Sabbath #70

This morning woke to a light drizzle and cool temperatures after sleeping soundly. Satisfied throughly yesterday after the short drive to Chincoteague and back. Weekly now we’ve been driving the three mile loop before we leave the beach at Assateague. The loop, usually populated by migratory birds but recently the lake that draws them has been empty because of the drought, it’s bottom now nothing but cracked sand. Scorched by recent high temperatures. Mosquitoes, black flies and horseflies abundant. Occasionally a yellow butterfly or two. Yesterday we began our drive at dusk, a cloudy sky, prepared to see little other  than perhaps a deer or two feeding in the marsh. In early and late spring we walked the loop, sometimes even taking the side trail to the oceanfront. Attending to the loop has become ritual now, sometimes beginning a week, sometimes ending one. Often celebratory. Nevertheless, the terrain has become familiar ground and part of our married landscape. Married to each other and this place we live. We are local and regulars. Immediately as we enter the first turn I notice color, first whites then pinks. Plants three to four feet high with blossoms. A few at first, than many, bordering the entire rim of the lake.  They seeming appeared from nowhere. And considering the drought and heat, seems no less than a miracle. It is evening so the hibiscus blooms are closing, petals folding on each other, savoring the dew. The lush greens of marsh grass now spotted with unexpected color. July hibiscus blooming in the marsh as if they appeared from nowhere. How little it takes to please us. We understand how fortunate, nothing short of grace that we, together, love what we love. Hibiscus, white and pink. An egret at the edge of the marsh. A doe standing in the thicket. A green heron. Returning over the causeway,words between us, completely unnecessary.

Sabbath #69

This morning I did not take my walk. And now I wonder what I missed. Strange I never regret walking, only not walking. Instead, I rested a few extra minutes and then read, not the book I wanted to read but a book I’m sharing in discussion with two other women. I’m reading out of obligation. Recently, I finished yet  another book about pilgrimage with glimpses into the monastic and the quest for prayer. A journey book. That’s what I’m drawn to. And language, and words poetically placed that lead me to the unknown.  I’m reading two other nonfiction books, Wild by Cheryl Strayed and Labyrinths:Walking Toward the Center by Gernot Candolini. Both books about journeys, both pilgrimages of sort involving obsessions. In both these books the narrators sell everything, abandon convention and take to the path or the road. It’s a theme for me beginning and ending with Basho. Writing along the way. Last week I asked, Is wandering necessary? Yes, I believe so. On a path, a road , the shoreline, a creek, a labyrinth. Switchbacks, steep inclines, fields, channel markers, charted and uncharted. Random and not random. We don’t always know why. Maybe for our love of the questions. Our love of the Mysterious, possibly the Divine. Discovery. We know challenge and struggle, sometimes danger can often intercede. Without risk ,we know little. Are we halfway there? Recently I rejoined, reentered, signed on. This path has cornfields on either side with creeks and marsh near-by. Sea and bay.  I travel with companions in solitude.

Sabbath #67

I walked this morning past the bean field, the creek. Waters calm, air still. Saw a red-headed woodpecker in the pine at the edge of the marsh. It was a fast walk before the heat rises to an unbearable temperature. No traffic. I’m reading three books all with the word mystery prominent. Mystery of monasteries, mystery of faith, mystery of the natural world. Mysterious musings within myself. I light the incense. Sit back in my chair. Feet flat on the floor. Gaze, then close my eyes. Listen. Listen. Wait. Breathe. Listen. My mind wanders to my children, far away. Then I come back to my breath. Sharon Salzberg says it’s how we treat ourselves in the gap after we’ve wandered, when we come back to the breath that really matters. Loving kindness. May I be happy. Gentle with myself. It’s the same with poetry. Begin again. Follow the thread.Writing the last four days, a poem a day. Finally ordered my books from the move months ago. Set up the tables for work in progress. Three books. It’s not simply finding home. It’s the move beyond the mind, not just fear. More than settling in. More than comfort. Safety. Yet, risking. A combination of lightheartedness and seriousness of purpose. Discipline. Routine without thought. Books pulled from the shelf: Compass of Affection, Seeds from A White Birch, The Cloud of Unknowing. A folder of new poems. Courage returned by Sheridan on my desk, framed. Tea in the new cup from Bennington. A letter, stamped and addressed to Miriam. A folder of her letters to me written over the years. The habitual respect. Obsession. The devotion. Not so much belief. A recognition of self existing on the page, after a fast walk on a summer morning by the field and along the marsh.

Sabbath # 66

Yesterday we saw one deer midfield in early afternoon, unusual in summer heat. And today on my morning walk, rabbits at every turn, half a dozen or so. Again unusual. The last two nights, lightening and thunder, needed rain. The corn half way to being done. No tassels yet. And I’m reading about prayer from a teacher I once had. He’s on a pilgrimage in Greece. I too am a pilgrim attracted to the monastic. Stillness. Silence. Attention to heart. Prayer. I’ve spent most of my working hours listening to voices other than my own or God’s. Even though I look for the Divine in every person who enters my office. I still don’t feel called to that work, not even a reluctant calling. But I’ve spent over thirty years in the field, so to speak. And today, this Sabbath marks a sea change, tides turning. I’m at my desk, my writing desk. Poets I want to reread stacked: Eliot, Keats, Wright, Gregg to start. My notebook,open. Haiku practice begun. Meditation, daily. Silent prayer. Yesterday, I thought, Is it really my turn? Yes, I’m taking my turn. Just beginning. I’ll still do the other work because I have to, but with a certain understanding that I’m called to some other mystery like the deer midfield mid afternoon. In solitude. Listening to silence. And not alone.