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Tag Archives: mary oliver


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moonrise. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

“it’s full tonight. so we go and the moon rises, so beautiful it makes me shudder, makes me think about time and space, makes me take measure of myself: one iota pondering heaven. thus we sit, myself thinking how grateful i am for the moon’s perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich it is to love the world.” (mary oliver – the sweetness of dogs)

we are on the west side of lake michigan. it’s the cold side, the side with many rocks, big boulders. the sun rises over our lake. the moon rises over our lake. and there are days – magical ones – when the moon is in full phase – a giant ball, moonlining to anyone on shore. wishes that landed on stars seem destined to come true. loving to-the-moon-and-back is potent and visual. it would seem – on those nights that the moon takes over the night sky and all else shrinks – that – in the purest sense -peace really could guide our planet and that love really could steer the stars, constellations with invisible reins tethered to reaching hands and hearts on the shoreline.

we drove home from the snowy trail and the moon was just starting to rise over the trees in the distance as we drove east. across a snow-filled farmfield, beyond the stand of woods, there it was, more intense each minute, dynamic through dusty rose and salmon and blush, finally flushed more golden. i kept driving east, directly to our lake.

we weren’t alone. there were other peace-and-love-rising seekers there and we all photographed our individual moon photos – the same beauty-shudder-rich sky as it turned to night over the great lake, its surface slightly rippled by calmer winds.

sometimes we forget how stunning this all is.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY


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reddi-wip. [d.r. thursday]

reddi-wip was always on her list. any holiday, any winter-hot-cocoa-possibility day, any waffles-and-ice-cream-up-a-notch day. my sweet momma was a reddi-wip fan. so i can’t help but think of her when i look in the fridge right now and see the familiar red and white canister, just waiting…

we don’t buy ice cream. i can’t have it and, though it wouldn’t really bother me – unless it was coffee ice cream – in which case i would be ridiculously jealous, d doesn’t want to eat it in front of me. so we don’t put it on the list. we will – from rare time to rare time – pick up frozen cashew milk or some other dairy-free option. just a pint. but a treat and oh-so-good.

instead, we freeze bananas. and we take out one of those appliances you buy in one of those we-need-this moments. it’s a yonanas and, even though it isn’t a front-and-center machine, when it makes an appearance from the shelves in the laundry room in the basement, it reminds us of the deliciousness of a littlebitta dessert, a little something sweet.

frozen bananas become ice cream in this miracle-machine. we top it with berries. or really anything you might put on an ice cream sundae. and then – if it’s really a fancy moment – there’s reddi-wip. swirls and white fluffy clouds of whipped cream on top – it becomes an occasion. we look at each other and wonder why we don’t make this more often. what day – really – doesn’t deserve to be an occasion, we wonder aloud. what day – really – doesn’t deserve dessert, we insist.

i’ve been thinking a lot lately about the word “indulgent/indulgence”. i’ve sat with it, pondered over it, journaled about it, discussed it at length. it is one of those yin-yang words, one of those words that is both inspiring and guilt-producing. the dark and light of self-indulgence, the expansive greyness of indulging, judgement and justification invisible partners. i had to decide if i would indulge in some looking-back, in processing some times of great difficulty. i had to choose between indulgence and necessity. it was a seesaw for a bit.

the reddi-wip made its way into the shopping basket as i planned for a special holiday meal. and now, as i gaze into the refrigerator, i realize it’s still there – there is more in the container – more fluffy whipped cream – for any day. it’s an every-day possibility. some things that look like indulgences are not. some things are necessary.

“joy is not made to be a crumb.” (mary oliver – don’t hesitate)

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY


					
		
	



					



	

					
				

			
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flannel people. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

	


	

					








“…eat bread and understand comfort….” (mary oliver – to begin with, the sweet grass)





flannel is like that.  flannel shirts, flannel sheets, flannel pjs.  the touch of flannel on our skin and we become swaddled babies, small children held in the arms of a loved one, cozied, reassured, comforted.





though there are expensive flannel sheets ‘out there,’ our flannel sheets are from target.  two sets of them now.  both soothing, serene, bread-like.  





we sat in paris – on park benches, cathedral steps, in the grass – with baguettes and cheese, bottles of wine, olives.  when i think of paris now, i think of this…comfort – sinking in to the place, like sinking in to flannel sheets on a cold winter’s night,  gordon lightfoot’s webs of snow drifting outside our window.  i wonder how we could have had a better time – i know…the butter, the starred eateries, the crepes, the cuisine.  but we are flannel people, i suppose, and we learned – for us – the way to really feel paris was to sit on its steps, in its parks, in the grass.   it was to shop its markets, its boulangeries, its tiny groceries.  it was to simplify and to feel the flannel.  





because we ate bread and understood.





“…i have become older and, cherishing what i have learned, i have become younger….” (mary oliver)





*****





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nothing better. [d.r. thursday]

	


	

					








“the snow
began here
this morning and all day
continued, its white
rhetoric everywhere
calling us back to why, how,
whence such beauty and what
                                             the meaning…” (mary oliver – first snow)





it snowed all day, the wind howling, the temperature careening below zero.  a white christmas was on its way.  the luminaria, though, they would not make it onto the sidewalks with neighbors and friends.  it would be too oppressively cold, dangerously bitter.  





wisconsin – right here by the great lake michigan – was not besieged with tremendous snow.  there were not depths taller than shovelers or windows blocked by towering drifts.  but it was so so cold.  severe.





and even in the frigid, the glitter was obvious.  





“…never settle
less than lovely!…”





the pond gathered the flakes.  you could almost see them individually…the gift of a dry and very cold snow.  dogdog laid outside, allowing snow to fall on his fur and, from time to time, jumping up and licking big swaths from the deck.  he is a cold-weather dog, gleeful in the snow.  





some of our plans were changed because of the arctic blast.  i regretted that.  for a bit.  there were so many things to go do, so many lights to go see.  





but the dura-fire was lit in the fireplace, the wine was poured, the cookies needed decorating, the ornament game waited.  and we looked out the window and spoke of bing crosby and white christmas.  





and it was beautiful out there.  and still.  quiet.  and sparkling.  





“…and though the questions
that have assailed us all day
remain – not a single
answer has been found –
walking out now
into the silence and the light
under the trees,
and through the fields,
feels like one…”





and we were home.  together.  and i can think of nothing better.





*****





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astonished. [d.r. thursday]

	


	

					













nostalgia hits fast.  





how many times i have stood in front of the gazebo in northport harbor…how many times i have sat on the steps, lost in thought or listening to the clinking of metal sails in the docks next to the park…how many times i’ve wandered in the harbor surrounded by the dreamy lights of the gazebo and old-fashioned sidewalk lampposts on the paths.





lake bluff brought it all back.  





an absolutely beautiful display in the square drew us to it and we parked, even in freezing cold, to walk around a bit, take pictures and soak it all in.  it wasn’t northport, but it was stunning and magical.





the wordpress prompt today reads: is your life today what you pictured a year ago?





are any of our lives today what we pictured a year ago?





the element of surprise … both ways.  





at a time of year that always-always makes me miss my childhood home, both of my parents, our big stone fireplace, the luminaria lighting our neighborhood streets and groups of friends caroling around the blocks, hot cocoa and marshmallows, tinsel and krumkake, rum cake and eggnog, the delicious anticipation of opening gifts and the northport harbor gazebo radiant, its lights shimmering in the harbor, we find the little square in the middle of lake bluff.  astonishing.





“instructions for living a life:  pay attention. be astonished. tell about it.” (mary oliver)





*****




















UNFETTERED 48″ X 48″











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which is why we walk in the woods. [d.r. thursday]

	


	

					








“when i am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks, and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness. i would almost say that they save me, and daily.” (mary oliver *when i am among the trees)





which is why we walk in the woods.





“i am so distant from the hope of myself, in which i have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often.” (mary oliver *)





which is why we walk in the woods.





“around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out,“stay awhile.” the light flows from their branches. and they call again,“it’s simple,”they say,“and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.”(mary oliver *)





which is why we walk in the woods.





and this day – the day of this trail – we hiked the familiar, listening to the greetings of trees who knew us, remembered us.  it was comforting and, though they were silent but for the rustling high above us, they rained down the last of their leaves on us, like a ticket-tape parade.





which is why we walk in the woods.





“trees go wandering forth in all directions with every wind, going and coming like ourselves, traveling with us around the sun two million miles a day, and through space heaven knows how fast and far!” (john muir)





we leave a bit of worry behind in each step.  we will retrieve them later, all the bits.  we dream and wonder and walk under the canopy of these giants that stay with us, tuck us in, give us pause.  we shuffle our feet through fallen fall and draw in long breaths of musky leaves piling around the underbrush.  





which is why we walk in the woods.





“between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.” (john muir)  





and between every two oaks and every two maples and every two hickories and every two ash and every two cottonwoods and every two elms and every two willows…doorways.  “it’s simple,” they say.





which is why we walk in the woods.





*****





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the window of magic. [two artists tuesday]

	


	

					








the stairs in our home go straight up a few steps, turn 90 degrees to the left and then another 90 degrees to the left before the last few to the landing.  if you turn left again you will see straight into the treetops through the office window, will pass the bathroom, and will head down a short hall to our daughter’s room.  if you turn right at the landing you walk into our son’s room.  





there’s a big window in his room ahead of you and it faces north.  it is the window of magic.  for if the circumstances are just right and the frost gathers and holds hands with the sun, this is where the crystals are found.  and they are divine.  





that day, in every corner, from every angle, the ice shimmered, an evanescent presence that would disappear as the window warmed.  the ephemeral tiny expressions of frozen wouldn’t last.  not yet.  it is still fall and there will be warmer days still.





but for right then, to stand and gaze at the strands and shards and bubbly droplets is to take part in the very moment, that very moment of cold.  it was to acknowledge it.  and to recognize its transient beauty.  





a long while ago i was gifted a necklace with a silver snowflake charm.  in the tiny box was printed a brief message, “every snowflake is unique; it’s true. each one’s special, just like you.”  not the thought-provoking words of mary oliver or john o’donohue, but a simple reminder of unrepeatable gorgeousness, in words anyone can grok.  





these last days have been harder, a holiday with empty chairs.  we are adults now and we know that this is the way of life.  john pavlovitz writes, “in this season each of us learns to have fellowship with sadness, to celebrate accompanied by sorrow.  this is the paradox of loving and being wounded simultaneously.”





we walked on the trail and spoke of each member of our family.  we each spoke a gratitude for each person, each step on the trail punctuated by a story or some enlightenment.  we laughed and i wondered what gratitude would be uttered for us, hoping that words would not be difficult for the utterer to find.  our thanksgiving was bookended with early morning pumpkin pie and full bellies of mashed potatoes at day’s end.  in the middle was appreciation for the people we love.  





it is easy to see the cold, the long winter ahead, the empty chairs.  they are apparent and they can be brutal.





it is harder to walk, peer through the window, and see the crystals and their exquisite – even if brief – magical uniqueness.





*****





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a bounty of astounding. [two artists tuesday]

	


	

					








it is most astounding to me. each and every time.  it doesn’t matter the shining of the sun or the drizzle or the misty humid air or dusk falling around us.  and though it is familiar – oh, so familiar – it is new when we visit, our footfalls on the path erased and lasting as we walk.  i’m comforted by this trail.  and it teases me – into truly wondering about thru-hikes and exquisitely ordinary days that explode into extraordinary just by entering them.





this is an easy trail.  we have hiked many others.  easy trails, moderate trails, difficult trails.  elevation gains, a little scrambling here and there.  but when – and it is often – we need an old quilt of a trail and time to be quiet, to think, to talk, to sort, to sink into astounding beauty, stillness and ever-percolating life, we hike here, close by.  





my camera is ready.  i try to capture it all to remember.  the trail is full of linear lines now as the underbrush succumbs to the season.  a bounty of astounding.  even in transition.





i believe – as we enter the woods – that it greets us back.  





and as we leave – filled up – it waves and whispers, “see ya.”





“have you ever tried to enter the long black branches of other lives —
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey, hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning, feel like?” (mary oliver)





*****





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the little alleluias. [merely-a-thought monday]

	


	

					








texting with our son, who was about to attend a music festival out west, he wrote that i would probably like the artist.  he sent a link to the teaser of above and beyond’s song “gratitude“.  i followed the link, loved it, jaunted over to the full-length, and loved that.





the everest youtube paused, we followed the soundtrack song to find that new favorite i wrote about in may, “you and me“.  





it is not likely we would have just stumbled upon either.  there had to be a tiny opening, a tiny window, a door to something new.





explorations don’t have to be gigantic.  they can be mini adventures, pocket-sized, teeny-weeny, a moseying into something unknown, a reminder that there-is-just-so-much-out-there.  exploring creates a yearning to explore, a synergy of sorts, to keep-on-ing.  





mary oliver, in her book, “long life”, writes of “what she calls ‘the little alleluias’ in her days and in her doings.” (frederic and mary ann brussat)  those tiny noticings.  micro adventures.  “nature, animals, the soul, place, and literature.”  and sound.  and music.  and touch.  and color.  and laughter.  and cooking.  and creating. 





in these days we don’t get far.  our roadtrip juju has been poking at us for months now; our last roam was in december.  that’s a long time ago for two people who love roadtrips.  but work and an intentional budget and, yes, covid, have kept us closer to home.  “soon”, we say to each other, “soon.”  and then we sigh.  the mountains are calling, the coast and points north, family down south, family out west.  





in the meanwhile, we scout out other exploring.  we paint rocks and hide them.  we dance on the deck.  we listen to music we don’t know.  we pay attention to the girl, the boy, friends tell us about things we might like.  we use two tortillas instead of one.





last night we had the best pancakes for dinner.  gluten-free.  and real-live maple syrup.  my niece sent me the link to them.  breakfast for dinner.  it’s not a trip to the mountains, but it gets us to the foothills of adventure.  something different.  





exploring is like snickers minibites.  sometimes five grams of delicious feeds us.





it’s the little alleluias.





*****





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but those rustic barrels. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

	


	

					






we do love to read together.  we’ve hiked the appalachian trail, the salt path, treacherous trails in iceland.  we’ve read deeply moving novels like the shack, the best of us, factual accounts like 102 minutes, the 33…..  we read mary oliver and rumi and john o’donohue and the book of joy and lyrics of songs and pablo neruda.  it’s actually pretty magical to read aloud to each other.





romantic poetry is the stuff of friday night date nights.  we haven’t read poetry on a friday night lately, but it sure sounds like a good plan – a fire out back, the gurgling pond, a fan gently keeping the pesky mosquitoes at bay, a glass of wine, a book of poetry and an itty-bitty-book-light to illuminate the pages.  





our newest pablo neruda book asks questions – in spanish and in english.  it is my preference to read them to david in spanish (neither of us having had any spanish instruction).  we stare at each other – no, no, gaze adoringly at each other – and he tries to sort out what i asked.  eventually, i give in and read the question in english.   there are no answers in the book.  only questions.  and they are truly sink-your-teeth-into-them questions.  we ponder and pull on them like taffy.





maybe tonight.  a saturday night date night.  glass of wine.  firepit (though it will be about 80 degrees).  if the lights strung across the yard aren’t enough, the itty-bitty will be nearby.  and we will read delicious words of love and promises of bluebells and dark hazels.  i won’t expect the bluebells or the dark hazels or gifts to be bestowed at the door, arriving through david’s remarkable ability to order them via AI or siri sending them as we read aloud (which may not be far from reality some day).   unexpected gifts are rare these days, for many reasons.  as we go through and declutter and clear out, we see we need little.  





because, truth is, the sitting together is actually the gift.





but those rustic barrels of kisses…





*****





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