from this flight: find light
carry it twenty years past
your flight-or-fight life
through the turbulence
of youth’s wanderlust wonders,
past career questions,
into the blue sky
of a healthy tomorrow
shined by little grins.
find the golden light
carried by heavenly wings
that kept you on Earth.
happy fortieth,
twenty years without cancer,
and still shining bright.
the kid argument
that plagues my mornings and nights
chips away my soul
somewhere between the data crunch
that swallows all planning time,
the tech issues that chew up a third of every class,
the common planning that gnaws into bitching about work,
emailing counsellors about kids who’ve bitten off more than they can chew,
grading grammar that nibbles away time with my own kids…
there’s a teacher waiting,
the entrée of this piecemeal,
ready to share the most delectable taste
of what this world asks and offers.
clouds can’t cover blue
with a reflection like this
waiting to bathe joy
yesterday we learned about sod
and homesteaders’ dreams being trampled by wind and hail and no water
and how they were tricked into
settling on free land.
nothing is free.
how they built brick by sod brick–
tiny houses not much taller than themselves,
and posed in front with shovels on the roof,
no time to take them down for the picture–
for what if it rained, or a snake crept in?
yesterday i thought i was a teacher,
and they were learning from me,
my immigrant students building up their vocabulary
brick by decoded brick.
nothing is ever what it seems.
today they entered and i asked them to write:
describe challenges when you moved to a new place.
and with the new words fresh on her tongue, she told me:
just like the homesteaders,
my family had to move to a new camp
and my father had to build a sod house,
no taller than that one in the picture.
and so my student taught today’s lesson:
one hundred fifty years later,
we are still making bricks
instead of trying to break them.
scaling these cliff walls
feels easier than your words
of guilt and judgment
yet, rivers sparkle;
ancients thrived here, not survived
(just like you and me)
too much to take in–
the beauty of history,
of sights still unseen,
of children’s faces
as youth clings as fleetingly
as the setting sun
we are captive here
in these soft moments of light
(help me preserve them)
Numbers for our weekend: Bruce turned 39, our marriage turned 18, we hiked 25 miles, gained 4520 feet in elevation, endured 100 or more stream crossings, 4 thunderstorms, 50 fallen trees, and carried 80 pounds of food, equipment, and water. We reached our limit halfway through yesterday, but marriage is continuous–we chose the loop trail just like we chose each other 18 years ago. And we’ll keep hiking, helping each other cross streams, build shelters, cook meals, and climb mountains, till the last limit of our lives. Happy anniversary!
celebrating us
with a long walk in the woods
(away from it all)
silence is golden
when resting feet at sunset
(your birthday present)
the breeze reminds me:
i drove twenty-one hours
to find this beauty
better than the beach:
that grin on your face; these views;
hard-earned sore muscles
thank you for crazy–
(the long drive, the longer walk,
another “us” year)
Pappy and grandkids
as we begin the last leg
of this journey: life
everyone wins today
with sleeping in and reading books
and me fitting in a bike ride
on the way to the movies
(coastal views, zero elevation,
heat seeping through my new
jersey in a rushed attempt to
meet the time schedule)
and yet it hovers.
my vacation.
my vacation with friendly family,
getting-along-quite-well girls,
ocean views and coral reefs
and the best lake swimming there is
and …
no happy hour.
pedaling across those bridges,
sweating steps in Savannah,
making it through another day,
a blessed, lucky day on this earth…
and no drink to top it off,
to melt the anxiety that comes
with upcoming controversial family,
the stress that will be DC in July,
seeing my father-in-law slowly lose his mind;
no drink to bring brighter to life
the constancy of waves,
to further open my mouth for all
the thoughts i’m dying to share,
(to pour onto the page);
no drink to further relax my toes
into this cushion of sand,
my sore muscles into the clutch of alcohol,
my mind from the weight of the world.
and i say it again and again:
There’s always a reason…
and even on the perfect day,
the life’s a beach dream vacation day,
it. is. still. hard.
it is why i pedal.
why i write.
why i drive 6000 miles.
why i watch waves.
because the need to escape is real.
in all of us, no matter how picture-perfect our lives appear,
it is as real as this view, this beach, these toes.
but i made it.
i made it through another day.
and this poem is my happy hour.
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