Strawberry Moon

We are on approach to the Solstice, the longest day of the year.  I find it astonishing how early it is light, how late.  Last night I was enveloped by the fullness of the Supermoon.  This morning an owl was still offering a who-who-who even though day was coming to  light.

I’m reading a book on how the brain harvests and processes grief.  We can know the person has passed away, and still our “brain-map” feels them here.  We are divided in one way, and expanded in another.

I’m with these words of Louise Erdrich from The Painted Drum.  We are here to feel.

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up.  And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness.  Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.  

Moon rising last night

This Morning

I knew the second January 6 committee hearings would be hard to watch, and it was, and I stayed with it.

I began this morning with this quote as support:

Think of the breath as a whole-body process. It’s not just the air coming in and out of the lungs. It’s the flow of energy throughout the body, part of which is related to the flow of the blood and to the sense of aliveness in your nerves. Try to be sensitive to the whole body as you breathe in and breathe out.

Thanissaro Bhikkhu, “Less Is More”

I find myself still shaking at how “Team Normal” was overrun by the lies, lies, lies of “Team Crazy”.

And the sun shines through the trees –


The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig gives us words we maybe didn’t even know we need.

It begins with words from the comedian Steven Wright.

I read the dictionary.

I thought it was a poem

about everything.

I offer a few words, all three are nouns, and their definitions and lineage.

Chrysalism: the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm.

It comes from the Latin chrysalis, the pupa of a butterfly 

Trumspringa: the longing to wander off your career track in pursuit of a simple life – tending a small farm in a forest clearing, keeping a lighthouse on a secluded atoll, or becoming a shepherd in the mountains – which is just the kind of hypnotic diversion that allow your thoughts to make a break for it and wander back to their cubicles in the city.

It’s derived from the German Stadtzentrum, “city center” + Pennsylvanian German Rumspringa, “hopping around”. Rumspringa is a putative tradition in which Amish teens dip their toes in modernity for a while before choosing whether to commit to the traditional way of life.

Occhiolism: The awareness of how fundamentally limited your senses are – noticing how little of your field of vision is ever in focus, how few colors you’re able to see, how few sounds you’re able to hear, and how intrusively your brain fills in the blanks with its own cartoonish extrapolations – which makes you wish you could experience the whole of reality instead of only ever catching a tiny glimpse of it, to just once step back from the keyhole and finally open the door.

Derived from the Italian “occhiolino” (little eye), the original name that Gailleo gave to the microscope in 1609. 

Looking south this afternoon
Fog coming from the west

The Moon

In the night I was awakened by the brightness of the moon.  It was so bright I could see the fog beginning its slow creep over the ridge.  The fog horn blew.

I woke this morning feeling the cool breeze and lay there like a flower opening its petals grateful for the touch.

I was enchanted with and comforted and reassured by Susan Cain’s book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking.  Now, from Maria Popova,  I learn of Susan Cain’s latest book Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole.  

A friend today asks how I speak and write joyfully and easily about death.  I don’t fear it.  I feel it as part of the whole, the living and dying happening all the time, enriching our moments, our lives. 

The fog is light today, a soft blanket.  I sink into knowing and appreciating the birds that are birthing and the flowers that are opening, knowing I, too, fall away and change. I’m touched with tenderness as I circle, reflecting like the phases of the moon.  

Abundance Today

Flower to Fruit
Opening with Pistil and Stamen Reach

Music of the Spheres

We’re having a heat wave so last night I went outside for two reasons, one to cool off and two to listen to music from a high school graduation party down below us.  The music was fantastic, a live band, vibrant with the rise and fall, the depth and expansiveness of full, generous voices.  The music crossed genres, and soulfully felt like a night in New Orleans.  The last song at ten was The Saints Go Marching In.

When I heard the music beginning at seven, I brought a blanket and pillow out and lay on the deck looking up at wispy clouds and blue sky that became the rising of the moon and the first star. As day turned into night, I turned inside and out, massaged on life so easily and blissfully shared.  

I woke up this morning shimmering like a tuning fork, grateful for each breath, the in and out, lungs so beautiful in their handling of and care for air.  Our little bird friend is still resting on her nest, and yesterday I was at a friend’s house where a mourning dove nests like our little wren.  Meanwhile flowers are everywhere.

Her mate sentries from a nearby branch

The Heavenly and Earthly Song and Dance!

So Close

Though I watched the committee hearing last night, I’m still stunned as I read the morning reports and Heather Cox Richardson.  Does democracy always walk such a slight and sharp edge?  I’m grateful for those who’ve come forth, especially Officer Caroline Edwards.  I can’t imagine what she went through that day and all these days after.  We see courage in action and I sit today, almost immobile with gratitude for all she represents.