Steward of Time

 

The oriole is singing again
after days of silence,
so I stop what I am doing, 
and listen to
the sweetness of his song.
One last, perfect peony
is blooming in the garden,
so I pause,
and bend low,
inhaling the
sweetness of her scent.

Bees are on the beardtongue,
and fledgling cardinals on the fence,
startled by frenzied ruby-throats
zipping by.
Chipmunks, their cheeks bulging, dash to and fro,
as young rabbits sample young clover
and the gnat's wings and 
tall meadow grasses glisten,
backlit by the rising sun.

The breezes that caress the ostrich ferns
caress my cheeks too,
joining me to the Oneness,
of all living things. 
Invited into contemplation,
invited into the now,
I have become a steward of the moment.
I have become a steward of time.

Contemplation Beside a Salamander Pond

Up early, I headed
for a handful of hidden ponds,
hoping for wood frogs.

Like the monochrome of a pencil sketch,
or the patina of ancient pewter,
grey clouds and tree trunks, 
bare branches, rocks and dried leaves, 
stretched in all directions.

The ponds were quiet
with no wood frogs clacking,
no frenzied mating energy
expended. But,
upon closer inspection,
there were eggs, thousands of them,
or maybe millions,
laid on submerged twigs and leaves
in the nights before. 

Captivated, I turned my attention
to what was there...
leaves visible on the pond bottom,
tall trees reflected in still water, 
a teasing bubble as something
swam to the surface...
something long and sleek,
something black with yellow spots,
something gracefully twisting and turning
as it descended, head down,
back into the depths. 

Through binoculars and taking a closer look 
beneath the water,
what had looked like nothing much
became alive with the slow-motion movement of
spotted salamanders, 
creeping, gliding, crawling 
over and under decaying debris,
going about their mating-season, 
daytime rest.

Grateful wonder.
Enfolding stillness.
Unfolding contentment,
Contemplation of what is
rather than disappointment with what isn't.
Truly, is this not what I had really
come seeking?

If You Are Quiet You Can Hear the Leaves Fall

I haven't posted in a while but am reposting this, as it is as true today as it was a year ago.

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.

Even in the noisy tumult of the gales that loosen their grip,
Even amidst the strident 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, 
rustling through their companions
on their once-in-a-lifetime descent.

Background noise so fills our minds 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 us entirely if we let it and render us deaf, 
even to the Good.

We desperately need times of stillness. 
We need to turn our attention to that which is beyond ourselves 
and all our thoughts.
Our heart and soul's very functioning depend upon them.

Grace breaks through as I gaze at reddening and yellowing trees,
standing and swaying in the autumn winds that strip their leaves.
I am renewed.

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

What Beckons?

Common grackles, like thousands of shimmering black ornaments on December-bare trees, move as one. Swirling, swooping en masse, from trees to ground and back again, their insistent cackling, crackling voices dominate the airways until...with the collective whooooosh of a multitude of wings, they are gone.

Seven woolly, wayward sheep, masters of independent intent, carefully pick their way through the whitened meadow, phantoms in the frosted, foggy field, almost indistinguishable from the tall, pale, frozen grassy hummocks.

Ice crystals glisten like twinkling stars on fallen beech leaves. Christmas ferns' fearless green growing among the browns of the forest floor. Busy, nimble squirrel feet barely touching the ground, noisily patter their way atop the crunchy remains of last year's oak, hickory and yellow poplar foliage.

Expected, but no less welcome, voices of the regulars call on a late December morning...tufted titmice, white breasted nuthatches, Carolina chickadees, white-throated sparrows, cardinals, Carolina wrens, blue-jays, flickers, red-bellied woodpeckers, and the occasional hermit thrush. All busily foraging and feeding, yet still filled with song and conversation.

What stops you in your tracks and draws you into stillness? What delights you? What beckons you into awe?
Pay attention...
For such is the invitation into God...

If You Are Quiet You Can Hear the Leaves Fall

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.

Even in the noisy tumult of the gales that loosen their grip,
Even amidst the strident 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, rustling through their comrades on their once-in-a-lifetime descent.

Background noise so fills our minds 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 us entirely if we let it and render us deaf, even to the Good.

We desperately need times of stillness. 
We need to turn our attention to that which is beyond ourselves and all our thoughts.
Our heart and soul's very functioning depend upon them.

Grace breaks through as I gaze at reddening and yellowing trees,
standing and swaying in the autumn winds that strip their leaves.
I am renewed.

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

February's Invitation

Stillness at sunrise, winter's quiet breath,
rosy horizon and blanketing snow.
Winterberry brightening the season's grayness as

quince and magnolia buds burgeon bravely in the cold

Silence interrupted by the day's beginning...
conversational crows straggling in from their across-the-river roost.
Titmice' single note calls and a red-shouldered's cry,
woodpeckers drilling in the distance and goldfinch's

soft squeak on sycamore balls.

The world roils.
But here, sweet gums against the sky.
Peace...
Shall I not take it?