Nighttime (11)

Dog barks in the dark
crickets cricket
swamp cooler pushes air
crescent moon lingers
cat climbs the fence
I type in the loud quiet night
good work day behind me
sleepy
satisfied
still.

Ballast (10)

I’m lucky. I get the Los Angeles Times. I remember how I felt when I first subscribed, the relief and pleasure to be reading beautiful writing and “real” journalism. Years later, I still feel the same way. And in our political climate, I’m so glad I get the latest from the White House by reading it. I have the luxury of monitoring myself, stopping at my tipping point, first glimmers of nausea or fury. But my luck in this, my gratitude, blooms beyond this gift. When I allow myself to meander, I am fed the antidotes. I get to read about the good things like the two men, a gay couple in Berkeley, who’ve begun Café Ohlone. They are “reviving both food and language” and “preserving the deepest parts of Ohlone culture.” Or the two young women in high school, both immigrants (one from El Salvador, one from Egypt) who’ve been best friends since eighth grade. I get to read about the biologist Peter Sharpe who has dedicated his career “to reviving the once-endangered bald eagle,” one of the “great American wildlife comeback stories,” who climbs up into their nests to examine and tag the eaglets. And I get to read about the “New Arrivals Supper Club” where “recently settled refugees bond over the food and memories of the lives they left behind.” Wages are provided for the immigrant chef and the proceeds go to the family and to Miry’s List. Each time I let myself sink into one of these stories, I feel my heart soften. Hope strikes, warms. Gratitude spills over for all these human beings doing good, important work, for being the light against the dark, and for the paper who honors them. Thank you all.

Wary (9)

You buzz my face three times
while I lie in the courtyard
on my purple yoga mat
I wave you away
all soft furriness
I wish you well, I say
but I am allergic
so please don’t bee
near me.

Treasure (8)

I bang the roll of quarters I got at Ralph’s against the sharp edge of the table.

They break open, and I see they are fresh minted, shiny and untouched, like a gift.

I palm six, rub them between my hands.

It seems wrong to put them in the washing machine.

Passage (7)

I smell the jacarandas blooming. I am almost certain it is them, though I’ve never smelled them before. The citrus trees scent our air in late winter, and now this. This fragrance is delicate, elusive. It could almost be my imagination, but I don’t think so. I step off the paved path, walk with slow, soft steps across the grass beneath the long row of jacarandas. There are light purple petals everywhere, jewels against the green. I am all opened up from chavasanah, already buoyed, so the joy in this is crisp, immediate. Today the raven hatchling thief is far away inside me. The tree where I left the wounded butterfly weeks ago is at the end of this row, but that aching loss, too, is softened by time. Today there is just the open heart and the scent of blossoms and the richness of walking beneath these grand trees through the petal-strewn grass.

Meditation (6)

Sitting this evening
at sangha
busy mind.
I am weeding my driveway
trying to figure out my first smart phone
planning the November writing retreat.
In between
I am fully in the room
part of our sweet circle.
Then an imaginary conversation
with a friend and writing companion
certain I hurt her feelings in the afternoon
not able to let it go.
But later
walking home from the bus
the clouds part
for the new moon, big thin bright sickle
and the huge dark orb of her, too.
I stop in the middle of the road
to watch her disappear behind the mountain.
Good night, moon
good journey.
No more busy mind.

Against the Sky (5)

I am walking north along a busy street. A raven flies south, and I look up, see his dark silhouette. A small black bird is flapping hard to keep up, and I see something in the raven’s mouth. A newborn baby bird, translucent in the morning light. The small bird gives up, flies north, fast. She disappears two blocks ahead. I can feel her fresh horror, having chased the raven because she had to, now panicked the others in the nest might be harmed in her absence. I don’t want to believe any of it, but the knowledge sits in me. I return my books to the library. In the park, I walk beneath the jacaranda trees. They are just beginning to bloom. It lifts my spirits to look up and see their purple buds. But the other tragic sight settles back inside me while I walk, heavy in my chest.