I am sorry
For my silence. 

A part of me
Sees your name
And panics.

In my gut
In my chest
Swirls of fear

Heart races
Breath shortens
“Run away, run away,”
The voice in my head
Shouts.

Snap shut.
Turn away.
Will myself
To stop thinking
Stop the retching,
Think of anything else.

And because I know not
What to do,
What to say,
How to stop the panic …

I am silent.

I dreamed I’d been told I was dying. 
Then I dreamed I wrote a poem about this dream of dying.
I’m not sure I care that much about my dying. 
I am currently more concerned with my living. 

Pádraig Ó Tuama released a new book last week, Being Here: Prayers for Curiosity, Justice, and Love. My books are mostly electronic these days — easier for my eyes, easier to carry, easier to copy quotes as well. Not this one. This one is a small, hardcover version that now sits next to my laptop. The quote that guides me: 

… this is a way of living
That’s worth living daily.

A book of daily liturgies and essays, it’s both ancient and fresh. Both an art form and an invitation to be present in the messy, complicated fabric of our life. 

And that is what concerns me. My messy, complicated life. How I am living in this moment. I don’t have a lot of time or energy for my dying. 

Should I?

I wonder if I am waiting for my living to be up to some standard I’ve not yet achieved, therefore I’m not ready to think of my dying.

I don’t feel troubled by the thought of my dying. There are no mountains I’ve yet to climb before I’m ready to bid farewell. 

Except this sense that I still need to strip away this veneer of control to experience true freedom. Some final act of surrender so that I can experience real peace.

I’ve begun a practice of sitting with a small glass timepiece. It’s an hourglass — transparent sea-green glass with smooth, flowing sand that measures exactly five minutes. At least once a day, and often more, I turn the glass and watch and wait. The rules are simple: My eyes remain focussed on the sand, my body remains still. No matter what thought occurs, no matter was sound tempts me to turn and look. I watch the sand and I breathe. 

It surprises me how difficult it is to remain focussed on just the sand and my breathing. For five minutes! It’s as if the turning of the earth depends on my busily making notes and organizing my calendar and solving all the large and small matters that draw my attention. 

This is what I mean. How am I living? And what is the time of my life worth? To me, most of all? 

What of life am I missing in the volumes of notes and the calendar dates and the matters that distract me from being present to the moment I’m in right now?

What does it look like to live slowly, deeply, mindful of the play of light on the tall grasses outside my window?

What is the peace of sitting without doing anything worthy or useful?

What might happen if I focussed on writing poetry or drawing a sketch of the birds  at my feeder or listening to the sound of water rushing over rocks?

I might be ready to think about my dying. 

I begin again,
listening.

What is the word 
that wants to be
written on my heart?

Not for always.
Maybe just for
today.

Beloved, perhaps.
“Beloved is where we begin,”
the poet said.

Forgiven, perhaps.
For the things I do,
or don’t do.

Serenity, perhaps.
Freedom from wanting
things to be different.

Perhaps, today,
I begin again
a thousand times,
*stopping*
as the place where
I begin.

Stopping
the struggle,
the thrashing about,
the trying to get it right.

Stopping.
Breathing.
Listening.

It is enough.

winter light invites
clarity and ease this day
foot falls softly now

She says, how are you?
Then — Where is your heart today?
Good question. I breathe.

*****

How are you?
— Good, fine, okay. 
No, really. 
How are you, really?

As if the “really”
Really matters. 

Of course they care. 
Of course they can see
Or maybe just sense
That all is not 
— Good, fine, okay. 

But do they really 
Have the time?
It takes more than 2 minutes. 

Do I trust them to listen
And not talk,
To let me find the words
Without rushing
To assure me
I really am okay. 
(So they can feel okay)

Can they let me pause
To feel what weighs
On my heart
And not try to
Lift the weight
Themselves?

Because they care,
Of course. 
They’re “on my side.”
They want me to
Feel better. 

They want to help. 
We all want to help. 

But if you ask,
— “Where is your heart?”
I know you are willing
………To take the time,
……….To wait while I find the words,
……….To let the silence rest
Until I find my way 
Into the words
That must be spoken. 

It will take the time it takes,
And it will come to a place
Where the heaviness 
Has lifted from my heart
And I am breathing again. 

Really.

Once golden yellow,
Now a crunchy mottled tan.
Breeze lifts leaves aloft.

*****

The time of blazing colors
Passes into patches
Still-clinging tenaciously
To familiar limbs

Once green, tender
Glossy, pliable
Gently shimmering
On the branch

Now scratchy, desiccated
Drained of vibrance
Yet announced by
Crackling presence

Children pile
And leap
And laugh
And pile again

Grown-ups
Rake and bag
Bag and rake
Clearing the green
While one final leaf
Releases itself 
At last

Tonight we’ll share
Mulled wine and cider
A warm fire
And stories in the dark

This path holds perils
Hot coals sear my feet, my soul
Breathing, hope glimmers

*****

I was broken
the tiny crystal of Self
shattered beyond repair

There was no fixing
no redemption
no love that could save me

I tried

Time and time again
I hoped
this time would be different

One day
who knows exactly why or how
it happened on that particular day

Grace, perhaps,
an unknown spirit
breathed on me, in me

And so it began

A time of healing
listening
of being seen

A time of gathering
sharing
being held

And holding on
…..to this new light
…..this new heart

A new start

*written in support of A Hero’s Journey Retreats, created by Bob Petrich

Morning sun backlights
yellow-gold cottonwood leaves.
Breathing into change.

*****

Love the colors,
Love the vibrance,
Love the change …

Or do I?

Sometimes I want the yellow-gold leaves
To stay a little longer.

Let me keep
This image.
This feeling,
This blue sky,
This crisp air,
This particular quality of light …

Let me linger
In the in-between.

Do this, this and this,
Or do the one thing right now.
The choice: broad or deep.

*****

Do all the bright, shiny things.

I can, you know. 
I have the time.
I have the skill,
Or — more fun — I can learn.

Why not?

Keep busy. 
Keep active.
Be smart. 
Stay sharp. 

Manage all the things,
The time, the tasks,
The meet-ups.
“Sure, I can fit it in.”

And there’s the thing.
You asked nicely.
You stroked my ego. 
You know what matters to me. 

And still …

I like the quiet.
Tracking the morning sun,
Watching my dog sniff the air,
Breathing.

I like to reflect,
To consider what she said,
To savor a moment shared,
To appreciate another day with my aged canine.

I like to take in the life I have,
To feel my feet on the floor,
To re-read that particular poem,
To stop … and rest.

I am not done growing and changing.
But I am done being busy.
I am done catching my breath
In between this and that. 

I will breathe
As I  

dive deep
sigh
dream

Change your mind.
Change your ways.
Change your outlook.
Change your sheets. 
Change your filter. 
Change your socks. 

Change your partner. Your habits. Your personality. 

Umm hmm. That’s what they say. Or maybe they don’t say it. But that’s what they mean. Something you’re doing is not comfortable for them. True enough. You see it in their face, their eyes. The slight tightness in the jaw. The quick downward glance. A couple of blinks. A rise of the shoulders. A pause before speaking. 

The car mechanic is looking to sell me a new air filter. “Oh that?” I say, flicking a little nest of tan-colored hair from the still near-white folds of the filter. “That’s just a little dog hair. Let’s just brush it off. No need to change it yet.” 

The article on the “best buy in bed sheets in 2023” arrives in my Inbox just in time. I’m ready for a complete change. Brand new color, brand new sheets, brand new commitment to sleep as self-care.

Everyone hates change, we say. We like things predictable, safe. Or rather, what we perceive as safe. 

But is it really? 

Every year here in Colorado, we get another chance to see the beauty and maybe even the necessity of change. Everyone is talking about the gorgeous colors as the leaves are changing. Advisories tell us the times for peak viewing as well as the various routes for taking in the vibrant yellow and sometimes red on the slopes of our beloved mountains. On a clear blue-sky day, the vividness of the colors against the crowning white of the early snows evokes a sharp inhale of breath. 

“Look!” we say to one another. “Oh my. Aren’t we lucky to see this?!”

And then we witness the next step in the cycle. The mat of fallen leaves, the bare branches, the deepening chill in the evening air. We burrow into our fleece. We change out our cotton socks for wool, our sandals for sturdy boots. We flick on the gas-fed fireplace and stock up on chili-makings.

We make all these transitions with more or less grace, depending on our particular likes and dislikes. Some enjoy snow skiing, others prefer summer hiking. Personally, I’m more comfortable adding layers than coping with the stifling heat. 

I enjoy a long summer day, of course, mostly because I enjoy the light. But I appreciate the long, cold winter nights.. Apparently, most seeds prefer darkness to thrive well and are actually inhibited by light when germinating. I think, too, of winter as a time for the land to rest. For some animals to take a long sleep and wake up hungry and ready for a new season of life and birth. 

We love the changing colors of leaves in the fall, the breath-taking beauty of a full moon on a long winter night, the bursting forth of colors in spring, the harvest of fresh sweet corn-on-the-cob in summer. 

We don’t love it when another person implies that we “should” change in some way. Or that we are resisting a needed change. 

We want comfort. To feel safe and secure. Yes. And …

What if “safe and secure” meant embracing change as life, as cycles of growth, as seasons of being and becoming?

What if we practiced “change” so it wouldn’t shake us up so much? Sit in the back of the room instead of the front. Arrive early instead of late, or vice versa. Take a walk in the dark. Try a new vegetable, one you’ve never eaten before. Eat salad for breakfast. Read the ending of the book first. Stand in the rain on purpose for two minutes without an umbrella.