I’ve been mentally, wordlessly adrift the past few days, enjoying the crazy spring weather, as well as everything else. We had a violent cloudburst about an hour ago, and it turned the backyard into a lake. There is still water standing everywhere, front and back, down the street, across the street, in the air, and even up in the trees. Not adrift, therefore, in any despairing sense, but indeed most agreeably so — profoundly, spiritually so — adrift like a child who has just learned to tie his shoes, as I did one Thursday afternoon when I was five. I was out in the yard. I had been trying to learn at school, on the shoe-tying boot in our kindergarten class at Lincoln School. But to tie that shoe, you had to face it, which was the opposite of tying one’s own. It didn’t make sense to me. To this day I have trouble with that concept. I need to be behind the shoe, not in front of it. Anyway, I was outside playing, when I happened to notice my shoe was untied. Without thinking, I bent down and tied it, and didn’t realize what I had done until after I had done it. When I did, I shouted for joy and ran into the house to tell everyone I’d finally succeeded. And I’ve been tying my own shoes ever since. Adrift in that sense — in the sense that I feel quite certain I have told this story before, to someone, to you, to others, in this and in other times, every few seconds needing to glance down at my shoe, just to be sure — of what? If I knew that, I wouldn’t be adrift. I would be almost sixty-one, sitting at my mother’s old desk, writing this note. And we both know that can’t be, especially because it is. And if that makes sense, let it go, as I do every time those twin pests, logic and sanity, come to call.
Monday, April 24, 2017
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Saturday, April 22, 2017
Friday, April 21, 2017
Thursday, April 20, 2017
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
What I need on one of my bookshelves is a slender, rejoicing figure no more than three inches tall, bronze in color, perhaps, although another cast or shading might do as well, with feet planted in such a way as to suggest a high mountain scene, ecstasy, an approaching thunderstorm, magic, motion, male at a glance, female in dance, a butterfly’s pose, a winter wind’s pause, a cool face in the mirror of a pond. And all of this because I moved some books around.
One way to explain the liquid sunshine drenching the street in a crystalline shower of near cloudless rain, is that life is so helplessly and joyfully abundant, she weeps. And of course there are other ways, but all send their love, just the same.
So light so early . . .
earth thoughts, cloud shadows, treetops . . .
and in the east, beyond the mountains,
deep in the high desert,
the sun not quite done with her bath . . .
Yes, it is like that this morning,
said the window
to the man.
Monday, April 17, 2017
Last night’s rain was a brief round of applause — a tenth of an inch, just enough to wash away the rainbow chalk mark games the neighbor kids made. And so when they come home from school today, they’ll have a fresh blank canvas to write on. Much like the sky this morning, already filled with the script of joyous birds.
Sunday, April 16, 2017
Things dried out nicely yesterday, enough that I could sweep the fir needles from the walk, and for the neighbor kids to chalk their driveway with colorful games and designs. When I was coming back from across the street with the mail, I could see their dog sitting happily and looking on, his nose testing each scent in the air, smiling, content, completely satisfied to be a part of it all. The whole world was his bone.
Early on, it froze — well, not quite. It was thirty-four degrees. But the rooftops were white, and just as the sun was coming up a light fog formed. Out for a walk, I was able to look directly into the old star’s face. We exchanged gazes for a time, the way friends do who haven’t seen each other for a while, and who know and love the long way around.
The atmosphere in the afternoon was an explosion of pollen, light, and color — doors open, windows open, heart open, mind open.
And then came evening, and soon all was silent, even though all was silent before — silent in the traffic’s roar, the dog’s bark, the child’s shout, the slammed door, the church bell, and the good-bye horn. Such joy there is between rains, knowing there will be more, and even more joy, when it returns.
Friday, April 14, 2017
Thursday, April 13, 2017
In the afternoon, a couple of days ago,
Just as it was starting to rain,
I planted some flower seeds. As a finishing touch,
I made some thumbprints in the dough.
When the bread is finished baking,
The sprouts will emerge through scented seams,
And quickly hide this poem.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
this year the tulips are cut and colored in such a way
they seem to have fallen out of stained glass windows
along with the artist that placed them there
whose tired eyes are closed
and whose breath
Monday, April 10, 2017
Yesterday we were at the grocery store when a woman about our age came up to me and said she loved my beard, and then started patting and stroking it lightly, with a gleam in her eye that indicated certain social barriers didn’t exist in her mind. I waited patiently and spoke kindly while her embarrassed young granddaughter tugged at her gently and tried to guide her away. It was a lovely, beautiful moment. I would have stood there forever if needed, but the girl made sure that wasn’t necessary. Later, elsewhere in the store, we were ignored by all sorts of “normal” people. That, too, was beautiful, in the way that the hard shells of walnuts are beautiful, etched like thumbprints in their infinitely peculiar, familiar design. “Children in the garden,” I thought, “flowers plucked one by one, each in its time.”
Sunday, April 9, 2017
Saturday, April 8, 2017
These are in remarkably good condition,
with ribbon markers that appear to be unused and unmoved
since publication of the set in London
by The Navarre Society
|(click to enlarge)|
|(click to enlarge)|
Friday, April 7, 2017
A mighty wind is thrashing the firs.
Yesterday, the crows were busy gathering wood for their nests.
When the wind dies down, they will resume.
Ignorance, hatred, and violence aren’t new in the world.
Fir cones are hitting the house.
Shall I be angry with the wind? Are the crows?
Thursday, April 6, 2017
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
When I was a kid, chamomile grew wild on our San Joaquin Valley farm, but I didn’t know it was chamomile, I only knew I liked the way it carpeted the ground, and how it smelled when I crushed the unopened blooms between my fingers and held them up to my nose. We were also the accidental holders of a vast wealth in purslane, a great edible ground cover that Armenians in the area called “parpar,” and that we kids called “easy weeds.” This natural crop was most abundant in the vineyard rows where the soil was heaviest. At a more mature stage, it bloomed and attracted clouds of narrow little flies. We could plow it up with the tractor, and, owing to its succulent nature, it would stay alive in the moist earth for days, weeks, even. Picture these growing in furrows with a new summer crop of tiny toads hopping among them and you have my childhood in miniature. Weeds, toads, buzzards drifting overhead, sparrows, mockingbirds, angry yellow jacket nests, dirt, dust, extreme heat, sweat, a high mountain range to the east with snow-capped peaks — complete enchantment. There was an old retired well in one spot, about an eighth of a mile behind our house. It had a heavy iron cover, and there was a little hole in the cover, just big enough for me to drop a clod in and wait for the sound of a splash somewhere below. I can hear it even now — just as I can feel myself falling through black space between daylight and the bottom of the well. And here beside me, growing cold in my cup? You guessed it. Chamomile.
Monday, April 3, 2017
When my wife and I first tied the knot, or got hitched, as the saying goes, I was nineteen. That was more than forty-one years and four children ago. Now, at the end of every day, before sleep, I always tell her the same thing: I say thank you, for everything. You see, I do not believe in tomorrow, and I do not assume the next morning will find me alive. And so, if I go during the night, the last words I will have consciously, purposely spoken are words of thanks to someone whose boundless strength and faith have seen us through. Simple enough, and certainly true. But I wanted you to know. And to the writers, artists, poets, old friends, new friends, wanderers, lovers, dreamers, builders, workers, and doubters who pass this way today — thank you, too — thank you, thank you, all.
A clear, quiet, frosty morning, with white rooftops and hearty tulips. Out early for a walk — trees flowering all around, a porch light here and there still on — I inhaled and thought, Remember, when you take anything or anyone for granted, you take yourself for granted. At any moment, you can, and will, go out like a light. And even that is a miracle. Gratitude.
Sunday, April 2, 2017
The garden that is this world — the people, the creatures, the trees, the rocks, the stars — once we see that these are all ourselves in another form, and understand that there is no distance between us, we see God — here, in the lamplight, here, in the dust. Once we see that all are sacred or none, and that dream is as solid as bone, we see God — here, in uncharted space, here, in the whale’s spout. Once we see that all is intimacy, and that all is love, the painful questions fall off one by one — should we eat meat, or should we not — which way must we face when we pray — which book shall we believe — what is the meaning of war — and why, oh, why, are we here? Everything is dear. And joy outpaces the explanation, that God is a child, God is the sun, God is the rainbow, that we are God, and that all is God, and the kingdom is here. Or will we choose fear? If we do, that too is well, for it will be shaken from us when our last leaf is down — and what is more beautiful than all of us standing here, naked through winter, and spring invincibly near?
Saturday, April 1, 2017
Yesterday afternoon, with the enthusiastic help of our six-year-old grandson, I mowed the pasture in front of the house with the old push-mower my father bought way back in 1964. The thing weighs a ton. The grass was a foot deep from the rain. The buffalo scattered. The mountain goats came down from the trees. Raking madly, going after stray blades with a pair of scissors, the boy was in heaven, as I was, and as are we all. We swept the sidewalk at least half a dozen times and gazed out across the plain. Then I brought out a chair and drank tea while he trimmed the young cedar next to the lilac, ran the brush through his shredder, and spread the mulch on our garden space. Well imagined. Well done, as every tool in the garage assumed a magical new purpose. Paradise, of course. It needn’t be hard.