Friday, June 20, 2025
Thursday, June 22, 2023
Talking with Trees and "Poem of the One World"
It’s time to talk about this because I met a man at an apple orchard in Quebec who also communicates with trees. And plants. And all of nature. And he did not think it crazy that a tree talks to me. This was a relief. Maybe I can bring that relief to you, too, if you’re communicating with trees and questioning your sanity.
Fortunately the tree does not speak audibly, or I’d have even more to question in the way of sanity, but the messages are clear and distinct. They are also clearly and distinctly NOT in my voice. There are three notable instances:
One early morning, I was admiring this giant elm from my meditative hot tub position. I often think about selling my house, but I’m worried someone will want to build two houses on my lot and cut down the elm I so dearly love.
“I want to protect you,” I thought.
“My purpose is not to exist forever,” it replied.
Oh! I was so surprised at this immediate and strong thought. “What is your purpose?” I cautiously questioned. No response. I waited, then asked again. After a long pause, it responded: “I exist.”
Mind blown. The tree stands outside of purpose. “To be” is not just sufficient but total.
Months later came another instance. I was in my usual anxious frame of mind, trying to decide what in the world I should do with my life. Quit my job? Sell the house? Rent it out? Travel? In desperation, I remembered the wisdom once offered by the elm tree, so I asked it what I should do. It didn't exactly speak in this instance, but it showed me its branches and how they spread and angled off in various directions. It didn’t really matter which path they took, but they all grew toward the light. There was no one “right way.” Any of the myriad choices available were valid - as long as growth was toward the light.
The third instance is a bit more vulnerable, but I want to share. This past spring the elm’s new leaves were nearly fully flounced. It was vibrant and shifting in the early morning breeze. It was gorgeous, glorious. I told it so. Its immediate response: “I’m a mirror.”
I was shocked, complete with goosebumps and tears. Like many women in this society, at times I fall to vanity and struggle with how I don't fit any of society’s perceptions of beauty. But in that moment, I saw how connected I was with everything. How we are inseparable from the nature we view as outside ourselves. So of course we reflect each other. And for a moment I was beautiful.
Oh! And now for a great synchronicity that is happening as this post is written! Because this is still a blog of “other people’s poems,” I just peeked inside a recently purchased book of Mary Oliver’s poetry, A Thousand Mornings, hoping to find something apt. I’m laughing now and somewhat shocked (but also not surprised) to find a poem as outrageously fitting as “Poem of the One World”:
This morning
Saturday, February 04, 2023
Adam names the animals with Nickole Brown and the only thing that remains
I enjoyed proofreading a friend’s manuscript recently. So well written. Full of ancient history, archeology, mythology. What struck me was how very little remains of those ancient civilizations. Shards of pottery, some scrawled markings on stone. With our frail methods of storage (digital and thin slices of tree), I imagine even less will remain of our civilization. And ours is bound to fall, yes? Hasn’t every civilization before ours? So all these words I write – nearly 40 years’ worth of journals and poetry – will vanish. “Can anything we create outlast us?” I wondered. Then, as corny as it sounds, I wondered if what best has the chance of surviving the apocalypse is love.
If I’d read these words of mine a few years ago, they would have sounded ridiculous - too "new agey," too “woo woo.” But I’m feeling the weighty hope of them today. Maybe even a little seed of kindness has potential to grow, become part of the human story that transcends physicality and shape in some way the energy of the universe.
Meanwhile, I came across this poem by Nickole Brown that I immediately wanted to share with everyone I know. It will most likely not survive the apocalypse, so we'd best enjoy it now.
When Adam Ate From the Tree of Knowledge, All the Animals Ate From It, Too
Of course it was he
who did the naming, my little king
strolling the loam, ducking under dripping boughs
pointing, you, over there, now you and you and you,
meaning, no, you’re not one of us, neither are you, so now
let me tell you what you are, stuffing each catch with
taxonomies and syllables, displaying each in the cage
words make. I tried hard not to roll my eyes, followed along,
teased his arrogance by silly-making his labels, un-naming
his possum a bristled midnight whisker-did,
his raccoon a clutchy-pawed, rock-hopping fish-washer,
his chipmunk a racing-striped, seed-cheeking zinger
unzipping the brambles in a toothy squeakflash.
When he bristled, I backed off, softsaying,
Oh, my Adam. Always so serious, said nothing
of his un-miracling miracles,
each signified being ignorantly blinking
at the sound of their new name, refusing to come
when he called. Frustrated, he sped up
as an auctioneer might, faster and louder—
fox! wolf! cricket! grizzly!—
lemur! toad! cicada! hawk!—
and when I couldn’t resist, I said,
Oh, Adam, don’t you know? That eyelashed
fellow too tall to bend his knees, we just met him,
remember? Don’t call him giraffe. His name is
God. When he didn’t laugh, I quit
sassing, told him what was on my mind, said,
Look up in the trees, my upright clay thing, my loneliest
animal divided and dividing himself
from the rest. See that quivering, that common
acorn quizzer curving a question mark with his tail?
He’s telling you the beginning and end to everything
is a question, so don’t try to force answers, honey.
Don’t stomp the garden with your
dictionaries and schemes. He was good and pissed
by then, ready to strike, so when I saw that diamond vine
smelling us with his tongue, I knew what to do,
knew only one thing to keep him
animal, to level the playing field.
Okay, okay, okay, I shushed.
Calm down. I’m sorry. Here,
try a bite of this.
Monday, October 03, 2022
Homage to Neruda and a little bit o' crazy
I did not go to bed alone.
I opened slowly to him, this new amante,
this vineyard giant with hands
the size of mountains. Every
movement took me to a different country.
His tongue spoke a thousand languages.
He fed me sweet plums, his fingers
sweeter than the fruit.
He had a hundred hands,
each held a small bird, an emerald,
a cluster of grapes, an ocean.
My breasts to him were columbines,
my ears salty shells,
my lips roses,
my toes delicate daisies.
I was his fish in a turquoise sea,
flowering coral reaching toward light.
I was mist over the vineyards,
rising dew that melts into sky.
He spoke and caves sprouted diamonds,
fire danced on stone and shadows
called out, "Ven!"
His breath was heavy with musk,
moist and slow.
His rain was summer,
drenching and warm.
I was earth - thirsty, pulsing
and wanting more.
I still am, my dear,
come home.
Passport Dreams
In Antarctica the natives wore fur-lined parkas
with sturdy zippers, tennis racket shoes and
guns slung over their shoulders.
“Why the guns?” I asked.
“Yeti,” they answered in husky whispers.
I looked down to see white fur covering my body.
Had I killed the great legend or become the beast?
They watched for the cold to seep from my bones.
A small boy coughed. A gun was cocked.
I felt the fur grow between my toes.
“Wow,” I said, faking a shiver,
“How about this weather?”
In Germany I took a lover.
I know, I was supposed to do that in France,
but I had a cold there and the wine made me sleepy.
I liked his guttural ichs and funny shoes.
I didn’t mind that he hadn’t showered in four days.
Afterwards he liked to smoke.
I pretended I was trying to quit.
While he talked politics and soccer
I daydreamed about us swimming
naked in the Rhine.
Africa didn’t like me.
Rhinos shouted.
Elephants stampeded.
Hippos wanted to swallow me whole.
They would have, but Tarzan
swept me away on a vine.
We made love in a tree.
His howl shook the jungle.
I wore his pet snake
like a corset.
England offered nothing but
rain, double-decker buses and
Shakespeare’s empty house.
Bowler-hatted men in bars
enunciated every word
with precision.
Then Tarzan appeared.
We made love in the alley.
Big Ben drowned out my howls.
The English never noticed as they
plodded past the Palace at Westminster.
In Italy men with lascivious eyes
watched for rustling skirts
and redheads in cafés.
Their love was dark and selfish,
their sighs like steam.
The fettuccine was amazing, too.
In Spain, red capes hung
in windows of closed shops.
The men were gone looking for bulls.
The women gave me a flouncy peasant skirt
and we danced like confetti
on cobblestone streets.
I rode a rickshaw through China.
I carried bits of meat in my pockets.
Dogs loved me.
A woman selling tea
stopped me in the street.
“No thank you,” I said.
“But you’ve never tried,” she insisted,
holding out the steaming cup.
It burned my tongue and tasted like steel.
The dogs stopped following.
My clothes grew tight. Buttons popped.
Muscled arms bulked and flexed.
Monster feet dented the earth.
I stepped over The Wall and
pounded toward the sun.
I was a giant silhouette, a distorted shadow.
I walked straight off the edge into the fire.
I didn’t feel a thing.
Friday, August 05, 2022
Sage Advice from Ciona Rouse
My favorite swimming hole is at the base of a waterfall on the Fiery Gizzard Trail. It requires a hearty hike to get there. Several Sycamore trees tower nearby, so it is aptly named Sycamore Falls. The water is cold. Colder than expected in the heat of summer. Last month, four young women were standing up to their ankles in it, debating whether or not to brave the chill. They DID eventually go for it, and I'd like to think the kids and I inspired them as we deftly stripped to our swimsuits and swam to rock outcroppings directly below the small falls, allowing the deafening water to pound on our heads.
It is an entire Experience, and almost every time I go, I get a message - usually while floating on my back, looking up at a circle of blue sky and clouds bordered by the tops of tall trees. Once, the message was “Don’t play small.” Another time, it practically screamed, “YOU ARE A CHILD OF THE UNIVERSE,” and I FELT the truth of that in such a profound way, it brought me to tears, and I promised (out loud even), “I won’t forget! I won’t forget!"
The most recent time, it was just “Do things.” I laughed when I heard it. Not sure exactly what it meant, but shortly thereafter, as my hiking/camping buddy Annie and I sat on the rocky shore of the falls, talking about life, the universe, and all the important things, I mentioned my dream of traveling with Workaway. “I want to do all the things!” I told her. It was only then that I understood the message: “Do things."
And so, now I’m about to embark on a journey which is one more step in my attempt to do things and NOT let anxiety keep me small and safe. I’m going to drive to Vermont, take photos for a traveling circus, then drive on to Montreal to visit Olivia. I’ll take my camping hammock and stay at HipCamp sites along the way.
I woke up with fear this morning, wondering what the hell was I thinking!? Logically, I realize taking a road trip is a small thing to do, and years ago, I wouldn't have had a second thought about it. This bizarre anxiety has kept me small and safe for too long, and if I need a little encouragement, I'll just re-read this Ciona Rouse poem:
Friday, January 07, 2022
Gregory Pardlo and the human experience
Wednesday, November 24, 2021
Engagement, participation and Richard Siken's litany
Yesterday I met with Rahim, founder of Unheard Voices Outreach. We met at a coffee shop at 9:00 and I was shocked when I looked at my phone and found three hours had passed. Topics ranged from yoga, Breema body work, smart phone tutorials, documentaries about formerly incarcerated individuals, crypto currency, the school-to-prison pipeline, meditation and chakras, and more. I had met with him, hoping to volunteer in some way with his organization, but also just wanting to meet him because I felt we had numerous common interests. I left that coffee shop inspired to live a life more fully engaged, to participate in life with intention, to find some way to use my gifts to add value to the world.