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?