September 26, 2015 § Leave a comment
Finding a bright side to a dark situation.
Going with it. Allowing it. Honoring it. Moving beyond not in spite of, but because of.
Because we can learn the greatest lessons from our darkest days.
This is the natural cycle of life. And death.
This is not what I meant to write about this week. A whole essay on another topic open on my desk top ready to share with you. It can wait. This came up. And so we go with it. Ride the waves of life. For to miss out is to lose those greatest lessons. This is living.
Here in the high country, rain and hail continue. Clear mornings bring heavy frost. Clouds amass by mid day and the sky is awash in striations of deep grey by afternoon. Maybe in evening after a good downpour, the sun will break through far to the…
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September 17, 2015 § Leave a comment
Beautiful sentiment, beautiful writing.
He was tall, rangy, with huge hands, a well-tended beard, piercing blue eyes, with lips that could smirk on a moment’s notice. And he lumbered from side to side when he walked, dropping his feet purposely with each step. His white habit and black wool scapular, tied with a leather cincture, swayed back and forth like a pendulum released.
He was a monk. A Trappist monk. He was Brother Steven. And I miss him, even though he’s still alive.
I met him long ago while on retreat in Virginia, a time of emotional upheaval as I went through my divorce. The first divorce in my family. It was a true retreat from the world, and a time of respite for mind, body and spirit. Each day was silent, a time of prayer, reflection, discernment, and attending their hours of Divine Office. Meals were provided, attended to in silence…
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July 18, 2015 § 8 Comments
July 14, 2015 § Leave a comment
Life is sweet…
We are in the car. Why do these conversations always start in the car?
DorkySon: I don’t think I want to eat blueberries anymore.
Me: Why not? I thought you liked them.
DorkySon: I do, but they always roll off the plate.
Me: They don’t if the plate is sitting on the table like it should be.
DorkySon: Also, I didn’t really want to tell you this, but do you know what I do with them when they roll off the plate?
Me: … No. What do you do?
DorkySon: I hide them behind the shelves in the den.
Me: Lots of them?
DorkySon: Mmmm. Quite a few.
Me: That’s not a very good idea. We might get ants or mice in the house trying to eat them.
DorkySon: Perhaps when we get home I should show you…
Me: Perhaps you should.
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June 2, 2015 § Leave a comment
…Life has pushed its hands through the roots of a tousled sleep, and teased out flower, feather, dandelion dreams, the scream of swifts combing through the blue.
Words have been trying to keep up with this new, wide-awake pace – but have trembled. They have needed a little longer in the sun to unfurl. They have followed a slower track of light than the leaves greening all around me.
This spring, sorely-needed Time has sat down beside me in the drowse of bees and the breeze on the page, turning the hours to look up and see a great spotted woodpecker, black, white and startle-red, amongst a snow-fall of blossom.
Folding into its pocket the soul-weary close of last summer, Time has worn the concern of a healer. It has come forward, hesitantly at first, with small gifts: an autumn-gold leaf, loose on the air; spinning loss like a coin – and landing future-side up. A robin, its ages-old gaze – beadily wise – pinning my feet back into a…
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May 10, 2015 § 2 Comments
May 1, 2015 § 1 Comment
April 13, 2015 § 3 Comments
There is an intense clarity found in springtime in the high mountains. It is not beautiful, but real and raw. It hides nothing. Like a truth you cannot escape. An inner stirring as the outer winds churn cold and biting from over the Divide.
It is not a stunning time, but one of stark realities. You are left to face yourself, your world, in all its plainness. Earthen tones and unadorned branches that may snap in the strong gusts if not full and plump with awakening life and the memory of remaining flexible. A time to weed out the weak, prepare for the upcoming unfurling. Last year’s brown grass strewn with grey branches like abandoned dreams. I pick them up as I walk by and stack them in burn piles to clean up when the wind dies down and we’re ready for a quiet evening.
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