Are We There Yet?

  I walk the autumn woodland. The forest floor lies under dry leaves and dusty stuff; beetle carapace, paper hives quartered by storm and neighbor boys. Slingshot's deadly aim. The dark dog ambles ahead with nose down and chin furrowing the trail, searching and delighting. Deer pellets, trail scat to nibble and gobble. My attention drifts away-I love the hound but dread the dead odor upon her, so turn and allow of the canopy above, textured and lacing into the frosted air, drape over me. Embrace my tender frame, aching and alive. Synchopation of the mad woodpecker drumming catches the wind falls along the ridgeline with the sinking gray cloud going dead in duff and scree underfoot. How can the dawn be other than this? The world is empty. The woods alone. Dog up to her shaking haunches in swamp stink- mud snout. I am aware this is all for me. Only me. My kingdom in spite of everything. Logic disappoints. My rising sun brings long shadows and light. The gray and rust...

It is the idea that an action is a choice among all those thousands of actions and the choice is one of three - Yes, No, or my particular home place, I Don't Know . As a child, I was all Yeses. All choices affirmative and all actions taken. Every choice was like my dog's choices - yes! yes! yes! . Then came the years of learning that yes might hurt you. I might get burned. I might lose. I might fail. Those were the fear years. The years of I Don't Know . Or, you could call it the Yes, because I don't know years. The safe yes. The yes that is the best guess to keep the peace, be polite, make others happy. No comes more easily now. No means, Yes you can take up your desire, pick up your own lantern with its glimmer of simple understanding. I sit. I pray. I love. I let go. I yield. I soothe. I soften. I turn in. I look out. I can see the lantern with its soft glow showing the way forward in its fair pool of light.

We follow the rhythm of our fuel choice. Our home's large cast iron woodstove requires a calendar of activity based upon annual, then monthly and finally, daily routines and rituals. The cycle begins in April with calls to local loggers and firewood dealers. Men mostly, smelling of pitch, wet wool, smoke, and gasoline all washed in a patina of chain saw oil, they are consulted and bargained with. The discussions include weather, last year's wood consumption, pests, outerwear, trucks and heavy machinery. The order of discussion may vary but the subjects remain rooted in the routine reasoning bound up with the task at hand, that of purchasing this year's quota of cord wood. A price is finally agreed upon with one of these chainsaw sages sometime in the month of June. In July, just when the garden has finally found its magnificent blossoming perfection and the grass spreads out green over our domestic fiefdom, an ancient truck, gears grinding, oil pan leaking, pulls into...

I search in the dark part of the heart for a place to rest. I believe in the creature that creates its nest beneath the hard rock beside the moving water to call in the calm while others crest ridges, run logic, make better more. I resist. Though the moon grows heavy with its fullness in this spring season, dragging along the horizon pulled down by the weight of water while smoke rises with each controlled calculated burn, I rest. My morning is my noon even as the evening becomes dawn within the dry warm womb uncultivated nature of mine.

Every good thing that comes is accompanied by trouble. Maxwell Perkins I am running away from this statement. This is where my heart turns hard and my chest fills up with a hot weight. Fear of the unknown is the one thing that all those politicians, those men on the hill, have in common. They count on this fear that the wrong choice or , more accurately, guess will be our undoing. Our nation under God. I thought we were under Canada. Really. Let me be clear. I need to be sitting at the table with bittersweet and candles. The candles have been used. The burnt wicks tell the story of a meal shared and a host thoughtfully providing the soft light  of tapers to encourage a relaxed state. Candles to wash over her guests with calm while they are comforted by delicious aromas, polished wood floors to caress their feet. The wood stove warm with the fire laid there earlier. I have spent a much of my lifetime in anticipation of what will come next. Not the happy surprise generally, bu...

We spent yesterday rushing from one party to the next. Love people. Parties...loud...can't hear...red wine on my shoes...not my idea of a great night. The last party we went to was a room of 30-40 year old young adults. White prosperous, self-assured and full of the promises that life gives them. Professionals and long time residents of an insular and self obsessed society. It was a fundraiser for those less fortunate. Lawyers and NYC escapees were the primary attendees. The wives were lovely, well dressed and athletic. This was clearly their night. Dressed in shimmery silks and cashmere. Hair cut and dyed for the holidays, many were there with the promise that all is well. There were a few of us over 50 and invited to round out the group. Several men, older and well oiled, clumped by the bar, talking about their sports cliques and exercise regimes. Happy with their portfolios, ready to face the grandkids and take their three week vacation in February. Okay. It is true. The cynici...