The Juniper Trees

I just wrote this poem, called The Juniper Trees, from a hike I took this evening, where the sun went down while Lilah and I were still on the mountain, and we found our way through the cool air in the pitch dark with no moon for a couple of hours. Quite pleasurable. But before then, in the dusk, I passed through a village of birds so loud I could not believe it. Happiness seemed to radiate from the trees.

I passed through a secret
village on the mountainside
The air was drawn, hushed in
dusky light.
One hundred chatting birds
danced, unself-conscious, thinking
themselves alone.
A robin emerged from inside a
juniper singing with abandon.
He spotted me, and froze.
I smiled at him,
encouraged him to speak
freely, but he flew in a
circle to where I could not see him.
I continued my silent decent,
the red earth rich and dusty.
Soon, I had passed the village,
wishing I could stay
and transform into a bluejay,
sailing on the air
rife with joy

Things as they are

In illness, there is the profound opportunity to relate with things as they are and let go of the idea that we need to fix or change anything, precisely because illness can bring about the story that we won't survive unless we keep fixing things. I wrote this prose just today, about a moment some years ago:

Sometimes, as is life, things we want to last forever, break.
In one of these moments
as I stood in front of the mirror
I knew that time had moved on,
and I was swimming backwards.
This seeing brought me a vow:
That delight, would now be drawn from
things as they are.
Brokenness is a word that steals the
curves and branches of beauty
from the nowness of our souls.
Now, on the cusp of a brand new life,
where things live brightly
I give myself again to
the mysterious voices
so loving and tenderly
attuned.