Walking Our Way Into Place: A New Poem

 

Huckleberry Preserve

Most days we've been walking a few miles, in our neighborhood, in other Oakland and Berkeley neighborhoods, and in the hills or along the bay.  Interestingly enough, it took the pandemic to deepen our connection to this place.

Not even ten years here,

in this strange sheltering time,

we are walking our way 

into rooting down in place.

To be on land not native

to family and tribe,

to fully live with the earth

not merely on it,

it is necessary

to know, to feel,

to honor, to love

this very land.

This is not easy

in urban places,

where the earth is burdened 

with concrete, invaded

by wires and pipes,

where lights besiege all

through the night,

and sounds of traffic

never fall into silence.

But this is the land

we live on,

this is the place

we chose.

We are required

to seek its acceptance,

to surrender our offerings,

to recognize and know

its waters, its hills,

its redwoods and pines,

its magnolias and lemons,

its goldfinches and hummingbirds,

its skunks and raccoons,

and yes,

even its rats.

This is where

our home is,

hereon the continent's

western edge.

May it truly be home.

May we know it

in our bones.

May we love it

enough.

The Western Edge

 We spent three Sunday mornings on Zoom with David Whyte exploring the mythopoetic world of the western edge of Ireland.  It was wonderful, and it set me thinking about edge dwelling.  This is a topic I've thought a lot about and dreamed a lot about (my dream group calls them "borderland dreams").  

So, here's the poem that arose out of it:

And hasn't it always been

the pull of the western edge,

so that going west has meant

heading towards your own 

boundaries?

As for us, we were born 

to the eastern edge, 

but we left the old settler shore 

that looks towards the known

as soon as we were grown 

enough to follow the call.

We had to pass through

the middle of things,

but were neither drawn 

nor allowed to stay there

for very long.

Oh, you can settle here.

We are, of course, settlers here -

interlopers, owners, usurpers.

It will never be sufficient,

but we can apologize

for ourselves and our actions,

and we can bring something

to the land.  We can know

and treat the edge place

as holy.

So, if you are here,

an edge dweller,

you are charged 

to use the edge 

to sharpen your wits,

to call forth dreams of healing,

to watch the sky at night

and at the turnings of the days,

and to love where 

you felt guided

to do your work.

And what is out there

past the waves slapping

the western shore?

Do we yearn to go 

still farther out,

towards another edge,

to the Great Beyond,

to the sea, to the sky,

to Orion's belt?

You know - Out There,

to what cannot be known.

Further.

Two Small Poems for the Season

Baby Spring

Here,

the girls call

this time of year

Baby Spring,

and it is the case

that baby leaves

have sprouted

on the young pomegranate 

and the Japanese maple.

The sun has returned

to the back deck

after its three months

of yearly absence.

Pink magnolias swell

on the tree two yards over,

while white and pink blossoms

decorate the plum trees

two houses down 

the other way.

Sitting 

in this light,

in this time,

with birds chirping

from here to there

and back, 

how could a woman not

appreciate this very day,

this very time?

The ginger plants

are dancing.

Come! the wind says.

Breathe in the fragrance

of the early blossoms

on the vine below.

Let the sun

do you good.

The green world

is offering itself

for soul healing.

Sky Seeing

The day's sky

becomes

a touchstone.

The birds, clouds,

sunrises, sunsets

summon attention,

directing mind

upwards and out.

The night's sky -

Big Dipper and Orion

(visible now in early Spring) -

evoke the Great Mystery.

Welcome,

lifted spirits

and a settled heart.

Morning in the Realm: A New Poem

Every morning I go downstairs to write, and I look out at the expansive sky, the land below the hill we live on, and over to the hill on the other side of the avenue.  There's an apartment building on that hill that often catches the first beams of sun rising over the larger hills to the east.  Sometimes I imagine the building as a castle, lit up by the dawning light.  Here's a photo in which you can get a glimpse of this place:

Why am I telling you this?  Well, the "castle" came into this small poem this week.  Really, there's nothing at all spectacular about the morning, the building, or the poem.  But I can tell you, when I manage to have mornings like this, I am truly grateful.

The sun rises
above the
eastern peaks

and lights up

the pale walls

of the castle 

on the hill.

A black bird

wings west and

suddenly drops

as it hastens,

then rights itself

and lands on top

of a spindly pine.

This is morning

in the realm,

the bluing sky 

smeared with clouds,

the regal trees still

in the calm 

morning light.

Another day begins,

and we, too,

begin again,

anew.

A New Poem: And the Wind Blew

Inauguration day felt hopeful.  Such a good thing.  I wrote this a few days before, and even with some renewed hope, I can't forget or ignore what feels true.  

And the power went out. 

The wind lifted and overturned chairs,

    bent and broke tree limbs and whole trees,

    crashed through wind chimes,

    tossed bits and pieces of things to the ground.

Was it coincidence that it was the last day of the presidency

    that also upended things,

    that plundered the earth for profit,

    that enlarged the rich and diminished the rest,

    that lied in order to sway the gullible?

Perhaps the wind came to disrupt,

    but not in the way he disrupted.

Perhaps it came from an earth

    attempting to cleanse itself and us.

Perhaps the unsettled feelings it inspired    

    were not a bad thing.

Things are unsettled, and so

    must we be.

A virus rages and mutates as we

    do not change enough, or fast enough,

    to learn the lessons of the necessary.

Will the change of power brokers be enough?

There are 400,000 dead in our land alone,

    and many deaths still to come.

Maybe mine.  Maybe yours.

Perhaps the wind was a warning

    as well as a cleansing.

Perhaps we should listen to the wind.

Strike out "Perhaps."

We should listen to the wind.

Yes

 Sometimes the poems come quickly, all of a piece.  This is one of those.

Anxiety rises and sets

like the sun.

Every day passes

like the last.

Sheltered, walking,

eating fine meals and

drinking bitter dregs.

We hold the tension,

pulled and pulling

this way and that.

Calm and safe

in an unsafe calm.

Holding on 

to a Christmas tree

past the time it should be 

tossed to the curb.

This is how we live

in the time of old age,

in the weary age,

in the world-beaten age.

This is what we have -

our hands full of salt,

our nights full of dark dreams,

our lives still shining with light.

Out of One, Many

Out of one, many.

    From the Great Mystery come

Asherah, Demeter, Cerridwen,

    Lakshmi, Hel, White Buffalo Calf Woman -

each a unique manifestation 

    of the sacred,

each a facet

    of a single jewel,

each a colored thread

    in a celestial weaving,

each opening a doorway

    to the One.

There is a goddess to touch

    every woman's heart,

to deepen her bond to

    this beautiful, bountiful earth.

Reciprocity with the one

    who chooses you

(who you think you choose)

    will yield a chance to

live as a tree does -

    roots down, branches up,

reaching for that

    which is greater

than yourself.