illustration by lisa congdon

good one.

(thanks pema chodron for always saying it just right. and thanks lisa congdon for making the words jump off the page so that i hear them.)

2. re-arranging furniture…again.there are always possibilities, even in the smallest space. never ceases to delight me. is there a career in that?

3. listening to some Andrew James O’Brien. yup.

4. how does a small life aquire so many things?

5. the birds are singing in your eyes today

6. Lemon Blueberry Cornmeal muffins still hot from the oven. making this rainy night smell so good.

7. i can’t wait till i get to eat more of this:

8. i have shelves full of books that i’ve never read. i’ve moved them in boxes from one house to the next. i like the way they look. the way they feel. i like the idea of them. but they’re strangers to me still. stories i’ve never met. just covers or titles or writers i thought i might like or want or read.
enough already, rae.
read them or let them go.

9. love.

10. this season of newness really is a wonder.

The Teacher And The Peach

“If you weren’t bursting,” her teacher informed her,
you wouldn’t need patience.” – Philip Roth

The sky holds thunder as a swimmer
gone under holds air, holds the fist
of panic inside the chest like the first
flush of rapture reined-in, the way grammar
exploits the onrush of language,
the way skin grasps flesh about to burst,
the way lust is engine, all piston and breast
as a dam yokes the river’s surge -
What drives you here? What drags you back
to displace again? What, if you catch it,
pulls you face-forward? What lull, what lack?
Wait, he says, don’t say it. Save it.
I won’t touch it. Don’t need to know.
Be full fruit. Fall ripe. And never let go.

- Joshua Trotter

Two Crows by Radiator – Paul Cox Couet

how she got in here
remains a mystery.
there was no swinging door
or open window.

when she arrived i’ll never know.
i came home to the sound of her wings flapping,
her black body, bright yellow beak, soaring over my head
as i climbed the last of the steep stairs to the kitchen.

a curious bird
is all i can suppose.

or lonely, i guess.

and while a bird in the house
on any other day
may have seemed like a problem that needed to be solved,
on this day
of all days
it felt more like a gift.

a story.
a poem.
a something i never expected.

a blackbird knocking at my kitchen door.

so i let her stay.

i gave her space
and i gave her time,
choosing to believe that if she got herself in here
she could figure how to get herself out.

do onto others, you know?
it’s how i was raised.

i left the light on for her
and said goodnight. i think we both slept sound in this little nest.
in the morning i heard the flap of her wings ringing a bell
and i crept out to find her perched on the window
watching me.

a little while later she left,
taking her exit as mysteriously as she did her arrival.

i’ll let you keep your omens and your signs.
just let me have the wonder, the mystery.

give me the story.
the poem.
the something i never expected.

i’m a curious bird
i suppose.

or lonely,
i guess.

give me a blackbird knocking at my kitchen door.

i’ll let her stay.

these moments are not wasted.
they’re just not as you planned.

……
i bought myself flowers two days ago. just because.
tulips – orange ones and purple ones.
i bought enough so i could put some in every room of my little nook.
i wanted to be able to see them, no matter where i was.
they’re really starting to open up today. the petals are relaxing. stems curving.
their sweet, subtle smell keeps catching me off guard.
i can’t tell you how much i like that.

……

there is something strange in my bones these days.
an awkwardness. an unsettledness.
a neither here nor there.
they feel sluggish and unfocused but at the same time, antsy and in-want of.
at first i called it jet lag. then i blamed the full moon. maybe it’s more aptly
a question i don’t yet have the answer to.

……

my mind keeps wandering backwards.
it’s not nostalgia. more like the opposite.
tip-toeing back through moments and memories and tender places
that don’t feel so good. that make the heart feel its weight. that force me to reckon with
forgiveness and regret.
i don’t know why that’s the path i keep returning to. i have theories, but no proof.
i keep hoping it’s leading me somewhere good.
out of brambles and thorns come berries and roses…right?

……

i’ve been opening the windows whenever i can. even just for a few minutes. layer on another sweater, more socks.
it’s worth it.
to feel that fresh spring air.
to smell dirt and hear birds. to have the lines between inside and outside become just a little bit thinner.
i’m so hungry for sun and wind and warmth.
i think i’m just really ready for something new.

……

Spring is a time for dreamers. Spring is a time for coming clean in the scrubbing scream of the wind. Spring is for breaking free of the manacles of whatever cold thing that has been holding you far too tightly, for far too long. I’m not even talking about ice and snow, I’m talking about other things, just as cold, that shrink and burn the spirit and nibble on your bones. Cast it all off and begin anew. This season gives full license to beginnings, limitless living, leaping forth into height and strength. Upward. Onward.

Dear hearts, oh, dear hearts. Grow only hope, I will too.

- from The Noisy Plume

……

i’m not so sure what i think anymore about
Adam and Eve
and that whirlwind tale of creation.

my faith doesn’t seem to have the legs to leap that far these days.

but,
what i do know,
is that seven days ago
i stood on the other side of this great big planet
and watched the moon rise in a cloudy sky.
what i can believe,
is that seven days is more than enough time
for a heart to feel uprooted
and bones to grow lonesome.

one’s world can look so different by weeks end.

things rarely finish like they began.

i’m still trying to find it good.

“And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

― Kurt Vonnegut