Nature's Breath

Why does nature’s breath cleanse our lungs and makes us feel like we have inhaled our first breath and are reborn? Is it because we have to leave the day to day behind to know her touch? Is it because her carpet forces us to walk slower and pay attention? Is it because you can see the rhythm and cycle of life and not just the immediate demands that feel unending?

Maybe, just maybe, it is as simple as the truth she beckons us to look up. And when we stand tall, our heads and shoulders no longer weighed down, looking beyond the forest that seems impenetrable, we simply breathe better. We inhale both the breath and our vision and hope extends beyond the sky. A simple truth.

Unplanned Sitting

     It was one of those thoughtful Winnie the Pooh kind of days where one really isn’t walking as much as ambling, never lifting your feet too far from the ground. One of those days where you’re as apt to walk head on into a telephone pole as you are to trip over a crack in the sidewalk or step off the curb in front of a bus. You are nowhere and yet you are somewhere. In that somewhere you are very, so very present that now does not exist.
     Like the leaves that gave birth to many of Pooh’s rhymes, a piece of notebook paper drifts into your path. If it were not a thoughtful Winnie the Pooh kind of day, it probably would have gone unnoticed. The jagged perforations from its original spiral cover are tattered and uneven. The upper left corner has been torn. The wrinkles betray a piece of paper that must have been wadded up into a little ball and upon further reflection, restored. The writing almost fills the complete page, though the words it seems are few. And on this thoughtful Winnie the Pooh kind of day, you, of course, pick it up and begin to read.
     “I don’t know what I believe. I only know…” and there the message ended. The page was intact so the message was not lost. The ink looked full, not thin or blotched to make you think the rest of the message was engraved into the paper and not inscribed. No, the message was incomplete, or at least its written version. It had been torn out of a notebook and crumpled. Was there a completed version more pristine and profound? Was this just a warm up exercise or perhaps the question of the day, an assignment which was completed elsewhere? Or, was it a doubt briefly acknowledged whose humming was too shrill and swatted away like a mosquito?
     Since it was one of those thoughtful Winnie the Pooh kind of days, the message deserved a proper ending or at the least a proper disposal. Torrents of possible endings flood your mind, transforming the ambling into a sitting. Pulling a pen out of your pocket you complete the message.
     Looking around to see if anyone would notice, you return it to its journey like a bottle upon the sea. Your mission completed, you return to your ambling. After all, it was one of those thoughtful Winnie the Pooh kind of days. One of those days where you’re as apt to walk head on into a telephone pole as your are to trip over a crack in the sidewalk or step off the curb in front of Life.

Arthurian Morning

     The full moon greeted me as I stepped out the door, placing herself square in front of me so that I could not watch the road without watching her. She gathered her orchestra of violin clouds and sang with the CD.
     Illuminated stars became shattered pieces of my heart. Pieces offered in love and pieces taken in greed. Pieces taken for granted by myself and others.
     Turning right the moon plays tag and darts over to the left hiding behind trees and houses. When I turn left she dances to the other side, no longer leading, guiding and showing me the way. Why can she not stay in front and show me the way? Why can’t I drive towards her and slide on the Milky Way? Why can she not share a constellation with me? Why can she not spell out a word, just one, to tell me whether I travel the right path?
     A curve in the road places her square in my vision. Her full grin has now softened to a Mona Lisa smile. A knowing smile. A smile whose beam illuminates the metal on a building. For a brief moment the building’s side, a sliver, a piece, catches moon fire and glistens in a white brilliance. A sword.
     The hands of my spirit reach out and grab the sword. Like Arthur I brandish it against the night sky. The infirmities of age released, I thrust it into the blackness of the sky and claim it my own. The ram’s horns of war bellow and the pieces of my heart amass and are drawn towards the sword. My spirit wants to melt but stands strong, tall and poised commanding their return by my stature, my strength and my fearlessness.
     The pieces, now soldiers, encircle me. I set my face towards the moon with arms raised high. My warrior’s voice, deep and raspy from the years, bellows towards her waning presence, “If I am lost I shall travel in this good company. And if not lost I shall send them forth to find those who are.”
     I wait for her reply but none is heard. Dropping my arms my spirit inhales the night sky. I grab the sword still quivering from the force of my strength. Extracting it from the sky I thrust it back again shaking the sky. The pieces, the soldiers, like drops of mercury, go rolling across the night sky.
     Smiling, I return to my castle, my heart, my home. Entering the gates I order the guards to leave the drawbridge down. They look at me puzzled, concerned for my safety. A slight chuckle tickles my face. “The others will be back soon and with them, their friends.”

Ice Sculpture and Sculptor

Disclaimer: To those who know me, not to worry, no sharp objects were actually placed in my hands, nor did I run with the scissors.

    One cannot say ‘done’ for that implies a sense of completion, task completed, book closed, “The End” written and fade to black. The week has been one of spring cleaning. A week of going through the notebooks of images and old journals of the heart and pulling out the pages now unreadable, scriches that go nowhere and those that time has covered the original meaning, emotion and intent. A few were tossed into the cyber world’s fabric, others were re-weaved and others were sent sailing, with full honor, upon their funeral pyre.
     In truth, I have been ice sculpting. I have taken chisel in hand and begun to chip away at the block of ice wherein a voice is calling. I tap, tap, tap ever so gently, fearful that I will inadvertently strike a weakened area and crack the entire block. I trust my hands. I trust my heart. I trust the voice calling. I do not know if others have felt the cold of this block. As the point of the chisel strikes against the ice I pray forgiveness from those who may have felt its cold sharp exterior and could not see the sculpture contained. Perhaps I should have put up “Under Construction” signs to warn them. Nay, the construction is done, I have but to see. “Limited Visibility” would have been more appropriate.
     The sculpture begins to take shape, though still incomplete. Like Venus, I think she has no arms. I smile, put the chisel down and hold the warm cup of coffee in my hand. I like that. My hands are always, always in my pockets when they are not working. But no, this is not about pockets. The armless ice sculpture reminds me that my reach, my hope, my love, my compassion extends beyond the reach of my short arms. I will learn to embrace like the horizon and the domed night sky.
     I begin to shake and put the coffee cup down. But what of the impending spring and heat- what will happen to my ice sculpture? The chisel falls to the floor. I reach down to pick it up and feel the melted ice pooled on the floor. Cupping the sculpture’s life in my hands I whisper my promise, “I will give drink to the thirsty and cool the foreheads of those in pain.” Looking up I catch a wink from the block of ice. I know the wink. It is a wink that doubts my reserve, my will, my fortitude and my hope. Overly ambitious? Too ethereal? Perhaps, but you are but a block of ice and I am the sculptor. And I begin to chisel again.

The River Calls

     The shift is a disinterment. I refuse to allow the experiences and challenges I have overcome remain forever buried in a potters’ field marked with a nameless piece of rock. I will call them by name and honor their remains. It is not the bones and ashes that I wish to resurrect but the organic life of hope, courage, faith and surrender they have bequeathed me. 
     Hope does not cross its fingers. Hope knows its path, the sound of its voice and its eyes are never dimmed. Hope is the migratory scout that finds the food. Hope flies at the point so the other birds can draft.
     Deep in my soul there is a river. Its bed runs deep and its banks are wide. The winds may bellow and the rains may fall. The bed is deep and all is still. Deep in my soul there is a river. I call it home, I call it hope.  Tonight the deep calls.

Camp Fire Songs of Hope

      It was one of those wonderful Minnesota summer evenings with just a hint of coolness in the air begging for a gathering around a fire. The warmth of friends, conversation and the fire taunted even the moon to delay its scheduled path. I stood at my back door watching my dogs and basking in the glow of the neighbor’s fire, muffled conversations and laughter. All was right with the world. As I lay down to sleep that night I vividly saw the fire’s glow only now it was not a beacon of human and nature’s comingled and inspiring light it was a threat. The wind had picked up and all I could think about was whether they made sure the fire was truly out so that the surrounding trees, leaves and grass would not welcome a gypsy spark. Sleep became chaotic vigilance over whether the fire was quenched.
      Tonight it is winter in Minnesota and no such fires are burning. I recall Ayn Rand’s words "Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.” I whisper a prayer for me, for all of us that we would be so vigilant with the fires in our souls which know not the seasons and burn only for hope, light and life.

[Ayn Rand "Atlas Shrugged"]

Snowflake Mentors

Packages, children and parents fill the four wheeled sleighs. They dash away dash away before the storm. Unlike Santa’s reindeer, which fear neither blizzard nor ice, they have no red nose reindeer to lead their way. The shimmering illumination of electronic snowflakes and icicles dance with the early snow scouts preparing the way for the Christmas show. Inside, the stockings are hung and the tree is lit. Presents from home have ended their journey and sit beneath the tree awaiting the day. All is quiet. Tis a silent night save for the snowflakes fluttering like angel’s wings. Their arrival and departure tease my waiting for all we have is now, this one glistening moment, this silent shimmering now. All I want for Christmas are two large front teeth to bite into life and catch snowflakes with a smile.

Snow Vision

I love the snow. Snow is my spy camera capturing what was but went unseen. In the snow I see the prints of my beloved bunnies. The bunny dance in the backyard leaves its trace in a labyrinth of circles and twists. Sometimes my eyes move up the trunk of the evergreen tree from the snow and back down to the bunny prints that stop right in front of the tree. Each scan acts like a pulley drawing the corners of my mouth upward into a smile. Squirrel footprints adorn the snow and snow covered steps leading up to the bird seed on the deck. Two very excited dogs create a necklace of paw prints. All of these prints, dances and life are here every day but remain hidden until it snows. Maybe if I could have one Christmas wish, or perchance the grace of another falling star, I think I would wish for snow vision. With snow vision, I could see the footprints, dances and play that pass through my life. I could see the prints of those whose prayers, love and kindness walk in front, behind and beside me as they lead, guard and offer companionship. I think of snow vision and I chuckle to realize it exists in the eyes of the heart. It is the eyes of the heart that go through my day casting snowflakes of trust, hope and faith wherever I walk. I have but to look and see with the eyes of the heart, with snow vision, the prints of friends, family and humanity that walk with me.

Photographs

“No mas. No mas.” The boxer stepped back and quit. What would cause someone, who spent their life training for this moment, to just quit? What would drive him to step back in the middle of a fight and say “No more”? He could have canceled the fight. He could have taken a dive but he chose to quit. The news photographs froze the moment in time. “No mas” would remain etched forever in the sports world. Of all the photographs of myself that I would love to destroy thinking they make me look fat, my eyes are closed or look too tired, this is one photo of myself I will never own or have to hide. I will never quit. I will never take a dive. When my earthly walk should come to an end I will embrace with grace the next journey. Until that time I shall never quit. I will never give up. I will never raise my hand and utter “no mas.”

An "Important" Thanksgiving

       His knock on my office door frame was gentle; his request for a minute of my time was softly spoken. A coworker, not really a friend, entered my office with obvious heavy shoulders. My body readied for the blow-a production line must be down, shipments must be in jeopardy, a bad accident and all the other scenarios for the important things that could go wrong.
       “I’ve lost my house, the bank has sold it and I have to move. None of the rentals we’ve looked at will take dogs. I thought maybe you could help me.” He opened his wallet and next to his kid’s pictures was a picture of his dogs. His words, face and trembling hands rocked the very epicenter of my values, my heart and my labels of what is considered “important.” I nodded and smiled. Sometimes the heart speaks best in the silence of the eyes.
       I made one phone call. An email string flew into my inbox. A chain of human kindness was created including an offer to share a stranger’s house – dogs included. I do not have an ending to this story. The story is sort of like Thanksgiving. We gather with family, friends and strangers. We have no idea what the various casseroles, dishes and turkey will taste like. It doesn’t matter. That will not be what we remember. We remember the gathering. We remember the human contact. We remember our bonds. That is what is important.


A hope filled Thanksgiving to all, to my coworker, the thousands like him and to the animals.

Falling Star - Star of Hope

The dark fall clouds amassing to cover the brilliant white moon almost hide the surprise gift of a falling star. I cannot remember the last time I saw a falling star. Immediately my mind began to sing “Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away! Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket save it for a rainy day.”[i] If I put it in my pocket how long do I have to make the wish? What happens if I forget it’s in my pocket and it gets washed – as have so many notes, pieces of paper and dollar bills? I know you’re not supposed to tell anyone your wish, but does the window for making that wish have an expiration date at which time you forfeit the wish? I stand watching the clouds overtake the moon and more stable stars. It is a great responsibility I have before me. Do I save it? Do I make a wish for the world? Do I make a wish for those I keep in my heart daily? Do I make a wish for myself? Is there a generic wish that would wrap all these wishes into one? Can I gather all the wishes like I used to do laundry before I had a washer – throw all the clothes on the bed grab the four corners of the sheets and like Santa carry my stash to the Laundromat? The possibilities are endless and I have only one fallen star. Pondering the good fortune the radio station in my head changes songs and I find myself singing “Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are! … As your bright and tiny spark, Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”[ii] We’ve lost a star! I say a prayer and go inside.

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[i] Words and music by Lee Pockriss and Paul Vance. Emily Music and Music Sales Corp. ASCAP.

[ii] “The Star” in Rhymes for the Nursery, Ann and Jane Taylor. London, 1806.

This will be my morning commute.

This will be my rush hour.

This will be my meeting reminder.

This will be the sound of incoming calls.

This will be my breath of hope.