poem

That obnoxious officiant clerk

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Longing for Budapest
I want to cruise the Danube
from Switzerland to the Black Sea
drifting from one fairytale to the next.

I’m more interested in Vienna than
Paris thought I certainly wouldn’t
turn up my nose at the Louvre
and afternoon coffee on the Seine.

An overwater bungalow with a thatched
roof in the Fiji appeals
more than Bali, though the terraced
rice paddies are really something.

Thailand would be lovely.
But Vietnam’s beckoning is stronger.
A train from north to south.
My family has a history there.

Speaking of which — Ireland.
But Edinburgh shouts louder.
It’s wilder, I think. A little rough around
the edges, like my chosen home.

I was in Guatemala on an aid trip
fifty years ago this year.
I’d like to see it with these eyes.
That 17-year-old’s were perhaps too young.

The choices are limitless and overwhelming.
When at most. I can choose one. Maybe two.
My finite bank account is an officious clerk
refusing to stamp my passport so I can move on.

Eutony

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Eutony. Some words just roll around your mouth like a well-loved piece of candy – sweet and pleasant – a delight and a treat.  There’s dazzle, for one.  And delightful, for that matter.  Tummy is a yummy word.  And raspberry.  But the best word – actually phrase – is salon de belleza.  It’s Spanish for beauty salon.  I learned it in junior high or maybe high school.  From its introduction to me to now, I like to roll it around in my mouth.  Long and slow–salon de belleza.  Of course, a Spanish speaker would say it much faster, but I like to linger over all those vowels.  Linger – now there’s another word. 

Sadly, I don’t have much opportunity to work salon de belleza into daily conversation.  Pity. 

I like the word envelope.  Not envelope.  Envelope.  And then there’s the verb envelope.  Autonomy is fun and anthropological uses all the muscles in your face – I’m convinced of it though I have no proof.

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Komorebi

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Dappled light in the forest of my dreams.  Serene.  Peace.  At ease.  Body vibrating at the same frequency as the trees.  The breeze lifts a tendril of hair and my spirit soars.  I feel good.

Oh to feel good.  For nothing to hurt.  Not my back.  Not my feet.  Not my heart. 

I can’t remember when.,,  Let’s not go there. 

I want a komorebi tan – light-kissed skin with the shapes of leaves tattooed by the sun.

I remember my first fall and deciduous trees.  I was enraptured.  I made a glue of flour and water and pasted fallen leaves to the mirror of my Sears French Provincial dresser.  I was 12.  The leaves were orange and red and brown.  The flour dried hard and solid.  Those leaves were there for months and months.  Until… I don’t know why or when I removed them.

Komorebi – you can almost smell the fragrance of chlorophyll.  The trees respirating oxygen.  A body can breathe in the forest.  Deep cleansing breaths. Breathe in the now, exhale the past. 

Relax.  Rejuvenate.  Rejoice. 

May the forest always be with us.  May the light always be with us.  May peace be our birthright.  Forever and ever Amen.

The Sacred Hour

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Dawn is the sacred hour.  We move from one world to the next accompanied by a dramatic lighting of this world.

Old Window in Finland by Helena Turpeinen, poster to View From My Window Facebook group

It wasn’t until my late 40s I was able to appreciate or regularly meet the dawn.  If my sleep schedule ever regulates, I will miss these holy hours.  I wake in the dark and cast off the stories my psyche told me while asleep and head for my beloved roll-top desk. 

Dependent on the time of year, it could be some time before the dawning or just minutes.

But as I write the stories and sip coffee in silence, I glance over my shoulder through the atrium doors to look for the first arc of light. 

It usually begins as a soft peachy pink rising with the fog over the hills and peeking through the trees.  Dependent on weather and time of year, the color will sometimes intensify, sometimes wane, but always is a hearkening.

Here we are again.  We made it to another day.

The silence is important. 

Soon, the birds will start and the world will begin its hustle, but for a few minutes it’s just light and the creation of a new day, the creation of a new story to be told.  Color on the silhouettes of the mountains bring me such contentment. 

In twelve days, I will be on the shore of Lake Okeechobee in Florida.  I’ve never been there before but I’ve seen sunset photos–another sacred part of the day.  I am eager to nestle with my lover before leaving our bed to sit on the dock with my mug of coffee and journal.  It won’t be silent – the lapping of the tide should, will, create its own sounds of peace.  I am eager to see the Spanish moss hanging from the trees light up as the sun begins it ritual. 

I’m sure I will photograph the scene in order to remember it, but I hope it imprints on my heart. 

This is the sacred hour.  Rejoice in the silence and witness the light.  Turn to a new page and tell the story.