In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
- Mark Strand
Friday, November 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Stepping Westward
Denise Levertov
What is green in me
darkens, muscadine.
If woman is inconstant,
good, I am faithful to
ebb and flow, I fall
in season and now
is a time of ripening.
If her part
is to be true,
a north star,
good, I hold steady
in the black sky
and vanish by day,
yet burn there
in blue or above
quilts of cloud.
There is no savor
more sweet, more salt
than to be glad to be
what, woman,
and who, myself,
I am, a shadow
that grows longer as the sun
moves, drawn out
on a thread of wonder.
If I bear burdens
they begin to be remembered
as gifts, goods, a basket
of bread that hurts
my shoulders but closes me
in fragrance, I can
eat as I go.
To all my women friends, who carry that basket, and bear those gifts.
I learned this poem in a poetry class with Fran Quinn, in New York City several years ago, in which we all learned the value of learning a poem by heart, and making it our own.
What is green in me
darkens, muscadine.
If woman is inconstant,
good, I am faithful to
ebb and flow, I fall
in season and now
is a time of ripening.
If her part
is to be true,
a north star,
good, I hold steady
in the black sky
and vanish by day,
yet burn there
in blue or above
quilts of cloud.
There is no savor
more sweet, more salt
than to be glad to be
what, woman,
and who, myself,
I am, a shadow
that grows longer as the sun
moves, drawn out
on a thread of wonder.
If I bear burdens
they begin to be remembered
as gifts, goods, a basket
of bread that hurts
my shoulders but closes me
in fragrance, I can
eat as I go.
To all my women friends, who carry that basket, and bear those gifts.
I learned this poem in a poetry class with Fran Quinn, in New York City several years ago, in which we all learned the value of learning a poem by heart, and making it our own.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Welcome Change of Seasons
in our bodies we feel the wind get colder
in our bodies we see the sun shining in a thousand mirrored flashes of light
on the water
in our bodies we feel the rain grunting into earth
in our bodies we feel the gorgeous colours reeling in the trees
in our bodies we feel the fall
in our bodies we feel the turning over
let it shift you
let it shift your gears
let it shift you into whatever fall brings you
butternut squash soup and mushrooms
zuccini flowers and pumpkins
the end of black eyed susans and impatience
the comfort of blankets and scarves and fireplaces
let it soothe you
that the circle keeps turning
welcome fall
in our bodies we see the sun shining in a thousand mirrored flashes of light
on the water
in our bodies we feel the rain grunting into earth
in our bodies we feel the gorgeous colours reeling in the trees
in our bodies we feel the fall
in our bodies we feel the turning over
let it shift you
let it shift your gears
let it shift you into whatever fall brings you
butternut squash soup and mushrooms
zuccini flowers and pumpkins
the end of black eyed susans and impatience
the comfort of blankets and scarves and fireplaces
let it soothe you
that the circle keeps turning
welcome fall
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Spring Retreat Collage by Suzy
the collage above was done at our Spring Retreat at H-OM yoga studio in April 2009 by Suzy, one of our participants.
She is a photographer, and she added the words in digitally after the fact.
Gorgeous artistic reminder of our need for self-care and kindness.
musemother
October by Mary Oliver
There's this shape, black as the entrance to a cave.
A longing wells up in its throat
like a blossom
as it breathes slowly.
What does the world
mean to you if you can't trust it
to go on shining when you're
not there? and there's
a tree, long-fallen; once
the bees flew to it, like a procession
of messengers, and filled it
with honey.
2
I said to the chickadee, singing his heart out in the
green pine tree:
little dazzler
little song,
little mouthful.
3
The shape climbs up out of the curled grass. It
grunts into view. There is no measure
for the confidence at the bottom of its eyes--
there is no telling
the suppleness of its shoulders as it turns
and yawns.
Near the fallen tree
something--a leaf snapped loose
from the branch and fluttering down--tries to pull me
into its trap of attention.
4
It pulls me
into its trap of attention.
And when I turn again, the bear is gone.
5
Look, has'nt my body already felt
like the body of a flower?
6
Look, I want to love this world
as thought it's the last chance I'm ever going to get
to be alive
and know it.
7
Sometimes in late summer I won't touch anytthing, not
the flowers, not the blackberries
brimming in the thickets; I won't drink
from the pond; I won't name the birds or the trees;
I won't whisper my own name.
One morning
the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,
and didn't see me--and I thought:
so this is the world.
I'm not in it.
It is beautiful.
A longing wells up in its throat
like a blossom
as it breathes slowly.
What does the world
mean to you if you can't trust it
to go on shining when you're
not there? and there's
a tree, long-fallen; once
the bees flew to it, like a procession
of messengers, and filled it
with honey.
2
I said to the chickadee, singing his heart out in the
green pine tree:
little dazzler
little song,
little mouthful.
3
The shape climbs up out of the curled grass. It
grunts into view. There is no measure
for the confidence at the bottom of its eyes--
there is no telling
the suppleness of its shoulders as it turns
and yawns.
Near the fallen tree
something--a leaf snapped loose
from the branch and fluttering down--tries to pull me
into its trap of attention.
4
It pulls me
into its trap of attention.
And when I turn again, the bear is gone.
5
Look, has'nt my body already felt
like the body of a flower?
6
Look, I want to love this world
as thought it's the last chance I'm ever going to get
to be alive
and know it.
7
Sometimes in late summer I won't touch anytthing, not
the flowers, not the blackberries
brimming in the thickets; I won't drink
from the pond; I won't name the birds or the trees;
I won't whisper my own name.
One morning
the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,
and didn't see me--and I thought:
so this is the world.
I'm not in it.
It is beautiful.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Song for Autumn
http://www.flickr.com/photos/treantaso/2072229303/ (photo credits)
By Mary Oliver
In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.
found at http://ethershopf06.umwblogs.org/
In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.
found at http://ethershopf06.umwblogs.org/
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