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There isn't always a trail to blaze.. sometimes the trail is missing altogether..
Sometimes the trail can't be seen..
Sometimes one must leave the trail and make their own way..
In all these instances I listen..
And follow that which isn't spoken..
To find my own way..
Which generally is the right way..
At least for me..
..I prefer the less traveled road.
Morning..
Exhaling..
In the wind
Under the swaying branches
Before the rain
And the retreat
The first full breath
Of daylight.
Breath.
Wood Thrush
Babbling Creek
Blue sky
Wandering
But not lost
Homesick
But home
Friends song
Held in the notes of the Louisiana Waterthrush
Spring has sprung
Quiet mind
Space
And wonder..
Tick tock
Adventure calls..
This old tree
Has been standing longer than me.
It died many years ago.
A large healthy limb in the pine beside it is all that keeps gravity from pulling it to the earth to depcompose.
I have been watching and waiting
For years now.
Each time I walk near it I look at it and wonder
When it will fall.
I wonder if I will notice it when it is no longer there..
I wonder where it will fall.
And, what it will look like when it does..
And what it will sound like..
It isn't much to look at.
Even the birds stay away from it.
Most humans would never notice it.
It is almost invisible in its standing decay..
I could easily knock it down.
It wouldn't take very much.
But I don't.
Instead..
I wait.
Home Is
A spider web
Glistening
In the light of the sun
Rising in the east.
It is the sit of the wren,
The pecking of the chickens
And the sweetness
Of my lovers kiss
Upon my neck
His breath and smell forcing me
To close my eyes
And savor the moment.
Home is the roar of the highway
As people travel
North
And south
Even on a perfect
Sunday morning.
It is a breath held
And released
Thankful
For the stillness the cool breeze
Brings to the moment.
It is the glistening drop of water
Slowly gathering
Light
And enough weight
To drop
To the earth
In a thundering unexpected
Silent splash.
Home is the chatter of the squirrels
Momentarily upset
By the hawk
Who hunts them
And miraculously appears
Seemingly out of no where
Or the raccoon
Who instinctually year after year
Returns to the faithful persimmon
Savor in their short season.
It is the pine warbler trill,
The hermit thrush song,
The nuthatch call,
And the seasonal
Eastern phoebe song.
Home is here.
My breath before me
A hat upon my head
In absolute stillness
I hear the katydid sing
So close I can hear the massage of their wings
Before his music fills the air
Of the night.
I climb giant rocks
To better look out over the river
Gazing into the wandering waters
The stories it's molecules can tell..
Without from whence it came
It would have no where to go.
In the darkness of the new moon
The wolf moon
I have heard the Owls song
And the coyotes howl.
I wonder over all of it.
How did they come to also be in this time?
In this place?
... Breath
... Evolution
... Emergence
... Love
... Intuition
... Empathy
... Congragation
... This is my prayer
I gaze to the paling rosy sky
And hear the rustle of the drying leaves,
The calls of the downy woodpeckers,
The joining together of the bird guilds.
I delight in the song of the pine warbler
And the chirp of the crickets
Both calling Fall to spread herself
Upon the land
In hues of golds, red, and orange.
I listen for the last of the cicada song
Fading fast
On the branches of trees
Just beginning to release their leaves.
I wait for the morning glories to open
Right with daybreak.
I watch them close
Their job well done at sunset.
I live for the light.
During these days
The dog days
Of humidity,
Of August,
Of Summer
I stand outside and hear the
Crickets.
Occasionally the cicadas still sing
But thick air
Suffocates
Everything but the
Crickets.
Summers close
Autumns wake
Leaves yellow and scorch
Under the heat of the summer sun.
It takes effort to breathe.
It is no wonder
The birds
the leave the singing
To the
Crickets.
Not every note I write can be a masterpiece
Not every word I feel
Can be spoken
Not everything makes sense all the time
And not everything can be understood eventually...
Not every wound can be healed
and not every joy remembered
But every day can be lived
And every day be experienced
When faith in the present moment
Is held in your heart.
Closing my eyes and breathing deeply
I can smell the musk of life moving in the heavy humid air.
The sound of all that is around me sings of the buzz of life
That summer is.
The sky tells the story of the changing seasons in the color of the light
As it fades into the west.
A butterfly floats past fluttering rapidly to stay adrift in the heavy summer air.
And in a snap of a moment
the vibrational frequency whispers
secrets and stories of sound sung only in the story of the summer time dusk.
God speaks in the sounds of perfect stillness.
His language is held in the vibration of light.
His words float aimlessly on the air
Carrying the poetry of all that is.
I want people to say about me
that she wrote
she created
she never stopped
speaking
through words what the spirit revealed to her.
I want them to say
Even if the words were not theirs
Or her ways were not theirs
She still wrote.
She still shared her heart.
I want them to say
that the echoes
of her spirit
rang from the canopy of trees,
she was held in the light of the sun
she was carried on the breeze that blows
invisibly over the surface of the earth.
I want them to say
The birds sang their morning songs
outside her window
beckoning her to join them in welcoming the day.
Her days were wrought with action
with loving
with living
with all that she had...
I want them to say:
She loved the earth.
She loved her man.
She loved her children.
She loved her life.
I want them to say they saw me...
Because they saw it within themselves.
Stillness is breathing deep
Answering the call
of the heart.
Stillness
is soaking in the breeze
on a hot summer day.
Stillness is the present moment
with all your thoughts
running through your head
while feeling relief
-even for a moment
from all it takes to survive.
Stillness can be found
on the drops of dew
that cling to the earth
when the air passed over it
its movement lit only by the moon.
Stillness can be learned
by watching the clouds
easily drift across the sky
with no predetermined destination.
Stillness
is a state of expansion
beyond the thoughts held within the mind
beyond the strategies for surviving.
Stillness is the space
between the thoughts
allowing the thoughts to come and go
without attachment.
It is seeing thoughts as manifestation of our experience as humans.
It is practicing moments within moments.
It is practicing subtle quiet spaces.
It allows us to be the clouds
and release
expectation and need.
Stillness
is being on the path,
Floating easily
with no destination.
It is not work.
It is arriving.
Wherever you are.
Summer is about fire, play, spirit, and water.
It is youthfulness and aliveness.
Summer is heat, sound, passion, and sun.
It is insects, birds, spiders, slithering and croaking things.
It's web, pockets of light on the forest floor... and shadows.
It's yellow flowers, bumble bees, wasps, and pollen.
Summer is a symphony of hums, buzzes, clucks, tweets, and chips.
It's morning sounds and evening sounds - distinctly different.
It's cicadas, katydids, and whippoorwills.
Summer is buds on flowers and baby birds.
It's sweltering humidity and relief brought by a powerful thunderstorm.
Summer is stories shared over fresh vegetables and memories of grandmothers...
And sweet iced tea...
Summer is about living...
Flowering...
Fruiting...
I have words
that run through my mind
Always.
I have things to say,
Stories to share,
Feelings and thoughts.
When I open my mouth
To speak
No words fall out
Only air
And the silence
That holds my heart.
Speechless.
Golden
Orb
of Light
Flying
Inside
Niches
Creating
Harmony
Looking for water
Unbothered by me
Curious
Digging
Strange critters
Came to my feet
Smelled me
And kept digging.
The river is a wonderful place to clear the mind.
It's a powerful reminder of the impressive strength of water.
Water wears away rock.
Water flows the path of least resistance with force and majesty.
Water fills the space that it is held within in balance and when there is too much of it for this space it over flows its banks and seeks new spaces to fill.
No matter where it flows it always seeks the path to where it can flow the easiest. There is no work because there is no effort, but a lot of power.
Water ambles, it seeps, it roars.
It moves.
It carves holes in stone, tadpoles grow within it, and you can put an arm all the way through it.
Even when water is still and not flowing like a river it still moves by being absorbed into the air.
Water - when needed changes course. It always goes where the path is easiest.
Water... is adaptable.
Water... is constant.
It is the perfect paradox.
Moments
I think of quiet moments
Of silent moments
Of moments within moments
Most every moment
I think of the ways
The space
And span
Of time
Are held within
These precious moments.
I listen for the well concealed
Silence
That echoes
At the center
Of time.
I pay close attention
To the way the squirrel walks
To the wood thrushes
Fluteful song.
I have to be alive
To be held
In silent moments
Of presence.
I have to hear
The beating
Of my heart
And witness my blood
Pump
Like the vibration
Of the cicadas song.
I have to feel
My lungs
Full with the breeze that blows
The waves of the water
Up on the shore.
Words
Fail to represent
That which I experience
In the quiet moments
In the moments within the moments
I think about.