What is your songline?

"It's time to get up, it's time to get up, it's time to get up in the morning" my mother would sing to the tune of reveille. Repeat once with words and again with your own version of a blaring trumpet complete with “raspberry spray.” Despite the fact that my mom couldn’t hold pitch, she’d sing all day (even in the grocery store) and into the night even around the Girl Scout campfire (much to my embarrassment). Silly songs like do your ears hang low do they wobble to and fro will pop into my head even today at the most surprising times. I remember my brothers obnoxiously changed ears to boobs, can you tie em in a knot can you tie em in a bow accompanied by obscene gestures. Some of the Girl Scout songs my mom sang, like Make New Friends, taught me lessons. Some taught me history, like Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow about the Chicago fire. Others were just nonsensical like:

I'm a hayseed. My hair is seaweed.
And my ears are made of leather and they flop in stormy weather.

(What is it about my mom's generation and flop ears?)

Gosh oh, hemlock, strong as a pine knot.
I'm a senior can’t you see.
So what do you do on a Saturday night
when all the girls have gone to the fight
and a boy's best friend is his mother
fireman, fireman save my child
good evening friends
bow out

It wasn’t until preparing a slide show for my parent’s 60th wedding anniversary that I discovered that Gosh o Hemlock was a Mickey Rooney expression. Incidentally, Mickey Rooney owned the Downingtown Inn in my home town in Pennsylvania. I didn’t learn the origins of Big Rock Candy Mountain until I was teaching a history lesson about the depression. I realized then that my mom had replaced cigarette trees with sugar plum trees.This was our lullaby…although I’m not sure how the buuuzzzin of the bees helped us calm down for sleep.

My mom was what I always referred to as an instructional mom (as opposed to a snuggling mom). She wasn’t big on cuddles or hugs and never fussed over our physical or emotional pains. Perhaps that was her Midwestern German heritage. To this day she struggles with saying, “I love you.” When I say it to her, she stutters back over the phone, “Yeah, okay, well then, bye now.” She may not have been physically affectionate, but she taught us all we needed to know to survive in this world. She taught we four kids a slew of songs along with how to build a camp fire, ice skate, make buddy burners and sit-upons, dive in the deep end of the pond, peel an apple, sew a plaid skirt, dip beeswax candles…her repertoire was extensive. I realize now that I learned how to teach from my mom. She was leading us in hands-on, integrated, project-based learning in Brownie Girl Scouts before those terms and methods of teaching were ever acknowledged by the experts.

My favorite song Mom sang was, Skinnamarink. I liked it in part because I thought it was written just for me. I was quite a long thin drink of water when I was a kid and my parents called me skinny gink. Also, my mom sang this song to me in a low whisper just as I was falling asleep at night.

Skinnamarink a dink  a dink
Skinnamarink a do,
I love you!

Skinnamarink a dink  a dink
Skinnamarink a do,
I love you!

I love you in the morning,
And in the afternoon
I love you in the evening,
Underneath the moon…

Skinnamarink a dink  a dink
Skinnamarink a do,
I love you!

No More the Silent Cry

No More the Silent Cry
Trust the cloud of unknowing ~
an air of white-blue liberation.
Stand wide in this urban morning, crowing!

So what if you don’t know where you are going;
sing any song, no more mute hesitation.
Trust the cloud of unknowing,

for you are the queen of all sowing
that thin place of wordless inspiration;
stand wide in this urban morning, crowing!

This lush time is your time for growing.
Ignore those false rulers of reification.
Trust the cloud of unknowing.

This time is your time for feminine flowing ~
you are the mother of creation, of emancipation.
Stand wide in this urban morning, crowing!

So what if your words necessitate a lowing;
this is the time for that quiet (not silent) creation.
Trust the cloud of unknowing.
Stand wide in this urban morning, crowing!

Good-bye to Sheila Lodge

Sheila was one of the most generous I have ever known...not only giving her hugs, love and support, her fierce, mother-bear protection, but also her disappointments, resentments, sorrows, and unbearable grief, connecting us to the full meal deal of being human...both the awe and awful of our breathing beating coursing existence. A section of W.S. Merwin's poem:

"...I have to trust what was given to me
if I am to trust anything
it led the stars over the shadowless mountain
what does it not remember in its night and silence
what does it not hope knowing itself no child of time

what did it not begin what will it not end
I have to hold it up in my hands as my ribs hold up my heart
I have to let it open its wings and fly among the gifts of the unknown..."

AND

When Giving Is All We Have
Alberto Ríos, 1952

One river gives
Its journey to the next.

We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.

We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.

We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—

Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.

Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:

Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.

You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me

What you did not have, and I gave you
What I had to give—together, we made

Something greater from the difference.

Transformative Language Arts

Well, I'm finally finishing a certification in TLA: almost 10 years and $10,000 in classes, workshops, airfare, and medical bills later! My reading last night for the penultimate class was about Suzan Lori Parks' play Venus, which brought to mind this essay I wrote back in 2007 when Parks spoke at the Portland Arts & Lecture series.

She skips onto the stage, tosses her waist length dreadlocks over her shoulders and plants her feet wide and pigeon-toed like Lily Tomlin’s Edith Ann.  Suzan-Lori, who changed her name from Susan to Suzan as the result of a typo on a promo poster, dons a coral knee-length straight skirt, gray top, and calf-high black cowboy boots.  With hands on hips, elbows and shoulders thrust slightly forward in oxymoronic cuteness, knees locked back, she reminds me of Bad Becky, a childhood neighbor girl.  I expect Suzan to draw toy pistols from a hip holster and zap the audience with literary witticisms.  Instead, this 42-year-old Pulitzer Prize winner (Topdog/Underdog (2001)) begins with, “Anna Nicole Smith died today, and you know, people laugh, and it’s supposed to be funny, but, you know, she was a person too.  As nutty and wacky and loopy, she was a person, too…so just, like, wave to her as she leaves the building, because she was something.”  Such compassion emanated throughout her 90 minute homily.  “Listen in and out,” she advises through a slight lisp.  Then she rolls to the outside of her feet in an unassuming way and asks how to “conduct oneself in the presence of the spirit.”

I am temporarily seized by this muse, by the suggestion to treat inspiration “as an honored guest” and “entertain all my far-out ideas.”  Only occasionally in my 46 years have I fully entertained the muse and my edgy, unconventional ideas.  Typically, I am so consumed by a need for approval that I do not dare blurt out the true meanderings of my mazy mind.  As a child, I spent most of my time in my imagination, creating fantasy lives when I was bored, needing to get out of yard work, or detach from a socially painful elementary school scenario.  I visited complex story lines every night that I couldn’t fall asleep.  I used the index finger on each hand to represent a character and created dialogues between the two fingers in the back seat of my mom’s lime green station wagon.  I would whisper, not wanting to be caught, and occasionally my mother would ask what I was doing back there.  “Nothing,” I would lie as I worked out the hurts of my youth on my index fingers. 

Parks also revealed her imaginary childhood adventures under the piano waiting for her mother’s high heels to click by.  She read Harriet the Spy and Hotel for Dogs and then, when asked, “What are you doing under there?” responded with, “I’m writing my novel.” 

Wish I had thought of that line for myself.

“The play is always happening,” she declares.  “I just plucked something out of the ether.” Suzan-Lori Parks wrote a play a day for a year.  Her efforts resulted in the recent publication of 365 Days/365 Plays (2006). Many of the works are in production at theaters across the country.  If the voices tell you to write a play a day for a year, you say “OK!” Parks explained.  “In the presence of the spirit, you don’t say, ‘What do you mean?’ ” 

I remember reading that Georgia O’Keefe painted a painting a day for the discipline, or perhaps to stir her artistic compost.

I started writing a poem a day for a while. 

Then it became a poem a week, a poem a month, and finally a poem if I happened to be inspired and made the time to write it down. 

I slighted the spirit yet again ~ didn’t even offer her a glass of wine when she came to visit because I was too determined to lead a proper life with a proper income from an acceptable job, own a house, keep it clean, go to bed by 10:00 and never reveal the true outrageousness of my spirit.  After 1825 days of depression, I finally decided to quit my stable job, sell my clean house, stay up after midnight, and trust the voice that dared me to write, fill that life with constant creation and open every pore to the spirit with a resounding, “Yes!” 

So here I am, signed up for a semester at Goddard and writing a Villanelle a day, well, not quite every day, but the point is, I let myself be consumed by the spirit, in love with the spirit, and I listen to words outside my own undulating mind. 

My good friend and housemate Donna sent me a card while I was at Goddard.  “Gazing out the window while rinsing the morning dishes, she chased her thoughts in circles, until they escaped through the screen and onto the mulberry tree.  From a distance they actually made sense.”  On the back of the card by Susan Mrosek it read, “A person needs a place to unfold her truths and extract the humor.  That place is the Pondering Pool.  Perhaps I’ll see you there.” 

             So here I am, in the ‘Pondering Pool’, wondering about the space between and the power of language within that space.  I long to breathe only the ether that Suzan-Lori Parks speaks of; I long to be immersed in synonyms and similes, hyperbole and raw truth, the day to day 365 every day fascination with language as a symbol for enunciating our human condition.  I stepped out to the edge of the tide and the shoreline; now I walk through the wavy waters of artistic unknowing and, like Parks, I hope to set off to Virginia Woolf’s lighthouse and remember who I am and who I am supposed to be. 

Peace Arts & Poetry

I'm teaching a class called Peace Arts & Poetry where participants use a labyrinth and poetry to explore the creation of internal peace. They leave with a mini book that contains a poem about peace. The class is November 21st 1:00-3:00 at Springwater Studio, 120 SW Towle Ave. Gresham, OR. Here is my poem:

Water Way

Follow

the riverbed

wash clean dust and debris

purified triviality

cleanse me

Arrive

in peace

through streams of green

and humming bees

mitigated silence

So much easier here

between pine trees and idleness

amid effortless lakeside purl

to hear

your Beloved

il bel far niente

light riffles round us shadows fall

day rests with cricket calls

lullaby psalms

be still

Freedom?

I've been rereading Radclyffe Hall's 1920's lesbian classic, The Well of Loneliness, and came across this quote: "What a terrible thing could be freedom. Trees were free when they were uprooted by the wind; ships were free when torn from their moorings; men were free when they were cast out of their homes - free to starve, free to perish of cold and hunger..." This jaded view of freedom comes from the character's recent banishment by her mother from her childhood home after being outed and jilted by her female lover. Perhaps, too, she came to the realization that for all her longings to have the freedom and independence she perceived men to have, without a love to claim, a heart tethered to her heart, such freedom could only lead to abject poverty and death.

The first time I read The Well of Loneliness I had just moved in with my first partner and thought I'd be reaping of benefits of being claimed in partnership. It took me 20 years and several other lovers and one other partner to realize that I don't have the temperament for a lifetime of rooted-ness with one other. While I do enjoy the security of being claimed by another and I value monogamy, too much possession makes me itchy and claustrophobic, strangled and dismembered by the roots rather than feeling comfortable, secure and whole in the grounded-ness. I am fortunate to be in a relationship now that gives me plenty of room so that I can experience a balance of independence and dependence ~ interdependence, I suppose.

This same said balance is now appearing in my work life. Two years ago today I was cast out from a full time job with a steady pay check, health insurance, 401K, and evenings and weekends free for leisure. Yes, the security of the job afforded me freedom from worry about how I was going to pay my bills, freedom to play and travel, buy a kayak, season symphony tickets, and maybe a new pair of shoes; but what did that job's claim on my time, talents, energy, and imagination steal from me? It tethered my day, my freedom to dictate my time, to follow the thread of inspiration to joyous creation, to question, push boundaries, pursue higher purpose. Now, two years later, I barely pay the bills each month, but I do pay (and I also managed to pay off all credit card debt). I work twice as many hours, late into the night and every weekend for less pay. But I am valued for what I do and it's work that challenges me, stimulates, and engages. Where I used to hit the snooze button on the alarm, show up late to work, and often sleep in on the weekends until noon, now I wake every day without an alarm, sometimes as early as 6:00 a.m. I have not perished as a result of being torn from the moorings of that land-locked nonprofit - quite the opposite - this ship has set sail and is thriving in the open sea!

to survive the northwest gray

In the chapter titled “Winter” from Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek she writes, “Obviously the thing illuminated cannot be lighter than the illuminator.” She goes on to describe an experiment of a mirror on snow reflecting the sky in its surface. “The dark is overhead and the light at my feet; I’m walking upside-down in the sky.” I believe that, through reading and writing poetry, one can process trauma, a secret shadow self, those dark nights of the soul, and thereby touch upon illuminating insights that lighten our being and lead toward healing and wholeness. The nature of poetry, its rhythm, rhyme, repetition, figurative language, order, and white spaces of silence offers an ideal structure for sorting through fears, pains, confusion, and other negative emotions. A falling leaf is lighter than my hand that catches the leaf, the hand that holds a pen and scribes a description of that leaf on the page. But the leaf is not lighter than the metaphor it engenders or even, simply, the poem on the page or on the breath of the reader.
How does that work, the power of poetry to transform a dark, laden poet into an illuminator of herself? Tess Gallagher’s poem Sing it Rough suggest that the poet must first name and acknowledge, voice the darkness…disclose our trauma, our dis-ease.

You can sing sweet

and get the song sung

but to get to the third dimension

you have to sing it rough,

hurt the tune a little.

Put enough strength to it

that the notes slip.

Then something else happens.

The song gets large.

Then with the tools of vowels and consonants, line and stanza breaks (brakes), metaphor, simile, rhythm, and poetic form the poet can re-frame the earlier dark scenario, put some space between her and the trauma to let some light shine in.

In my 30s I moved from the sunny high desert of Utah to a darker, rainy (but lush green) northwest. Within a year, my serotonin levels plummeted and I was diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder. This triggered the sun-less blossoming of a depressive disorder and I struggled for years. I realized early on that the only way to deal was to “take my depression/darkness to tea” and ask what it needed me to hear. I did this through poetry. Two winters ago, I realized that my depression had drifted away; so despite being recently unemployed, this poem came out:

Gradations of Gray

To become a true north-westerner

I must learn to gaze into the fog

rather than battleship through

the granite gray-green day

with sights only on another leaden tomorrow.

I must learn to let go of fog horns

that pierce and startle

through a pewter dusk

attempting to awaken the unknown

cinereous mystery

dappled light in day or night

smoky ashen ashes to ashes to

drab, dusty iron-clad will

livid purple-gray bruises

of yesterday, let go.

I must learn to adore

a muddled moon

somber silver

as well as the powdery pearl

of a Portland sun

oyster gray

shaded gray pine

astringent slate

stone cold winter

wet heather gray

or withered seared fields

from musty to neutral to peppery

dingy to dove gray

I must learn to distinguish

and esteem them all.

Reflection

Reflection

            (with gratitude to John O’Donohue)

Out my winter window

only an atrophied view

a Monet cataract blur

painted with shadows instead of light.

Brown indifference, bare sticks

where the lilac once bloomed

resentful poverty in the absence

of red-cheeked flickers at the feeder.

A numbed stare, limbo of cynicism

I saw nothing but a reflected surface ‒

not of iced puddles or frozen rivers

with their turbulent mysteries beneath

but the glowing façade of Smart phones and television screens

a restless search through newsfeeds

and list serves where even my Facebook photo

of orcas breaching in the Pacific could not save me.

Until that one day when

the heron of haunted desires

floated by on the gray horizon

stirring the air into a fecund adventure

and hostas sprouted green truth

up through the cold ground

and I was no longer marooned

on the shiny surfaces of the banal.

2 new pine poems for May Day

The forester philosopher, Aldo Leopold, once wrote, “Acts of creation are ordinarily reserved for gods and poets, but humbler folk may circumvent this restriction if they know how. To plant a pine, for example, one need be neither god nor poet; one need only mellow loam and a shovel that sings…”(―from,  A Sand County Almanac )

Pinus lambertiana Watercolor by Elise C. Bush

On an Air of Possibilities 

When the first rays of April sun glance golden

off the row of gray pine – a verdant buffer

            against Columbia River Gorge

            winds and trailer park rowdies below –

there comes the annual click, clickclick, snap click

of pine cones opening to release winged seeds –

            tight conical cones relax in warmth

            like our bones after cold wet winters

in the northwest – like our brain’s stuttering spark

ignites a moss-covered dull hibernation –

            these chattering cones surrender their

            windburn wisdom with our bare wishes

Pining

Awake today

to the towering

sweet Sugar pine

red bark trunk

deeply ridged wisdom

guiding you skyward

toward a canopy

of emerald protection

from too much light

be your longing

be-long

where you belong

in the between

red bark trunk

guiding you earthward

toward thirsty roots

that draw

from an underworld

too deep

where Iroquois buried

their weapons

under the Tree of Peace

be your longing

be-long

where you belong

in the between

Awake today

to the massive Sugar pine cones

that both drop

like torpedoes of intrusion

and lie nestled in needle duff ‒

their complexity and power

their longing to belong

resides settled

in the between

Grass Widow

Grass Widow

Early, at the heart

of the rocky Cascades

along the Labyrinth Trail

you will find me ~

slender verdant limbs

rounded tips of pleasure

open to a palisade sky

satiny purple skirts

flipped up

toward spring sunshine

I shimmer in the breeze

like pages of a secret

mistress of the meadow

blue-eyed grass

iris of your undoing

For Karen on Pi Day

The Mathematician

                        to Karen Marie Thompson Medhi (1960-2014)

this

she

knew this

she understood: one

twist to a Möbius strip

and we enter infinity. This she knew just

as pinecones and sunflowers know of endless, elegant patterns – reliable, predictable order, she

must have found a golden serenity in this ubiquitous array of spiraling pairs: life and death. Having come to be, she

will never come not to be. Imperishable one – once fire, now wind – she

knew what fragile guests we are on this

Earth, irrational nature, we all

die so we

might live

illimitable

she

Inchoate State

of mind
of being
of purpose
of direction
of focus
of drive
of ambition
of dress
of health
of sanity
of clarity
of humanity
I am
in choate,
a place,
and I wish
I could care not

November Ends

November Ends

in a time of rotting brown mushrooms

a musty, under-the-fallen-leaf time

a time for compost, Constant Comment tea

and nutmeg anticipation.

Crime and Punishment lays open on her lap

pages flip like a moth in a smoky russet breeze

while corn stalks snap under the crow’s

polished purple-black weight.

This is the time for fence mending:

to repair or replace sister rails,

leaning posts in concrete footings,

pry, brace, plumb, tighten the turnbuckle

on sagging gates, this is the time

when snarls of fox fur clump on barbed-wire fences

and snow geese etch against a tarragon sky

while milk pods explode into millions of beginnings.

(Honorable Mention in Oregon Poetry Association contest--2014)

From the banal to the sacred

Emptying the Dishwasher

Rinse water collects

in bottoms-up coffee mugs

reflecting puddles from my past.

Remember this one

from the strawberry-blond student

who couldn’t spell

but painted glory

on a morning mug,

or these matching mugs

from my nieces

(we reserved for weekend coffee

in bed with books and snippets

of secrets from the past).

I unload two water bottles

from the kayak trip

(when snowy egrets

performed a sky-dance –

remember that),

a lid-less mason jar

that held botanical samples

for your latest illustration project,

glass dessert plates

from my grandmother,

casserole dishes from a sister-in-law

(who shops on QVC for stoneware

in the pattern she picked out for me –

guess that’s how it goes

if you’re wedding-less),

your flatware,

my stemware,

Tupperware with permanent spaghetti sauce stains.

Finally, I unload the three

handcrafted ceramic bowls –

terracotta clay, glazed

with lake-blue swoops

like feathered tracers

in a cloudless sky –

(a peace offering from my first partner

whose affair propelled me

into a studio apartment

with little to call my own –

she donated three straight-backed chairs as well –

triumvirate trinity of memory).

Sandy is dead now.

The chairs, long gone,

but the bowls serve us

stone-ground oatmeal

every morning.

Fern Frenzy

I hear fiddlehead

tunes unfurl and play

for the lady nestled

in bleeding hearts

while licorice adorns

large leaf maple

and sword clashes

with stinging nettle

for the maiden’s

delicate hand.

One rivulet murmurs

condolences to the common

cottonwood sapling bent

from January’s freezing rain

deer, dear and hart’s tongue

drape and drink beneath

the bulging branch

of a grand old white oak-

a swan’s neck curve

across my path-

years of storm survival

offer a graceful arch

for me to travel over

or under, my choice,

with the reminder

that I do not have to grow

straight and tall and thin

to be magnificent.

Volcanic Love Poem

Venus of the Cascades

Mellifluous mouth

which has not declared

Inanna – spring flow

has not declared

tidal fountains

rise high with blood

not declared

mountain and flood

resplendent rage

declared

Inanna

my face is dust

in your name

New Year Request

Lunar Appeal

     to Sumerian poet Enheduanna

Lady of the half light

moon priestess in a desert night

shine silver on Artemis sage

who roots and recovers

iron-red soil – once a mountain

under sea - now cinder cone

and hardened ash – a wasteland

that folds and faults

until time allows trust

and healing-juniper union

Let the world know

Lady of the half light

furious heart above ocean midnight

thunderous sighs and tectonic

calls for justice – illuminate

black waters that smack foam white

against pillow basalt –

beyond temperance your tempest

could destroy us all

unless we attend to whale cries

above the tidal dirge

It is time

on this obsidian eve

from the land of civilized kings -

lady of the half light

let the world know it is time

for all our moments of splendor

for all we call divine

to merge in a constant alluvial flow

with each prosaic day - wax bright

oh lady of the night

and let the world know it is time.

Solstice

Winter Solstice

On this, the longest night, 

I nearly utter, "Not yet, too soon, not now.” 

I'm not ready for the apocalypse of light, 

that asteroid of fire and life, 

to hurtle into my fine-grained silence 

to crystallize these course-grained words too soon.  

I haven't used up my dark days 

as well as I know I could.  

I haven't gone deep enough 

into wells of memory 

shadows, stones and core.  

I made friends with darkness, 

once I finally acceded 

to its purpose in my life,

once I learned to sink in - 

whether as a yield to accommodating sand 

or hard winter ground - I now allow gravity,

my weighty grave, the absence of light,

and I give in, give up to the depth, 

my spine relieved in darkness, 

packed in layers upon layers 

of self, sedimentary and cold.  

Once I discovered the value of humus, 

steamy black compost, 

how it feeds and readies me, 

I became fond of the smell of darkness

like the horse barns of my youth

piss and sweat 

leather and harvested grain. 

I no longer need to quilt darkness 

with the eternal promise

and anticipation of light. 

I like darkness as it is - 

coal, carboniferous rock, 

the furnaced compression 

of all that once lived.

“Love takes wing where calculation ends.” Belden Lane

Ruach

Is not love merely

the product of a calculating mind?

like the etching of hummingbird wings

on air – imagined and un-sensed –

or yesterday’s raindrops

beholden to memory,

but sure to come again –

transient yet consistent, persistent

rain – love, that four letter word

poets are warned against uttering,

where does it go

when the flame is blown out?

What is love without

our hands to strike

the match that lights the flame?

What is love without

our breath to stoke or extinguish?

Unemployment of Advent

This is the time of year for preparing the way, emptying ourselves, whittling the dead branches until the new emerges. This year I am unemployed and ostensibly free to "do advent right," but I'm struggling (because I'm struggling, trying too hard). 

"The teacher of emptiness teaches best by the negation of his own self-consciousness." ~ Beldane Lane

"As the ego sleeps, the heart remains vigilant. Indeed, the more self-outpouring we are, abandoning the ego and all its frenzied needs, the more truly we become ourselves, taken to the heart of our deepest being in God." -Saint Bonaventure

BonAVENTure...appropriate name for now, don't you think? 

These words came to me quickly:

Forget the self

that wanders through

a cold, empty house--

one clock ticking

one tap dripping

echoed footsteps

aimless in pursuit 

of purpose --

a need to be needed.

The phone rings, I answer, so easily distracted these days. Then I return to my journal determined to write a second stanza about letting go of the ego, sitting on hardwood floors and letting the heart hold vigilance -- one steady beat, one hot breath on the cold air until the new self, the true self knocks on the red door -- but the stanza with its frenzied forced extended metaphor and cliche advice came from the self the first stanza said to forget. Oi!

This emptiness in my work life is a challenge indeed. Each day it becomes more and more difficult to settle into the writing time I've so missed in the last eight years. I scramble at bit jobs, giving them way too much time and attention. I set self-help goals of exercise and healthy eating, financial conservancy and pseudo-intellectual Internet surfing.  My soul suffers. Anxiety and depression begin their annual leak in, like that dripping faucet. I grasp at old advent poems and thoughts, recycling insights.

All that should matter now is that the sugar water for the hummingbirds doesn't freeze and that the suet feeder is full and ready for the next mob of baby starlings and that the pen scratches the page at least once a day.