see myself even now, all these years later, looking down at my hands in my lap, and nodding yes. My father laughed, as I smiled and breathed deeply that sweet summer air coming through the open car window, then we turned onto the highway and headed for home.


Here's a little "Cash" for the trip home: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HcGpkcOJBA0

Looking back from the vantage point of time and experience, I have deep respect for these people and their way of life. Many are returning to it. Some never left.

And no, those aren't chickens on my sweater.  They're ducks.

Top photograph by John Vachon.

A Little Karma Repair

"Karma Repair Kit: Items 1 - 4"

     Richard Brautigan


1. Get enough food to eat, and eat it.

2. Find a place to sleep where it is quiet,
    and sleep there.

3. Reduce intellectual and emotional noise
    until you arrive at the silence of yourself,
    and listen to it.

4.

Unfathomable Life

Several months ago, I wrote down a poem in my notebook thinking that one day I might want to post it. I would look at it from time to time, but the right time never seemed to appear. I liked the poem, yet I had questions about it. I looked at it again a few days ago. Still not the right time. Well, unfortunately, today seems to be the right day.

"A Contribution to Statistics"

Out of a hundred people

those who always know better
--fifty-two

doubting every step
--nearly all the rest,

glad to lend a hand
if it doesn't take too long
--as high as forty-nine,

always good
because they can't be otherwise
--four, well maybe five,

able to admire without envy
--eighteen,

suffering illusions
induced by fleeting youth
--sixty, give or take a few,

not to be taken lightly
--forty and four,

living in constant fear
of someone or something
--seventy-seven,

capable of happiness
--twenty-something tops,

harmless singly, savage in crowds
--half at least,

cruel
when forced by circumstances
--better not to know
even ballpark figures,

wise after the fact
--just a couple more than wise before it,

taking only things from life
--thirty
(I wish I were wrong),

hunched in pain,
no flashlight in the dark
--eighty-three
sooner or later,

righteous
--thirty-five, which is a lot,

righteous
and understanding
--three,

worthy of compassion
--ninety-nine,

mortal
--a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.

~ Wislawa Szymborska



Ms. Szymborska passed away today at the age of 88, at her home in Krakau, Poland. Awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996, she was referred to as "the Mozart of poetry" by the Nobel committee. Last year, she was awarded Poland's highest distinction, The Order of the White Eagle. I like that. That sounds like a fine honor to have bestowed upon a person.

Mortal?  It would seem so. But, I am hoping she is just out of sight, still here, still moving,  "Into unfathomable life." *

* From her poem, "Utopia."

Everything Is OK Just the Way It Is

For the past two weeks, I've been reading this poem every day, trying to understand why it drew me in, why it has stayed with me and won't let go. I've tried several times to write about it, to give it a context that would help articulate my feelings about it, and each time I deleted the words I'd written. They felt false. And then it dawned on me. I was trying to understand something that didn't need to be understood, it just needed to be felt.



"White Autumn"

She had always loved to read, even
in childhood during the Confederate War,
and built the habit later of staying up
by the oil lamp near the fireplace after
husband and children slept, the scrub-work done.
She fed the addiction in the hard years
of Reconstruction and even after
her husband died and she was forced
to provide and be sole foreman of the place.
While her only son fought in France
it was this second life, by the open window
in warm months when the pines on the hill
seemed to talk to the creek, or katydids
lined-out their hymns in the trees beyond the barn,
or by the familiar of fire in winter,
that sustained her. She and her daughters
later forgot the time, the exact date,
if there was such a day, she made her decision.
But after the children could cook
and garden and milk and bring in a little
by housecleaning for the rich in Flat Rock,
and the son returned from overseas
wounded but still able and married a war widow,
and when she had found just the right chair,
a rocker joined by a man over on Willow
from rubbed hickory, with cane seat and back,
and arms wide enough to rest her everlasting cup
of coffee on, or a heavy book,
she knew she had come to her place and would stay.
And from that day, if it was one time and not
a gradual recognition, she never crossed a threshold
or ventured from that special seat of rightness,
of presence and pleasure, except to be helped to bed
in the hours before dawn for a little nap.
That chair -- every Christmas someone gave her a bright
cushion to break in -- was the site on which she bathed
in a warm river of books and black coffee,
varieties of candy and cakes kept in a low cupboard
at hand. The cats passed through her lap and legs
and through the rungs of her seat. The tons
of firewood came in cold and left as light, smoke, ash.
She rode that upright cradle to sleep
and through many long visits with tiers of family,
kissing the babies like different kinds of fruit.
Always hiding the clay pipe in her cabinet
when company appeared. She chaired decisions
to keep the land and refused welfare.
On that creaking throne she ruled a tiny kingdom
through war, death of kin. Even on the night she did
stop breathing, near a hundred, no one knew
exactly when, but found the lamp still on,
the romance open to a new chapter,
and the sun just appearing at her elbow.


~ Robert Morgan  (1944, Hendersonville, NC)







P.S. After returning to it again this afternoon (don't you love the line about the clay pipe she hid in her cabinet?), I picked up the small blue card I had used as a bookmark. Turning it over, I realized it answered every question I had about this poem, and a lot of other things:  "Everything is OK just the way it is." 





The image is one I took last winter, about this time, in Moab, Utah.

The Ballad of the One-eared Stinky Monkey

Snow is coming down and Buddy is one very content, not-so-little-anymore puppy. He has always liked shoving his nose deep into its cold fluffiness again and again as though he has just discovered the greatest thing on earth. He finds particular pleasure in tossing one of his babies up into the snowy air, catching it and then running around madly just to do it all again. And again. It's the stuff happy is made of.

Now, lest you think Buddy's babies are being mistreated, I have to add that they seem as delighted by all this fun as he is. And he knows the routine. He either barks or grrrs softly at the door when he feels it's time to come in and warm up, or take a snooze, tired out from all that strenuous activity. Sometimes, he just stands by the door, expecting me to read his mind, and I've gotten pretty good at that. We've had a lot of practice.

He has several babies to choose from, an entire basketful, and he is careful to make sure everyone gets their shot at some time outside, but it's the baby bear that seems to be his favorite now. 'Twas not always so. 

Once upon a time, it was a monkey with two ears and a very healthy behind. As way led unto way, one ear was chewed off in a moment of overzealous affection and then he became the one-eared stinky monkey, stinky being a natural by-product, shall we say, of incessant chewing.

As these things go, the love-induced chewing led to more chewing and then it was the behind which became, ultimately, unrepairable with needle and thread. I'm happy to report my sewing skills have remained intact, being much in demand these days, but sometimes even they cannot bring someone back to "life."  Thus, the closet shelf became the final resting place of the one-eared stinky monkey, a back shelf lest Buddy see it and whine for its return to the fold. I cannot bring myself to relegate it to the dustbin of history. Not yet. These things take time.

I've thought of replacing his monkey with a brand new one, and perhaps one day I will. In the meantime, I have discovered that second hand and thrift stores are great places for inexpensive stuffed toys. When I go to town without Buddy, he always checks the table as I unpack the grocery bag, checking to see if Ma remembered to bring him back a new pal.  No, he's not spoiled one bit. He just lives with the constant expectation of good to unfold, and that seems like a pretty fine way to go through life. We have this unspoken agreement. I make sure life is good for him and he makes sure it is for me. It's a win-win.

The opening photo is Buddy when he first came home with me at eight weeks old. He is now almost a year old. What a wonderful year it has been.

The More Things Change the More They Stay the Same

A few days ago, a friend and I were visiting on the telephone, talking about the state of the union. The subject of Charlie Chaplin came up and we both agreed he was an amazing person. Tonight, President Obama will give the State of the Union Address and so finding this video today seems rather timely. It's from the Charlie Chaplin movie, "The Great Dictator."  First released in October, 1940, its relevance today is almost astonishing.

https://youtu.be/J7GY1Xg6X20

My Lesson From the Sea

It's now going on two years since I visited the Atlantic Ocean. It was time spent, for the most part, on a quiet beach in the off-season, which was, for me, the perfect time to be there. There were early morning walkers, some with dogs, some in pairs, some alone and deep in thought. Many were visitors from someplace else who had their own purpose for being there. Almost always these fellow travelers offered a hello, or a nod in greeting and, occasionally, would stop and visit with me about the ocean, the day, the weather, some observation they had made. And some would sit quietly on the benches, set near the sand dunes, just looking out to sea.

My time included some deep thought, but mostly it was about opening my arms wider to life and taking in all that the ocean had to offer by way of understanding myself a bit more. Some lessons were hard-won, and some were dropped at my feet unbidden, as wholly unexpected gifts. I have only recently come to understand more fully just what the ocean and the days spent there really brought me, and eventually taught me. The ocean is a wonderful thing, full of deep mystery, and so inviting. It offers us an opportunity to write our names in its "book of waves," to feel a part of that never-ending night sky; it teaches us to become our own lighthouse.

This morning, with several inches of fresh snow outside the door, a morning poem arrived in an email that left me smiling with its beautiful timing, its ability to so poetically distill these lessons from the sea, what it has taught me:  it drew me to its shores so that I might become better able to See.


"I Was Never Able to Pray"

Wheel me down to the shore
where the lighthouse was abandoned
and the moon tolls in the rafters.

Let me hear the wind paging through the trees
and see the stars flaring out, one by one,
like the forgotten faces of the dead.

I was never able to pray
but let me inscribe my name
in the book of waves

and then stare into the dome
of a sky that never ends
and see my voice sail into the night.

~ Edward Hirsch





Edward Hirsch lives in New York and is president of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation.

Painting by Winslow Homer. Unbeknownst to me at the time, he once lived and painted in a studio at Prouts Neck, just down the beach and around the corner from where I stayed. Perhaps one day I'll return and pay my respect for all the hours of pleasure his paintings have brought me.