The Moon is Still the Moon: Everyday Magic, Day 878

I thought I would be crying tears of relief and joy. Instead, I sit in the dark at midnight while Ken tries to sleep, occasionally check on my remaining hopes for Hillary to win (Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania), and cry tears of grief and fear in between the bouts of seemingly calm shock. I’ve asked dozens of times, “How could this have happened?” after months of carefully following data on the presidential race, the country’s changing demographics, and my own clear-as-a-ringing-bell sense that all would be well. How could they be wrong? How could I be wrong? How could America be wrong?

Tonight Ken and I gathered with friends to watch the election results over a lovely dinner. As we switched channels, watching one set of pundits and reporters or another — all trying to fill in the gaps between state results with speculation about why, what, and who — I felt like my whole digestive tract was ready to leave my body. I felt my chest tightening, and my hope and faith melting on the floor in a faraway room. Our friends, Ken and I looked at each other, all our eyes sad. It was time to remember a vast reality right outside t10986016_414719278737645_1354126213_nhe door.

So we bundled up and headed out into the dark, cold air, walking across broken and buckling sidewalks somewhat hidden by leaves, the almost-half moon over our right shoulders. We talked of course of potential horrors in between shutters of is-this-happening heartbreak. Then we went to the wishing bench.

Located in east Lawrence, the wishing bench has a sign that says, “Please make a wish. You will not be disappointed.” It’s festooned with ribbons and crocheted pieces, poems and coins, and whatever people bring and leave to it, sometimes Santa Claus, sometimes streamers or wind chimes. I have, especially with the one of the friends there with me tonight, made many wishes here, and we’ve never been disappointed.

The four of us wedged together to called out “Wisconsin! Michigan! Pennsylvania!”, pray, wish, asked America to get it together, and even sing a song usually sung for someone needing healing: “America be well/ America be well/ All manner of being is well….”

img_2744Walking back, facing the moon, all I could think beyond the spinning script of election results and associated terror, is that the moon is still the moon. The sun is still the sun. The air, first hard frost expected tonight, is still the air. The ground — the very ground where I will soon plant dozens of irises, daffodils, hyacinths, even some peonies — is still the ground.

Now in our bedroom, safe from the elements and occupied by sleeping animals of several kinds, I light a candle in a blue glass holder painted with a woman standing in tree pose, her arms and branches reaching out in the dark toward something. I read the quote on my zen calendar, this one by Zora Neal Hurston: “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” Our year has just turned although I can’t yet see the questions we’ll be asking or what those questions will be asking of us, breath by breath. Meanwhile, no matter the outcome, I ask the wishing bench not to disappoint, our bench here, and wherever you can sit for a moment in your life and wish with all your tenderness and fierceness, gratitude and woundedness.

May all manner of beings be well within and beyond this beautiful, divided, vibrant, broken and promised land. May we walk or roll together to do the good work ahead and grow our capacity for love. May we never feel alone under this sky where we share the same moon.


L'Shanah Tova — a Poem for the New Year: Everyday Magic, Day 874

TIMG_0056oday is the last day of the Jewish old year before we roll, at sunset, into the year 5777.

As for this old year, all the beings in my house are tag-team napping.  I’m unfurling from a wicked little cold and sinus deal that has laid me out multiple times during the day for wee little naps.  Natalie, who flew in early this morning on hardly any sleep, and Ken, who is also sleep-deprived, have napped on and off, and of course, the cats and dog do their part of the nap relay race although it’s the opposite of a race. When we wake, we drink iced tea or coconut fizz water on the porch, talk about the mad rant of the blue jay at the moseying cat, and watch a bright and lovely afternoon pass in real time.

In between it all, I marvel at the ease of the day, not much to do until making dinner,  rehearsing a bit more for singing (Natalie) and playing cello (me) with Shiray Shabbat (our little band) tonight at services at the Lawrence Jewish Community Congregation, and eventually donning dressier clothes and driving into town. It’s a beautiful way to transition, sleep and sunshine punctuated by challah, birdsong, a mild breeze, and the smell of a just-mowed buy cialis 5mg canada lawn, thanks to Ken.

What to do to welcome this changing of the years? Write a poem, so I did:

L’Shanah Tova

A bird in the tree is worth more than its weight in song

in the wind that sheds another layer of the old year

so that the new one can pour, moment by moment, into us.

In the last buzz of bees, cicadas, grasshoppers,

everyone naps, dog and humans, snakes in the sunny field,

and Osage orange leaves in the change already started.

I wake and start to hum, the afternoon steady

as the gravel on the driveway, also rolling through time.

This named time turns as the old wishes for worth or proof,

ashes sparked upward from a dying fire, dissolve.

The new yearnings have yet to land in the absence of hunger.

When I try to imagine, I can only hear the yawn of distant cars

on asphalt while a spider works something out of nothing,

and an airplane miles above and insects stories below

ferry the past out of its confines to the next landing.

Something beyond names or wishes, composed of what composes,

sings its gifts: the gift of waking, the gift of sleeping,

the gift of change and chill, the beauty that passes

like a bird from power line to horizon, the possibility right now

as ever for love to join the chorus.


Your Heart Song: A Poem for Charles Gruber: Everyday Magic, Day 871

IMG_0873Lately I’ve been thinking of my friend Charles Gruber, who died June 15 but left behind an abundance of affection, laughter, stories, and beloveds. So I wanted to share this poem I wrote for him and read at his memorial service after a spring and summer of being lucky enough to be among those close to him at the end of his beautiful life. The title refers to Charles’ favorite Sufi song, “Listen, listen, Listen to My Heart Song,” a chant by Paramahansa Yogananda.

Your Heart Song

for Charles

Listen, listen, listen: how could I ever forget

you with your shining brown eyes, raising your eyebrows

when you bow, hands together at the center of your chest

whenever we meet in an East Lawrence alleyway

or before the glowing dessert case at Wheatfields?

Listen to the lilt of the wind, the hard-won laughter

that comes in the middle of a May afternoon,

when I ask you what dying is like, and we sing

“This Little Light of Mine.” I ask what it means to be

a father, and you sing, “Tickle me once, tickle me twice.”

“Is that what fathering is?”

“How could it be anything but?” you answer.

Listen to Rosie snoring along your side as you try

to catch the words that used to rush through

the river of what you knew, now hidden

in the reeds or thinned to oblivion.

Listen to the stories you tell of Paris hipster lesbians

or Volkswagens with bad mojo, houses no one

or everyone wanted, and mostly, the great loves of your life:

wife, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.

So we listen, wait and listen, and if you fall asleep or forget,

Khabira plays Willie Nelson, the phone rings,

and someone leaves a cherry pie at the front door.

The thunderstorms tell of your enthusiasm for all

that gathers us in a circle and makes us sing,

look into each other’s eyes, and remember.

Listen, listen, listen: your heart song

Ocean View to Porch View: Everyday Magic, Day 868

Yesterday morning, I walked acrosIMG_1758s the narrow beach into the ocean, dipping my toes into the cold Maine waters until, scared and hesitant, I dropped in and swam like crazy to warm up until the sea carried me with ease.

This morning, I walked to my front porch, put my feet up, and stared into the Osage Orange tree and other things in my view, like my car that got strangely covered with bird poop while I was away. I let the chartreuse padded rocker (found years ago in a small-town Kansas thrift store) carry me into quiet.

In between, there were airports, a very strong cup of iced coffee, a narrow plane seat 30,000 feet off the earth with a view of the Jersey island (Long Beach Island) where I fretted as a teen, and IMG_1813surrealist naps between the captain’s garbled announcements. There was the ride to the Portland Jetway with an old friend/ Goddard student who shared the moving, drastic, and ultimate healing story of losing his home to a fire. There was a lobster roll and very salty potato chips at one airport, and a Philly pretzel at the other. There was the baggage carousel with finally Jerry’s suitcase to grab, the luggage left to me by my dearly-departed friend who still travels with me. There was Ken late at night and the beautiful and car-fumed air of the home airport, then the ride where as usual, I alternated between talking at high speed and staring into the blur of familiar highway sites. Then there was the house waiting for me, complete with cat vomit in the entry way, a very happy dog, my beautiful sons, a clean kitchen counter, and a whole lot of mail.

Balanced precariously on the ledge of these merging views, I recover from close to two weeks away and all the beauty and exhaustion that filled that time. I run to the garden in the morning in my nightgown to graze on tomatoes and consider what to plant for a fall garden. I nap deeply for hours, then find out it was just 10 minutes. I plant a big dinner while watching the many hummingbirds from this porch, then decide yogurt and fruit is best.

The view behind, the view ahead, and the view now hangs mysteriously together when I see a fast orange butterfly reminding me that just yesterday how a bunch of us in the ocean pointed up and laughed when we saw a black butterfly. Motion links us.

A Young Woman in the Land of Yoga: Everyday Magic, Day 867

13268489_1102129356513548_3281435603494530995_oThis weekend, my daughter Natalie will graduate from her yoga teaching training at Your Yoga in Minneapolis, a fine yoga center and school, six years after she first fell for yoga. When I visited with her in June, I found this post I wrote for a non-defunct yoga magazine, and in honor of her upcoming graduation, I share her first immersion into the land of yoga:

A Teenager In The Land of Yoga: 2011

Within the last year, my 18-year-old daughter—who I’d been inviting to come to yoga class with me for years—finally said yes. With a little trepidation for how much she might later make fun of chanting “Hare Krishna” or doing some intensive Pranayama, I drove us to Gopi’s yoga studio in the country where, surrounded by oxen, peacocks and kittens, I somewhat-regularly attend Monday night yoga class. We kicked off our shoes, walked upstairs to the yoga studio and set up mats and blankets.

Living with a pact of teenagers and young adults, I’m so attuned to life in the den of sarcasm that it’s hard to me to imagine reactions from my children that don’t include rolling of the eyes and shaking of the head along with that tell-tail sigh that leads into “Ma….om,” said in two syllables to emphasize how little I know. Which is true, but you don’t want to let onto a bunch of teens that the older you get, the less you actually know about anything anymore, so what little illusion of authority you think you have will be altogether blasted away. Given this, I had to wonder how Natalie would react, especially given the long stretch of chanting in the beginning, how Gopi led us in massaging our own feet, the long and deep forays into sun salutation, the quiet exploration of a mudra with our fingers doing their little gymnastics, and the instructions to imagine the lotus at the center of 13734949_1133197786740038_5973846212292012342_oour hearts, “ever fragrant, ever fresh.” I could see the flatulence jokes on the hoof.

After the 90-minute class, ending with a long corpse pose, we sat up, said “Namaste,” visited a little, and then headed downstairs to shoes, kittens outside longing for affection, and the car. “What did you think?” I asked buy cialis online cheapest Natalie as she fastened her seat belt.

“Those kittens are so cute.”

“Yeah, they are, but what did you think about the yoga?”

“I loved it.”

“All of it? Even the chanting and massage?”

“I loved everything about it. It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in months. I’m going to rearrange my work schedule so I can go with you every Monday night.”

Since then, she’s gone off to college, but whenever she’s back home, one of the first questions is when Gopi is teaching the next yoga class. Although she’s not so interested in doing yoga with me at our house, she’s now taking back to college with us an armful of yoga DVDs and a list of local classes to check out. Turns out that sometimes you can lead a horse to water and get her to drink….or in the case of my daughter, lead a teenager—who would otherwise be watching music videos, chatting on Facebook or making a pizza—to yoga where she can and will come home to herself.

13407042_10156953346325484_1123772047341389744_nAround the time I wrote this, I was dipping my toes in, then leaping into the refreshing vistas  of asanas, yamas, niyamas, and other parts of yoga Eight-Fold Path. Six years later, Natalie is wandering that land in everything from crow to corpse post. In between, she’s been sharing her growing love for yoga with others through seeking the clearest words and gestures to teach yoga in the right curve of each moment, both in her yoga teacher training, and in the classes she leads in her living room.

When I first fell in love with yoga, I was in for one of the biggest surprises of my life. Over the years since cancer and some gut calling sent me to the mat, I’ve continued to fall in love all over again with yoga, breath by firey breath, and stretch by heart-opening stretch. Seeing how much yoga gives this young woman, and how much she’s giving others already with her whole being, my wonder is multiplied by joy and contentment. Congratulations, Natalie, and may you continue to walk, sit, stand, and reach in the land of yoga.