Week in review

follow the frolicking hobbit
through the graveyard
to the pub and ferris wheel
arms waving
music spillingpoetry animating
beard, hands, wiry hair
and swiftly widening eyes
scent of pipeweed
invigorating open airways
in space
imagination
memory
future
hope

All Day Sing

I am once-upon-a-timing.  Thoughts are yonderly.  Right now, where I would love to be is at an all-day Sacred Harp Hymn Sing.  I find my arm keeping time right along with the leader in the hollow square.  Full-throated, full-throttle singing.  I love the enthusiastic crescendo before and after lunchtime.  The lunch is, indeed, the peak.  Where, indeed, did all this food come from?  Old ones, young ones.  Remembrance of singers gone on the year before.  Certain anticipation of the singing up yonder. 

I'll take the red eye

Last night after yoga, I felt strong and good.  Firme.  I felt like not going home.  I felt like going for a drive to watch the sun set.  I drove through Silvana, surprisingly into Stanwood, on to Camano, through Camano Island State Park, and then on to Cama Beach State Park, where I arrived in time to watch the red sun hold my level gaze for approximately five minutes before it smoldered into heavy watercolor.  The whole time, the sun looked me straight in the face, steady, without a wink.

Gregory Boyd quotes Anthony De Mello saying, "Behold the One beholding you, and smiling."  Most vividly I recall his account of bedtime storytime, the son reading the dying father to sleep, the father not being able to sleep because he can't take his eyes off his son. 

What happens when water goes out to play

Thunder, rain, lightning, sun.  Rinse, repeat.

What is going on inside is more soulfully significant than what is happening outside.

The earth was feeling the need for a scrubbing, so it sent the rain. Heat lightening built it up to the showering crescendo.  Of course it is more fun to play with toys in the bathtub than it is to simply wash up, so some strobe lighting effect was added, and the thunder kept time.  In the end, it was more like a shower dance party.  For one.  And all. 

Arise, therefore

Come alive, it's summertime
shake out your most solemn dreams
from the swaddling bedsheets
in the fairy light, the dancing grass

don't freeze in the winter--retreat
curl in toes and ferny fronds
make your plans close and warm
sleep ripe dreams into being

in the morning we will rise
and sing and soar

Sailor's Sabbath

Once upon a time, I met a sailor.  He had a red beard.  He had a pipe.  He had a ponytail.  He had a boat.  He had a hat.  He had everything he needed to be a successful sailor, and then some.  The only thing he did not have was a peg leg, that is, a leg made out of peg.  Is peg more like corkboard or wood?  Wood, probably.  What does it matter?  Dude's not even missing a leg.

One Friday evening, I supped on a sailor's boat.  We sat inside with the hatch open and watched the gloaming come on.  He sang in Hebrew.  He read in English.  We two guests hummed along and slaughtered pronunciation while observing sacred rhythm and melody.  The dinner table as altar.  The bread as sacrifice.  Sabbath-keeping as Lady Wisdom, laughing at the future, never lacking in good things.  One who espouses Wisdom is honored at the city gate.  Wisdom's children arising and calling her blessed.  An invitation to the angels.  An invitation to the neighbors.  Enter in.  Breathe in.  Receive the holy spirit. 

Alaska

Today I drove to lunch in a logging truck.  Have you ever driven a logging truck?  Well, for one, they are kind of like semis, just with logs on the back.  The "walls" are made of wood, and they are from the woods, and they are the trees.  I drove and drove and drove--in Alaska--over hills--down narrow roads--made tight wide turns--revved the engine--hit the air brakes--slurped soda from a huge gas station slam dunk size plastic cup--rolled the windows down--dog by my side--a couple of kids in the cab--my husband crawling around on the logs--listening to public radio--smelling the sap--reaching the cabin--frying the fish--popping  the berries in our mouths--reading the lunchtime stories--chasing the goats--watering the garden--spraying off muddy feet--sipping the coffee--drinking the milk--sitting on the porch--telling the evening story--walking down to the creek--hauling up the water--hanging up the dress--talking down the sun--

The Magic Place

"It is good to have work.  If you master it, this work could be your oyster.  Build your life from the ground up."

"You are a poet.  No wonder this winter nearly killed your soul.  Work where it doesn't feel like work."

Which voice or combination of these voices do you prefer to listen to, reader? 

And what does your own say?

Voice, what do you say?  Let me hear it.  Sweet and lovely, catch the foxes.

Adventures in Doing Nothing

This weekend I planned no plans, but lived more fully than most planned weekends.  I went to an outdoor concert and watched a woman do interpretive dance the entire time, while my friends hula-hooped.  I slept by the sound and heard the bells at night.  I visited a friend's new boat, and boat tenants.  I ate breakfasts fit for kings or farmers.  I smelled gardens in bloom and fruit.  I sat enraptured in conversation until the wee hours of the morning.  I felt joy and lived well.  What did you do this weekend, O Reader?

I dreamed a strange dream twice in one night: once ended in the state of California (which had seceded from the United States, or the rest of the US had fallen into the sea), once behind a pile of garbage.  No California jokes, now.  It's overrated, yes; I've been hearing that for years.  Does that diminish my desire to soak it in?  You tell me, Reader.  Does it for you?