Beauty Among the Browns

 

Searching for beauty among the browns 
And the greys and tans of
winter’s pall,
I tire of platitudes about
sleeping trees, their well-earned rest
and exquisite structure,
most keenly noticed
in their nakedness.
I tire of their stiffness and the
wind’s fierce moan
pummeling bare branches
and frozen bark,
of icy earth and water.

And so I search, intently,
diligently, persistently, as though
my life depended upon the outcome,
which it does…my inner life that
longs for beauty in the severity
and meaning in the waiting, hope
that this trying time will give way to
flowering and fruiting once again.

In the seeking is the finding, 
subtle though the rewards may be...
a few remaining winterberries hanging from dejected stems,
fuzzy grey magnolia buds and 
the-very-slowly-swelling, creamy
globules at the end of sassafras twigs,
enfolding next year’s leaves.
Beneath the woodland floor lie
tawny moth pupae and grubs and
the pale green points of skunk cabbage,
poking their heads above the surface,
testing the temperatures
undaunted by the chill, 

Are these the vibrant colors I long for?
Those that wind their way into verse and prose, so easily
conjuring images that make me smile?
No. 
But they are the colors of now, of what is now,
and in that I will rest. They are the
colors that protect and surround and
allow the birds of winter to
blend into their background
and become invisible against the tree trunks -
junco’s, white-throats, song sparrows, chickadees, titmice,
nuthatches, woodpeckers, Carolina wrens, mourning doves,
and the Cooper's and sharp-shinned hawks that hunt them, 
drab colors all.

Beauty among the tans and greys,
beauty among the browns.

Lace

 

Towering,

stripped,

exposed,

besieged by winter gales,

beleaguered partners

giving voice

to the wind.

 

Guardians,

protectors,

anchors,

branches straining upward,

lords of the woodland,

lace against 

the sky.

If You Are Quiet You Can Hear the Leaves Fall

Reposting this is becoming an autumn tradition

If you are very quiet
you can hear 
the leaves fall,
following
their twirling, swirling dance
with your ears
as well as your eyes, 
until they come to rest
gently
at your feet.

Amidst the 
gales 
that loosen
their grip,
even amidst the 
tumult
that rages
in your mind, 
if you stop, and
if you will yourself
to listen, 
you will hear their
falling-gently-to-earth whispers, 
as they rustle through
their companions
on the once-in-a-lifetime
descent.

Background noise
fills my mind
right now...
Outer noise of destruction, 
of greed, 
of power wielded wrongly.
Inner voices of fear,
of sadness, 
of outrage, 
of powerlessness...
noise that will surely drown me 
if I let it and
render me deaf, 
even to the Good.

And yet,

in stillness,
I can notice that
which is beyond
myself
and all my thoughts.
Gazing at
the trees of autumn,
standing and swaying
in the winds
that strip their leaves,

Grace breaks through.
I am renewed.

If you are very quiet, you can hear the leaves fall. 
Listen....

Deeply Rooted

 

Windflowers
(because they are deeply rooted,
with a nod to Psalm 1 and St Paul)

Tall
and graceful,
supple dancers
straining heavenward,
though no one tends them,
swaying in the slightest breeze
storm-blown but not broken
in autumn as others fade
cheery pink and yellow 
welcoming faces
hosting hungry
bees.

What Better Way?

What better way to greet the dawn this chilly,
drizzly, breezy morning than to wander,
wrapped in my old blanket,
among the damp salvia and agastache
and asters, blues and purples all,
or to delight in the sunny late black-eyed Susans
and the scarlet of the young blueberries
against the backdrop of slowly-turning autumn
colors of the woods?

How better to welcome the
newness of today 
than listening to the rhythm of the rain,
to the early cries of blue jays,
of crows and cardinals and
white-throated sparrows and the 
melodies of still-present crickets and katydids,
counting down what is left of the lingering
warm days of the year?

We are on the cusp of the Earth's long rest but,
like a child not yet ready for bed,
she prances and twirls,
showing off her extravagant colors and
throwing down her fruit...
abundance free for the taking, 
inviting all who are willing into
her dance of renewal.

This Misty Morning

The fog is a blanket this morning,

shielding me, as I sit on the front porch,
from the curious eyes
of neighbors.
But I can see all that I wish to
of my world, shrouded 
in the mist and
the sounds of wild things.

The chipmunks seem in a determined frenzy, 
hurriedly stocking up on the seeds
that will see them through the winter, and
the landscape is painted with
muted golds and purples, as  
the orange coneflowers, 
the aromatic asters,
and the stalwart salvias bloom on, 
feeding lingering ruby-throats and
the myriad bumblebees still
buzzing through the gardens.

Against the backdrop of cricket's and katydid's
early autumn songs,
the first ruby-crowned kinglet and
purple finch appeared in the
old apple tree, 
the kinglet boldly flitting through
the branches, apparently finding enough
prey to make its foraging worthwhile,
the finch still, cautious and watchful,
carefully weighing the dangers of this 
unfamiliar landscape before
settling in at a feeder, 
eager to dine after its journey from
the north.

I am swathed in gratitude this morning.
All I did was place seeds and small plants
into the ground last spring and they,
of their own accord,
have erupted into bounty.
The Creator, who has  been thusly
providing for all of life in the same manner,
is smiling. 
And I am smiling too on this foggy
October morning, thankful to be
partners with God.

 

Giant's Toes

The last few weeks have been full of the experience of caring for my former spiritual director in her last days and finally, the exhausting honor and privilege of accompanying her to the far edge of her life. This morning, I went looking for anchors.

 

What keeps them standing, against the odds
of gravity, wind and rain,
of eagles nests and woodpeckers'
excavations and human
intrusions?

What anchors them in tumultuous times, 
branches whipping wildly,
their trunks swaying to the
rhythm of the wind
as storms seem bent on destruction?

I know of roots and cambium,
of heartwood, xylem and phloem,
but what of these curious protrusions 
that grip the earth as if
holding on for dear life?

Surely we need whimsy in the face
of what feels like chaos.
We need to let our minds
run free and welcome the moments of 
imagination that allow us to breathe again
and to smile, if only in passing. 

They are the giants' toes, of course.

Gratitude in Tumultuous Times

 

For granting this space, that I may share 

 in Your creative, sustaining of life, 

thanks be to You, O God.

 

 

     For the miracle of seeds that turn the simplicity of lawn    

into a riot of color and beauty,

haven for small creatures,

thanks be to You.

For the ever present late-summer music of

crickets and katydids

and the goldfinch song among the sunflowers,

for monarchs and swallowtails and bees of all sizes feeding

on buckwheat in the hedgerow,

thanks be to You.

For blossoms that feed the
  migrating ruby-throats,

almost-never-still, zipping

back and forth between flowers,

feeders and each other,

thanks be to You.

For the deep peace of such a place,

for the gift of participating in the provision of Your care,
over and over,
day by day,

moment by moment,

thanks be to You.

On Acceptance

This post was originally written for Prayer Notes, an online publication by Oasis Ministry for Spiritual Development and will appear there in August.  https://oasismin.org/prayernotes

I have become quite fond of the green frogs who inhabit the old pond that came with the house. And the one goldfish who, along with another who is now missing, produced an uncountable number of progeny that I have no idea what to do with. I am grateful for the young flickers who poke exploratory holes in the ancient apple tree’s immature fruit and the catbirds who not-so-stealthily pilfer blueberries from bushes I put in this spring. I don’t mind the chipmunk who tunnels around the newly planted hydrangea, or even the young rabbits who feel the need to sample almost everything I’ve planted. I have a sense of belonging in their midst, they who were here long before we arrived.

But the snapping turtle was another matter. I first noticed its nostrils poking above the water’s surface one recent evening, fearful at first that some displaced sea monster had entered the pond. As it raised its head and I recognized the newcomer, I admit to being momentarily horrified even, thankfully, as a curious fascination took hold.

And so…in addition to all the creatures I have most gladly welcomed, we have this one I would not have chosen, but have come to accept as being a member of our tiny ecosystem. It is said that the contemplative life is one in which we are invited to open ourselves to what is…the reality around us as it is, what we like and don’t like, what we can and cannot change, and to live our lives from that noticing. I have been given an intimate, tangible reminder of that invitation and have found that in my responding, surprisingly, he or she has become not so objectionable after all. Thanks be to God!

Saying Goodbye

They were here this morning, 
the young pileated woodpecker
and his mother,
chipping away at the old stump,
foraging for sustenance, 
for grubs, worms and borers,
foraging for what would be soon
no longer alive.

Today, we will say goodbye to our 
old dog, whose weary heart
is failing. So much of
life shared together,
memories etched into our
very hearts.
How difficult to let him go.

We will place him  
in the hedgerow, 
his body to nourish the 
young trees and shrubs that will
sustain the wild ones who come.

"Important work happens within us
when we stop and allow 
ourselves to be open." * 
And so, may I be open to
the deepening 
that comes with the
chosen acceptance
of grief.

* The Pilgrim Spirit, Andrea Skevington, pg. 20

The First Morning

If this morning were the first morning,
the first dawn of the world's awakening,
to what would I be drawn?

Would I pay more attention to what have become
the common, expected happenings of early June...
the red-winged blackbird's squeaky song
and the complicated warbles of the house wren,  
the tiny chipmunk's indefatigable energy
as he bounds around the barn,
startling a pair of chipping sparrows with his 
boisterous antics?

Would I gaze in greater wonder at the sight 
of ruby-throats on the 
blue salvia, meticulously working each flower
or the exquisite colors of the 
fuchsia hanging on my front porch?

Would I delight in the ghostly, 
back-lit appearance of gnats in flight,
or the single strand of a spider's silk glinting in the sun,
or dewdrops sparkling on the still grasses 
in the field across the road? 

Would I smile at the ash's swaying branches,
or the breezes on my cheek,
the bluebirds' soft whistles 
and the catbirds' persistent chatter?

Were it the first morning, I would not need to turn  
to these gifts for solace, 
for refuge in times 
of the fear and anger and sadness
that had not yet come into the world.
And yet, in our day,
these common, expected happenings
of early June
have become just that.
Thanks be to God.

Hymns of the Morning

Hymns of praise to You, O Creator God

Hymns of rain pattering on new leaves this morning,
            of drips on the pond
            and wind in the boughs,
            the soft melodies of wood thrush and peewee
            and raucous cries of blue jay and nuthatch,
            of catbirds' murmuring musings and
            tanagers' buzzy cadence.

Hymns of trucks in the distance,
            their provision and the life within their cabs,
            of a husband's footsteps on old wooden floors
            and the teapot whistling in the kitchen,
            of neighboring roosters' early crowing
            and their hens' laying song.

Hymns of woodpecker's drilling
            and their young's insistent squawks,
            the whoosh of air beneath the vulture's wings
            and the twang of the green frog's call,
            of squirrels chattering
            and the vixen's scream.

Hymns of praise to You, O Creater God,
Hymns that tune my heart to You.

The Hidden Places

Enfolded in the greens of yellow birch,
of shagbark hickory and beech,
the blackhaw thicket, newly
leafed out and blooming,
stands impenetrable.
For me anyway.
The hooded warbler singing
from within
has no trouble navigating
the tangle of twigs and branches,
feasting on insects
too tiny for me 
to see.

His song I know, 
but he moves unseen until,
momentarily flitting
into the open,
he is revealed, 
brilliant yellow and black,
going about his business
unmindful of my 
presence.

The northern waterthrush is 
a different story. 
He too sings,
teasingly, 
leading me on
in anticipation and 
hope, 
to the next thicket, 
the next turn in the path, 
just out of reach
remaining invisible,
there but not 
seen.

How like the realities buried
within me.
The unease disguised
as anger,
too frightening to face
head-on.
It hides and weaves 
through the recesses
of my consciousness
until, finally,
following its movements,
I recognize the fear
that has given itself away.
And with that recognition,
acceptance.

The thickets have taught me
how to wait,
how to hold the 
seen and the unseen,
how to hold what is
known and unknown,
and the freedom to dare to
haltingly,
trustingly,
hold them both. 

Thanks be to God.

Hazel's Woods

There are old stumps here,
relics of giants who used to 
dot this neglected woodland.
And roads that have filled 
in with trout-lilies and dwarf ginseng
and mayapples that 
have spilled over from
the forest floor on either side,
a carpet as far as the eye can see.

Wood thrush and catbirds
have arrived, their songs the
blessing and benediction
of the day, 
now joining the towhees
and house wrens
who arrived, and
staked out territory,
some days ago.

Set amid surrounding houses
and farms,
this old patch of woods is all
that remains of what once was,
an ancient-feeling sacred space,
an invitation into awe,
this secret garden, not made
by human hands.

Gifts

In this strange, disorienting,sometimes-hopeful
sometimes-fearful, sometimes-sad time, I can forget.
The gifts are here, as always. The Presence of God is here, as always. 
To recognize them I need to notice, as always. 
And so, once again, I open myself to...

The moss that brightens the otherwise 
still-somber grey and brown trail.

The acres of skunk cabbage, whose 
proliferation depends upon the what-can-seem
interminable grey days 
that bring the early rains.

The pileated woodpecker that swooped
into the backyard this morning, 
confirming who has been chiseling 
out the old stump. 

The tiny dwarf-ginseng carpeting
the neighbors woodlands, 
a diminutive hardy species with
tiny white flowers,
I have never seen before.

The great-blue heron that flew 
from the old backyard pond onto 
the gazebo roof just outside our kitchen window, 
and the two small goldfish that, 
for the moment anyway, 
survived its pursuit.

The clear, sweet song of the fox sparrow
who, until this morning, I thought belonged  to an oriole.

The old apple tree that is about to
burst into bloom, 
having stood sentinel for
decades, unmindful of human 
concerns.

For all these,
for all I have missed
but have been present,
every day,
in every moment,
thank You.

I Didn't Think to Ask for Woodcocks

I didn't think to ask for woodcocks
nor the fox
nor the merlin in the front yard
nor the fox sparrows in the back,
nor the tundra swans
nor the bald eagle who sailed through the yard
with some unfortunate prey clasped 
in its talons.

I didn't think to ask for for the toads
and tadpoles
and spotted salamander eggs 
in the derelict backyard pond
we inherited,
nor the robins who prefer its wildness
to a domesticated bird bath.

I didn't think to ask for the two 
solitary columbines
nor the ancient clump of peonies
that somehow survived the carnage
of the previous owners,
nor for the softest soil
I have ever worked.
Or that my vocation as gardener
would bring redemption to 
this bit of land and 
blessing to those who loved it
before me.

In this frightening,
new, collective social 
isolation,
and while missing those I love,
I didn't think to ask for 
the myriad young trees and shrubs 
that will soon surround us
and are fast becoming 
friends.

For all I didn't think
to ask...

Thank You.