Valley of the Blue Moon

I had such a nice day with my expanding family. How ironic that I should be shrinking when my family is growing with son-in-laws and babies. My Buddhist friend, who was one of six friends in our Green Acre class last weekend who knew very little about the Baha'i Faith, described his personal meditation of seeing his breathing. This poem could be from that conversation or perhaps my favorite movie from the James Hilton novel, "Lost Horizon". In the movie, the main character, played by Ronald Coleman, is brought to a garden paradise at the top of the world. Himalayan peaks sheltered the Valley of the Blue Moon from the harsh elements. Every now and then when nobody is around I pop in the dvd and imagine I have stumbled through a narrow opening where time is dramatically slowed-where a person can live several days in that moment between inhale and exhale.

The Valley of the Blue Moon

A tidal wave moment of neither breathing in or breathing out.

I enter a valley of stillness that weary travelers stumble upon.

To rest, to heal, to become whole.

To dream of words and colors.

Warming my hands by the fire of timelessness

I stand high on a narrow path

Drawn by the sight and sound of chanting candles lit with grief

Weaving their way through the darkness of the Valley of the Blue Moon below

A familiar voice, my voice,

Tells me

I cannot stay here.

I exhale.

The tide rushes in.

The ball I have thrown high in the air

Has fallen to the earth

And so must I.

new poem

Brief Visit

My heart aches sitting in this green wicker chair.

Watching the beauty of the world pass by.

Beauty that visits, but doesn't stay.

"I made an agreement at the moment of creation:

One life, one lifetime.

Do you remember?" He reminds me.

One day another will sit in this chair.

Feel the warmth of the morning sun on cold memories.

See you spring to life again.

If only for a moment.

old photos

Karen tore up the house looking for her passport in preparation for her trip to Ethiopia in a few weeks. Thank God she found her passbook because a major clean up took place unearthing and returning to earth various strange discoveries. One of the treasures were photos of my grandmother and Laurel when she was one year old. Ma must have been close to a hundred years. I'm still amazed that a women who gave birth to eight children and ate awful food. I mean awful food! Donuts and half cooked bacon and eggs for breakfast. Beer with her supper. A shot of whiskey if she had company. And here I am eating like Ghandi with an upset stomach. So much for justice.

That's not what I started out to write. I looked at the photos and saw such love in her face for my one year old daughter. Laurel, of course, doesn't remember, but I had forgotten that look also--mores the pity. I remember the quirky, funny stories like how, if she had something on her mind, she would walk to our house next door, pass through Dr. Mary's waiting room and walk right in to ask her daughter a question. Some poor soul would be lying on the table half naked and Ma would ask every time, "Mary, you got customer?" Kind of obvious I would think. My mother would turn bright red. "Ma!, how many times do I have to tell you? They're patients! Not customers! Just what do you think I'm doing in here? Imagine the poor unfortunate lying there knowing my mother is going to take all her anger out on their naked butt when Ma finally leaves. Ma's burning question might be that she wants some milk from the store or where are we going for Xmas two months from now. Stories like this come back to me, but its that look when Laurel visited her at the nursing home that I hope Ill always remember.

A visit with Ray today

A Visit with Ray

Me, In my green wicker chair

Ray, I can't stay

Me, You never do

Ray, I'm sorry

Me, No need, my friend

Ray, You always understand

Me, Where have you been this time?

Ray, so far now, so very far from here

Me, Like a memory?

Ray, A warm memory

Me, Are you going back?

Ray, No, I can't go home again

Me, Neither can I

Maine morning

I have discovered mornings. I remember a notorious night owl saying years ago that he was 30 years old before he found out that there was a six 0'clock in the morning. I have been in the FA program for 13 months (weigh-in day is tomorrow) which is when I discovered six a.m. because I was asked, with all the shock of a cold shower, that I was expected to call in my food for the day to my sponsor and then, with all the shock of an arctic shower, that I was expected to actually eat what I had written down. Strange words like integrity and honesty were used--still covered in permafrost. It's summer and the frozen mist disguised as excess adipose tissue has melted away. Now, I am eager to do all sorts of things if I am not called into work. Yesterday, after my food call, I continued working on a project in front of the open garage. I have been refinishing rock maple wooden chairs that I had bought along with a round matching table years ago for my mother's house-then my brother's house. I sit in half in the shade of the garage stripping the old finish away, then putting on a new finish. This is a perfectly awful, messy undertaking that leaves a disgusting mess of paper towels and crusty steel wool on the garage floor. For some reason it calms my restless soul. Maybe it is the sight of Karen's flower garden or the coolness of a Maine morning or the salty aroma of the nearby tidal river or maybe for a few hours I have become part of nature--let in the back door because I have finally engaged in the messy process of renewal, rebirth--just like my reborn table and chairs I have left behind the detritus of life on the floor next to the bathroom scale. All a 175 pounds of it and counting. Now I will change into some grungy clothes and work on the last chair. Look at the flowers smell the river, feel the cool air and listen to Dar Williams sing, "The beauty of the rain is how it falls, how it falls..."--off me.

A Rainy Day

I found this poem written a while back. I know it is about my late brother, but I share it because the sentiments could be universal.

A Rainy Day

Since I was a kid

He told me

With a big smile

He could fix them

Rainy days, that is

I believed him

I believed the smile

I can't remember the year

Maybe the year the smile went away

Then he looked at me

Like I was expected to fix

The rainy days, that is

But I couldn't fix them either

I kept my smile--his smile

It was all that I had left.

all about boo boos

I went shopping this Friday morning with Laurel, Violet and Samaya. As is our custom, I buckle Samaya into the grocery basket and Laurel takes Violet who looks very chunky happy Italian(that sounds like a new Ben& Jerry's flavor). I bask in all the oohs and aahs end exclamations "she is so adorable!" I acknowledge the strong resemblance explaining my noble African ancestors were captured by those troublesome Romans centuries ago. They were seduced by promises of pepperoni pizza for lunch everyday. Anyway, let me corral my wandering mind back to the supermarket before my friends wonder what this has to do with boo boos. We laze down the aisles with Samaya asking for cheese sticks and Mommy--at two years old, cheese sticks could be the favorite sometimes. My hands were steering the cart when suddenly Samaya leaned over and kissed the back of my hand. I was stunned and moved. Laurel explained that she was kissing the boo boo on the back of my hand to make it better. I thought of all the people down through the years who have kissed the unseen boo boos and made them better and I was filled with gratitude.