Seeking

0000rowboat on the sea

Rowboat On The Dark Sea (artist unknown)

Would you believe me, if I told you
I am a rudderless boat
adrift beneath the starry sky?

Sometimes gliding with apparent purpose,
then spiraling aimlessly in a gyre,
or caught in tangles of Sargassum

Motionless, while schools of fish
swim by as though with singular ambition–
I float alone, without direction.

 

Would you believe me if I told you
my hull was not built for such voyages–
too small, too fragile, too easily damaged,

Not meant for vast oceans or rogue waves
battered, creaking and straining,
green water pulsing through cracks

Bailing feverishly, waiting with dread,
certain the next wave will splinter me–
drowning seems inevitable, if not immediate.

 

Would you believe me if I told you
I am pushed by unseen currents,
and my course cannot be charted

Strong winds cast my hull west,
against the lee shore, pounding surf,
fog blurring the horizon, where sky meets sea,

Beating to windward slow and vexing
dogged effort with little headway–
wind and waves conspiring against me

 

Would you believe me, if I told you
that some are meant to wander
and I am never truly lost

When I lie on the rough wooden boards, caked with salt
and look up at the star-filled sky,
my heart knows the course I should be sailing.

For now I must be content to sail on through the night,
change my course with the shifting gale,
and see what the sunrise brings.

Advertisements

MST Sunday

00000000mst

The day is just awakening,
Feet falling, mostly an easy rhythm
Broken by the short step or lengthened stride
To avoid an errant root or rock,
Breathing regular, though not effortless,
Engulfed in wild silence—
The kind that allows space for a mind to wander,
Not the “silence” of white noise machines
Designed to dull our reality.

This silence is full and round,
Leaves blowing, gentle lapping at the lake’s edge,
Bickering redheaded woodpeckers—this year’s brood, no doubt,
The crickets, of course, plus whatever brethren
Make all those different sounds, which I do not know.
Weird snorts and screeches from deer
That I have to see first to confirm they are really deer
Pattering of squirrels, lighter still for smaller creatures
Sometimes movement, not sound, draws my eye.

The quiet of a very alive forest
Is the kind where I can hear myself think.

Tuesday reflection

Tuesday after work. I am

camping with Stephen at Shinleaf,

on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail,

after he has spent much of his day

slowly moving himself and many

surprising (to him) pounds of gear from

Bayleaf Church Road, about

ten miles away. Tomorrow,

he will walk another thirteen to

Rolling View and await pickup

after I finish work. An experiment

in carrying everything you need and living simply.

He is tired and sore, but clearly pleased with

his accomplishment. Yet he’s puzzled to also

feel somewhat disappointed, and it

gnaws at him. I let him talk

but don’t say much, allowing him

space to think more and return later.

As for me–I sit outdoors at 8:45 pm

watching the waning sunlight,

an early bedtime whispering the

sweet promise of rest before the

sun rises on Wednesday. And I can

tell you that I feel content

with this ordinary

yet extraordinary

evening.

img_3309.jpg

Summer plans

This summer will be how I always intended to live,

Mapped out neatly in my notebook next to the scribbled to-do lists,

Allowing me to breathe in the sauntering, unstructured days of summer.

Filled with possibility and unmarred by the daily grind.

I shall go to bed early and sleep until I am rested.

I’ll nurture my family with meals we make together

With the summer bounty from local farms.

We’ll eat and laugh around our table, sharing our joys and woes

With space for deeper conversations, too.

I shall ride my bike to work, and give away things I no longer need;

Walk gently on the Earth, with pauses for wonder.

Appreciating my abundance with austerity and generosity,

Recalling that time is the only currency worth seeking.

My neglected summer garden

Will be raucous and beautiful, yet unsullied by weeds–

For I will work in my garden for an hour each day.

[I shall call it “happy hour.” Or maybe “half hour.”]

I will read a new book every week, and they will all be worthy

With thoughtful words, fiery ideas, and deeper meanings.

Words will flow from my own fingertips, and they will be precise and uncluttered,

Arranged with perfect balance and cadence and clarity.

I shall run any day that I wish, and soak in the company of friends

Like roots pull nourishment from the soil, and we will linger

Over jokes and earnest conversations with steaming cups of coffee

In the humid early mornings, just after sunrise.

I will seek joy and deliver it with intention to others,

Open my heart, to allow love to wash away the shattered bits

Love without expectation or fear for tomorrow’s woes,

Like drinking deeply from a clear mountain stream

Remembering only the cold wetness the moment it touches my lips.

Then I will awaken and notice the goldenrod flowering

The last brood of Carolina wrens has fledged,

And the sticky days of August are upon us.

Summer days stole by on silent yet swift feet,

Gathering into weeks that were surprisingly busy

And months that disappeared without a trace.

I’ll shake my head and laugh at my Quixotic optimism,

Roll my eyes at my silly, navel-gazing privilege

That enables such dreams and noble intentions.

Nonetheless, I’ll treasure those found moments, and promise myself

 That next summer will be different.

IMG_1614.JPG

Sick Day

Creeping out my back door on a perfect day in May,

Body aching, still in sweat-soaked pjs at 10 am;

Weak and dizzy from an unplanned, day-long fast,

Screeching red-shouldered hawk pierces my pounding brain.

 

Wind moves the tender spring leaves of white and red oaks;

I sit in filtered shade, cool wind evaporating sweat on my forehead;

I hear chickadees, Carolina wrens, and a pair of barred owls;

Raucous, joyful noise surrounding a quiet body and throbbing head.

 

I watch two blue jays share a tasty morsel;

For me, a piece of toast, no jelly,

Plus half a cup of black coffee—enough to prevent a headache crescendo,

Austerity seems best for a raging belly.

 

A gorgeous day for working in my garden, or running on trails,

Meanwhile my muscles ache like I’ve done both;

[I haven’t, of course; I’ve been in bed for the past 15 hours.]

Frustrating, to waste this perfect day.

 

Instead, I sit quietly (and queasily),

Listening to the drum of a red-bellied woodpecker,

Watching for the upside down nuthatch,

Absorbing the soothing green canopy and cooling breeze.

 

I don’t feel much better, but perspective helps.

Maybe patience is the lesson nature is teaching me today.

From my chair, I can see tulip-tree flowers, high in the canopy,

Sighing, I know that it’s a lesson I won’t remember long.

 

The shifting sun aims its rays on my face,

My head can’t take the blinding brightness, so I head back inside;

Pausing to scan a nearby sweet gum for the cardinal I just heard calling,

Accepting, reluctantly, the gift of stillness, and the healing pace of nature.

IMG_9524

Ocean of Stars

I want to lose myself in the night sky,
Shiver in the November air,
Lie by the sea among grains of sand.
I want to feel dwarfed by the universe
Tiny, and inconsequential.

Perhaps then my cares, too, will seem small
Fear drifting away with the outgoing tide
My heart growing lighter
So I might twinkle again,
Just one of a billion stars above my head.

Eastern cougar

Image[I wrote the first draft of this poem on March 7, 2011, upon reading the news from the US Fish and Wildlife Service that the eastern cougar had been declared extinct. I’ve revised it off and on since then. This isn’t the final word–genetic evidence suggests that the Eastern cougar (Puma concolor couguar) was one variety of the North American cougar species. Yet, I felt a sense of personal loss–not as an ecologist, but as an ordinary citizen of my planet.]

Fearsome catamount of legend–
I heard today that you are gone.
Not the resounding blow of natural selection,
Nor a clash with a more worthy competitor–
An ending more befitting of a graceful and deadly beast.

Your predator’s skill made you vulnerable to human fears.
Hunted, then starved–your fortunes tied to white-tailed deer
Now overrun in the East without you there.
Habitat loss sealed your fate.
Not with finality, but with lingering doubts of your survival.

Murmurings grown louder over time
Fruitless surveys building the evidence of doubt
Outweighing finally the chance sightings, ever fewer,
Which sounded more and more
Like the stuff of myths and wishful thinking.

Some will say that your role as an apex predator
Negates your loss. Others will scorn the dollars poured into your recovery,
Citing legions of unloved species who have neither your charm nor your fury.
And yet, how can we be numb to the loss of the mighty ghost cat,
Known for its elusive beauty?

How many of us will feel the pang of a species lost?
And how many more must we yet lose
For us to feel the chill of our own fragility
Through the threadbare places
In the fabric of our humanity?

The green fire that Leopold saw in the eyes of a dying wolf
Has faded for the eastern cougar.
Another piece of wilderness extinguished
In the banality of pen on paper,
The final echo of a species lost.