Last night I was outside with the full moon, and now I receive the news that a baby we have been waiting for is born. What a relief! I know that childbirth in this country is mainly safe but years ago, a friend died in childbirth at a hospital in Palo Alto, and so I’m always on alert until the little being is through the canal and here, seen, and cared for.
Her mother had a tough and long labor and now this little girl is here and my grandson has a new cousin. He loves music and rhythm, and so alive with vision and possibility, he channels Gene Krupa and the joy of playing the drums.
Inspired by Tish H. Warren in anopinion piece in the NY Times, I write a haiku.
“Like any other life-sustaining resource,” Marilyn Chandler McEntyre writes in her book “Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies,” “language can be depleted, polluted, contaminated, eroded and filled with artificial stimulants.” She argues that language needs to be rescued and restored, and points us to the practice of reading and writing poetry as one way of doing so. Poems, she says, “train and exercise the imagination” to “wage peace” because “the love of beauty is deeply related to the love of peace.”
Yesterday I walked along the marsh with a friend. We saw red-winged blackbirds and egrets. I took no pictures as we were discussing serious subjects, friends dealing with serious health issues and end of life. I came home tired, and went to bed early but then woke at 3:30 from the most amazing dream of strength, beauty, and trust.
I sit here now, and though it’s still dark, I feel the day coming to light, and then, I hear the first gobble and caw, and now the tweets.
Live according to your highest light and more light will be given.
Today the fog is a wrap as I sit, contemplate, and appreciate the earth I am and the earth where I live.
Water rationing is beginning again so it will be a return to buckets in the shower to capture every drop. I worry about the plants and explain to them that they, too, need to carefully utilize every drop.
I’m with Thich Nhat Hanh this morning.
We have a tendency to think in terms of doing and not in terms of being. We think that when we are not doing anything, we are wasting our time. But that is not true. Our time is first of all for us to be; to be what? To be alive, to be peaceful, to be joyful, to be loving. And that is what the world needs most.
I’m home again and as I consider what poem beckons me today, it’s the sound of hot water dripping through coffee grounds. That sound passes into taste.
Yesterday morning I had breakfast at the Residence Inn in Menlo Park. For some strange and unknown reason a TV was on in the breakfast room blaring out the morning news. Two little boys, around eight years old, stood there aghast as they watched a video showing two young children being dropped over a border wall in New Mexico. Then the trial of the murderer of George Floyd came on.
I hate to be an “in my day” sort of person but my parents read the newspaper and probably watched the 6:00 news. We read the newspaper when our children were young. Now, of course, we read the news from a variety of sources on-line. I’m sure there was awareness, as there should be, in both generations of the horrors that occurred, but certainly not an onslaught as the first meal of the day is consumed.
We’ve had a heat wave which today draws the fog onto the ridge. It’s a new day and I’m grateful for my home and a month that celebrates poetry in a myriad of ways.
It’s poetry month and I’m reading ways to celebrate. One way is to choose a poem and read it outdoors. I think of what the trees and birds might want to hear today and come to balancing on weaving waves of silence. I listen to the leaves unfold as the birds draw them outwards with their notes.
The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes — ah, that is where the art resides.
– Artur Schnabel
The only thing we have to bring to community is ourselves, so the contemplative process of recovering our true selves in solitude is never selfish. It is ultimately the best gift we can give to others.
I’m spending time in Menlo Park to be with my 17 month old grandson who is pure delight. Yesterday he fell asleep against my heart and we were that way together until I turned him to watch his sleeping face and then put him in bed to sleep. One wonders how one can hold a child, any child, and not want everything possible for each one.
May we all look upon this trickster sort of day as a way to know what is true and what matters in this world we share.Each one of us is precious and fragile in our nourished strength.
Friends are going through chemotherapy right now which may be why I’ve wondered what to post. My experience comes back, and I remember the beauty of connection, the clarity and gratitude that we are all one and we do a great deal to save the life of another.
Lately I’ve been with the uniqueness of each one of us, the uniqueness of our experience and perception.
Recently I read The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion. As reading does, it allows one entry into the mind of another, a man with Aspergers. It’s laugh out loud funny in places and yet there’s a deeper stream of compassion and strength holding it all together. Though it’s a trilogy, I only read the first book. It was enough, and I’m with enough these days, knowing enough.
I’m grateful to be alive and well and able to feel the reverberations of all we create and share as we balance the tides and embrace and release with care.
When I was invited to make a Happy Birthday video, I found myself at the overlook for the Golden Gate Bridge welcoming the sunrise. The bridge looks so stable from above. It is stable and yet I’m reminded of May 24, 1987.
To celebrate its 50th anniversary, the bridge was closed to traffic and opened to walking. My youngest son and I were there early for the event, and received a piece of the banner as it was cut. As we started across we met people coming from the SF side. Because we were first, we got through easily and walked along the bay through the city to the ferry building. Returning on the ferry, we were shocked to see the bridge flatten out. No one expected 300,000 people to show up and meet in the middle. It was claustrophobic gridlock. For us on the ferry, it was slightly unnerving to see bridge without its curve, and clearly it didn’t fall.
Yesterday in a Sensory Awareness workshop, Misty Hannah led us with the image of bridges, the bridges within us, and the bridges connecting us. I saw suspension bridges in Nepal and another saw stone bridges in northern England. It was an invitation of exploration.
What kind of bridges swing or hold steady within us and between us? Where do we find support?
I thought of the game Chutes and Ladders, visualized and felt an up and down flow within.
Misty shared with us a tribe in Mexico who greets not with Hello, but with “Are you here?” or “You are here.” They may add “How is your heart today?
How is your heart today?
When I ask myself how my heart is, I feel a swing of response as my lungs move in and out, responsive beacons of support.
I feel fluidity in my spine, a bridge connecting head and sacrum.
All of this flows through me today as I wake in the dark, the moon still shining in the sky.
My son and his wife got their long-awaited rescue greyhound yesterday. She is a beauty, small and young. She was never on the track and naturally is her own self so she is different than their first rescue greyhound Senna who passed away last year.
I’m so happy for them and for her. Bridges of love and connection brought her to them as she was rescued from Florida, and brought to Denver, and now she is here in their home, her home. Her track name is Rumor, but they have named her Ebi because she is small.
Beauty and Love. Bridges of connection. My heart is full.
In 2005/2006, I went through treatment for breast cancer, or as Molly Ivins put it, I was poisoned, and burned. She added that she was mutilated, but I ‘just” had a lumpectomy so didn’t feel as violated as those who had more.
I finished treatment in June and went through horse therapy to “re-empower” me. I’m not sure I was re-empowered but I loved the horses, and the time with them, and learning how they responded to my energy. It was a lesson in how we respond to the energy of others, and our own, and how we interact.
That September, I was invited to participate in a fashion show, a gift to the oncologists and doctors who had contributed to the survival of a group of women, and one man.Yes, men can get breast cancer, and he was quite a dapper soul.
We each had three outfits to wear down the runway. I wore pink lingerie, brown sportswear, and a beautiful black outfit with the risk of very high heels. Everyone wore formal dress for the runway and grand finale.
It was a beautiful, fund-raising event. It comes to me now when I read that Desiree Anzalone, the great-granddaughter of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz Sr., has died from breast cancer. She was just 31.
We are reading of her because she is famous, but my understanding is that all the young women in that show passed away rather quickly afterwards. I was the oldest in the show at 56. There was a woman in her 20’s and others in their 30’s and 40’s, and a few in their young 50’s.
Cells multiply more quickly in the young so when they get cancer, they are more at risk. My family is gathering today, socially distanced, of course, to celebrate my son’s birthday. I give thanks for all the scientists and doctors and dedicated people who mean I’m here. The young man who handed us a gown for radiation always made sure each gown was warm, and he said a prayer over each one. Tears come. We live in a world of care.