The Way Home

The journey home. Every where I turn, I read it isn’t the place. It isn’t the place.

I yearn for the familiar. I’ve yet to learn the way.”You cannot travel on the path before you have become the path itself.” “Every day is a journey and the journey itself is home.” First one foot then another. Sometimes there are markers, sometimes not. What a comfort to have in sight two white blazes, one then the next, then another. Not to lose sight. knowing you are on the the path, not lost. At times the trail runs close to a cliff. One misstep, a tumble,  a turned ankle.

How much weight can you carry on your back? Let loose of all that has meaning and keep nothing other than what you need. Every scrap of useless paper, every memory. Bury an amythest in each corner of your rented yard before you take one step.  You need long unkept hair, a prayer shawl over your shoulders, good wool socks.  Deep lines at the corner of your eyes are like current running through wires lighting the night. Spring far away. No color left in leaves. A leaf floating upwards, above the overhang. When can I sing the song, when will I know the words buried so many years ago? 

 

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I Learned That Her Name Was Proverb: a poem by Denise Levertov

And the secret names

of all we meet who led us deeper

into our labyrinth

of valleys and mountains, twisting valleys

and steeper mountains-

their hidden names are always,

like Proverb, promises:

Rune, Omen, Fable, Parable,

those we meet for only

one crucial moment, gaze to gaze,

or for years Know and don’t recognize

 

but of whom later a word

sings back to us

as if from high among leaves,

still near beyond sight

 

drawing us from tree to tree

towards the time and the unknown place

where we shall know

what it is to arrive.

 

Prayer Sticks

Several weeks ago I was on Assateague Island on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. Two days we walked the beach. On the second day the beach was littered with small cedar sticks. My friend and I began to pick up these sticks, each more beautiful than the last: worn smooth by water and sand. We collected as many as we could and placed them in the trunk of the car.

Weeks before I had been reading about Prayer sticks and looking at images of Prayer sticks from different cultures, mainly Native American and Buddhist. I began to imagine the making of my own prayer sticks using the materials around me from the ocean: Gull feathers, twine, sea urchins, an occasional shell. And what prayers will be said when I place them in the dirt?

Knitting Circle

This month I attended a Knitting Cicle led by Melanie Reuter. She not only taught some of us how to knit she offered her philosophy and theology of knitting.

After the first meeting I bought yarn that soothed my eye and felt good to my touch. I bought needles that were smooth and slender. I liked how they felt. I even liked how they looked in an old basket I pulled out from under the sink.

Changing Temperatures

Today  the temperature will rise to record heat with a prediction of thirty degrees cooler tonight. I sense the coming of coolness in the way the light shines through my window this afternoon. 

Twice in the last twenty-four hours I have had the opportunity to discuss the act of writing with people who want to write. I received a rejection letter from a literary journal I love and respect and an email inviting me to send in my  nonfiction manuscript. On Tuesday I wrote the beginnings of a new poem. I’m back to moving between the reading of four, no five books. I marked off appointments on my work calender to reserve day next week for reading and writing.

My friend and critic, Miriam, says I frequently use the word “enter” in my poems. I can’t help myself. I enter, begin and begin.

September Evening

Facing a weekend alone, I welcome the solitude. I reheated the chicken and garlic, added fresh spinach and cherry tomatoes. I’ve yet to eat the dark chocolate I bought yesterday. The wind is wild out of the north, my shades moving from inside.

I’m thinking about baking a cake to honor the  Fall Equinox and my new home: applesauce date nut, the oldest recipe I own. And wheat bread with raisins I want the fragrances to permeate the walls as if I marking my territory.

I have been without a home for more than two years. Today, I almost feel settled. I like the light that enters in the morning, the horizon just yards away. I like the moon as my night light. I love the sound of the ocean at 3 AM. Just this minute the clouds are dark and puffy, a storm off shore. I can see the lights in the house across the street. Loneliness feels far away.

Morning Practice

This morning I’m at my desk. I’m closing my eyes to the dishes in the sink, the folded clothes that need to be put away, the unmade bed. I’ve spoken to my daughter in Chicago on her way to work. I’ve walked my 40 minutes, eaten breakfast of cereal and raspberries. I’ve letters to read and write. I won’t have time before I leave the house to finish any of the tasks before I leave for my office.

 First things first, the practice of haiku. My friend, Lila, and I are sending them on postcards once a week. We did this ten years ago and we are doing it again for another year: The Cove Point Anthology.

I’m sifting through photographs of Three Ridges. The cold temperatures seem evident in the stiffness of the leaves on the trail. Rethinking pilgrimage, retreat, interior, the close-up of water half-frozen. Poems from the trail.

Minutes before I must shower and leave, I’m wishing for the entire day, interrupted only by the sound of the passing traffic and the wheels washed in the rainwater. Only the windows facing north and east are wet. The gutters have multiple openings from rust and rain pours at random places, making the sound uneven and random.

This morning I read Charles Wright, ” Distortions and side events are often interesting and entertaining, but they are not the stillness and gathered attention at road’s end. It’s not a question of paper, of typewriters, of white space or dark space–it’s a question of what is in your life, and where you want your life to lead.”

Poetry as ” soul making,” my daily devotion.

Stillness and Wind

The wind races around the corner of the house, battering the windows and screens. The shades rattle from the inside. My first storm in this residence. Boys are walking down the street in the rain with their surfboards under their arms. And I am practicing stillness.

Stilling tears, stilling song, stilling my foot from tapping, stilling the strands of hair loose from my clip, stilling internal noise. How still will I allow myself to be?

Sunday Night Toward the End of Summer

Today I noticed leaves in my outdoor baskets are turning a slight shade of red. While the temperatures are still very warm, the plants know autumn is coming. The beach air is crisp and the sky clear. It is the beginning of a new year. Poems are stirring in my head as I am about to turn off the light to sleep.

Community

How do we build community when our inclination is to be alone?

One companion, then two.

What constitutes family?

How does one reconcile physical distance between loved ones?

How does one remain open to receive love?

Breathe in the space that is empty.