The Bohemian dug the hole. Mary chose the tree (a hearty, up-and-coming mango). We all gather to move the soil and make our wishes.
Three boys (eight, seven and four and a half) jostle about to take turns with shovels, rakes and the hose. Bare feet dodge horse manure, our mango tree’s best friend.
Mary sprinkles Spirulina powder at the root base and the green dust catches the breeze to swirl in ritualistic smoke against the sunset sky.
This tree has been given everything it needs to thrive in the corner of the field. Once it is all tucked in and watered, the boys wander away from the sapling to some new point of interest near the garden. But the adults stay to gaze upon this green-leafed embodiment of potential. We offer hopes of big juicy fruit. Imagine thick branches holding children of the future.
I see the shade it will one day cast stretching out to shield a vast section of the pasture. Its roots holding the story of this planting. It is our family tree.
early
Monday
morning
I look back
to last days
blurred
in a juxtaposed
potpourri
weekend weeding
garden slugs
tossed to the turtle
poetry submission
“up to five”
Belgian abbey ale “it tastes like flowers!”
vehicle safety inspection
a dolphin pod
mid-day nap
and grocery shop
another wedding dress arrives
too big
and my favorite weekend moment:
island road
me
at the wheel
the Bohemian
hand on my knee
Jeb
in the back seat
we three
driving
quiet
no words
I’ve been paused on lip service in an obvious hiatus from the Archives. The question has arisen on more than one occasion these past days. What’s worth saying?
Not that I’ve abandoned letters. I’ve been with my proverbial sack of sounds doing a phonetic shuffle. Sorting poetry and prose to gather a collection that represents this “For the Archives” journey so far (aka “my first book project”).
What pieces that I’ve written get included? What expressions really must be shared?
And as I sift through 18 months of musings – my little journey to find the profound in the mundane – life and death go on, eclipsing any of my human edits.
Beyond the stack of my book’s first draft pages, I learn of four deaths in seven days. A small child, a young woman and two other people in their sixties. I know each of these souls only distantly, if at all. But their passing makes an impact. Stirs somber conversations between friends. Perspectives are upheaved, seeking new places to settle.
Words between the living are exchanged. Like
“Each day is precious, enjoy it fully.”
or
“There’s only one thing to do in this life, and that’s love.”
I hear the sounds of affirmation swirl the air. My heart can feel the longing to live them. But my mind seems one step removed.
As if there is some fuzzy veil between me and truth. Pearls of wisdom may come rolling off my tongue, but unless I become that gem – shine its rare and simple beauty in my everyday existence – then isn’t it all just words?
Is it possible in my human experience to really know (then LIVE) the true preciousness of this life? Is my mantra of ‘the moment’ just a rote recitation, more habit than authentic?
I need to be rumbled. Shaken to rid the dusty corners of my mind of all its cozy comforts. Dismantle the shroud that shields any part of my heart. I long to be rattled to feel fully and live deeply. Yes! This sounds to be the most grand and virtuous path!
Yet, I want the safeguard. I am but so afraid of feeling any pain.
Is there a way to gently be enlightened? And if we touch Grace, even if only for an instant, are there words left to describe?
These days, inside, exists a whirling discombobulation. I witness. Feel all yearning spin and twist with hesitation.
I am rendered silent, left to sift letters through the air.
For the Archives 