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Essays and Poems about Awakening

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Thanksgiving Morning

11/22/2018

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Thanksgiving's not always the easiest holiday; there's a lot of history to consider, both personal and universal. Here's a short poem that reflects some of that.

​Thanksgiving Morning
 
Window shades lighten
as dawn arrives
gray light, chill.
The house is quiet,
still, each of us
in our cocoons.
Soon, the fire must be laid
and lit. Shades lifted
for the short day’s light.
My heart is soft
with long life,
with all it knows
about love and loss.
My father, mother,
strangers and friends,
war and famine, disease
and disaster. Yet comes day
with its quiet joy
stirring the blood
and rousing me
to prayer: may all beings
be free from suffering.
My riches are safety,
warmth, shelter, food,
health, and love. And knowing
they are not free. They
are not free.


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Summing it All Up

11/13/2018

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Sometimes, the light in the morning 
up over the newly snowed peaks 
breaks open my heart, like a window 
hit by a hammer, or an overripe 
apricot. It’s a heady mixture, that, 
glass shards and sweet juice running 
all through my veins. You’d think it would 
cut. Instead, it flows like a molten 
river of lava, shimmering through my skin. 
Yesterday, I stood naked in the yard 
steaming from the hot tub watching the moon 
tip its dark side into the empty branches, 
​a sliver of glimmer, like a fingernail 
left to the voodoo of sky. 
 
Beckon what lingers, unspoken, unformed, 
and let its newness unfold in you 
cool and comfortable as a hand 
on a fevered brow. When it comes, 
nothing else will matter. 
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Thanks Being

11/9/2018

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Home alone this weekend while my beloved is off at the Evolutionary Collective Retreat we were both meant to attend until our dog, Padme, dislocated her hip on the way to the kennel, I’ve been following a deep imperative toward comfort. At the same time, I’ve been heavy-hearted and grieving—the missed trip, my absent beloved, and the much loved dog, eleven years old and without a serious illness in her life, undergoing her second surgery in a month to correct the effects of what appears to be a congenital defect in her hip sockets.

After I took her to the vet, I did some grocery shopping, and a sort of comfort imperative showed up. I bought a chicken to roast. When Sugandhi is here, we keep to a vegetarian diet, and chicken is not my meat of choice normally. But there they were, locally produced, organic, already dead, and emitting a vibe that said: you need me.

Late this afternoon, after some Googling, I settled on roasting the chicken with the baby potatoes I’d bought the other day, some carrots, garlic, and onion. It came back, cooking like this, even after many years. Rub with salt and refrigerate. Rub with olive oil, more salt and pepper and paprika. Put a lemon in the cavity. Toss the vegetables in oil and scatter them in the pan. Bake for 90 minutes in a hot oven.

Then came collard greens and a pumpkin pudding made from a can of sweetened organic pumpkin bought by mistake. As the scent of the chicken wafted into the house, and warm from the wood stove and the oven, the lights golden, the dog sleeping, I realized that I was making a sort of ersatz Thanksgiving feast for one.

Following that was the realization of how much I have to be thankful for. I have all these resources. Money in the bank, a warm, safe home, love, companionship, health, all undergirded by a sense of well being that allows me to feel everything that arises when and as it does. The dog is aging and our time together is growing short. I’m missing out on the retreat, and the Bay Area, and our beloveds there. It’s cold, and gray, and winter is surely coming bringing snow and ice, and the challenge of “walking” a two legged dog who is used to spending hours outdoors on her own. I’m alive. I’m awake to all that aliveness means. I’m grateful. I’m blessed. I’m here in this moment allowing it all to mingle together like scent and spice into a deep comfort. What more could I want?
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    Enjoy these poems and short essays on nature and awakened life.

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