Winter Solstice

Slow down,

so a cat can jump in your lap.

So you can remember it’s November. 

Look up and see the tiny birds leap from branch to branch, two squirrels chasing one another, spiraling a redwood trunk, leaving their scratchy tracks up and down the tree. 

Sit down,

so you can touch the soles of your feet. They have long deep cracks and are slightly painful but you don’t really notice this on your feet all day. You remember to give them a little massage and you put on some furry socks. This feels so nice and delightful.

Slurp up, 

the scrambled eggs, maple bacon, halved, sectioned and sugared grapefruit your sweet man has carried to you on a plate, outside in the chilled air. The maple sugar smell clings onto lazy air particles giving me a sample of his lovely creation. I take a break from sweeping up the leaves and go inside to our table where he placed next to my plate a charcoal clay teacup from a set given to us for our wedding, steam rising from it. I take a sip and the bergamot oil shoots me back to Roosevelt street, standing in the frigid brown-shingle Berkeley kitchen, him pouring hot water from his grandmother’s kettle painted with orange flowers. The flowery scent filling up the space in his bedroom. There he unwraps an aluminum foil she mailed to him with a cake layered with wafers, chocolates, creams, and jams. We tried so hard to take modest slices but each hour of studying physics and chemistry led us back to the kitchen to uncover another aluminum section of the pischinger and another cup of Earl Grey.

Sip,

another cup of coffee. Watch the cats stroll up and down the block. Less consumed with all of the things that have to be and rather indulging in a few choices that are mine to make. Sitting with that. Letting those moments be what they are. Not trying to stuff anything more into this sliver of time. 

Sink, 

into this folding chair. Let the fog bite my nose and fingers. Listen to the day laborers blowing, sawing, shoveling the morning into day. Letting my coffee go cold as I tap into my phone on the front porch. 

Feedback

The house we have built seems solid, its foundation, boundaries, topics. Its content. So much content fills this house, top to bottom. What is it that this house teaches? Does it teach a person how to stretch? How to take a risk? How to pause and contemplate? Does it protect them from insults and critiques that seep deep into the framework? Is there weathering that cannot withstand time…?

What are all of these little stones for, if not for the merry task of skipping into the river? We watch and count the skips. Celebrating the smooth sailing ones that touch the water the most, yet fly the farthest. Why are we not more interested in why the rock failed to skip this time? What is it in that throw that’s different? Did someone try to throw it from a different angle? A different force? A different rock? Why are we summing up an entire person’s worth by the length and repetition of this trajectory? The circuitous path tells a story of the connections the child brain makes, to make sense of the world. 

Teachers, we try so hard to give feedback using tests on paper, on the computer, but we are sending such conflicting signals to these developing minds. We have good intentions in pointing out the things they do not know, the details that should be more carefully examined. But what about all of the complexity the child has uncovered by their challenge with our questions? Why are we not sitting with that and churning it over? Letting the child throw the rocks, make the pathways. Let them grow bored and find the next interesting thing to pursue. Let them slip and grapple, then find a new hold that allows them to reach higher ground. 

Our role? 

Teachers…At our best… what we can give is a bit of light on the things that are special. We can put a little light on all of that. In a world losing the tangible. Putting phenomena in front, but letting them drive through it. Feedback. So important - should stem from questions from both mentor and student. Why? Which? Where? What for? What is the usefulness in spending time analyzing this more deeply? Does this rock have something in it we need to know? Or was it just pleasant and interesting to throw it and watch it putter on its first touch of water? They will throw many more and may never know the answer, and that is just fine. 

All the furry creatures

 

All the furry creatures we have loved,

have loved us back in such a generous way, sure we feed them and put a roof over their heads but they give us so much more than all that. 

They check on us every single day, they greet us, they don’t ever avoid us or pretend not to see us, they hang out with us whether we’re smelly or not, they share their warmth with us, they protect us, they remind us to get up and keep going every day, they give us head butts whenever we go in for one, they wag their tails at us, they dust off our keyboards, they help us limit our butter intake with their toast licks, they check for vermin up in the trees and under the deck, they do their perimeter checks, they do yoga maneuvers underneath us when we attempt to plank, they plop into our laps when we sit cross-legged on the floor, they zoom around us, they embellish our furniture with their shreddings, they don’t mind our music or messes, they mingle in the space we share, giving and receiving affection is what they model to us humans who have a harder time remembering how to do that. 

Sunday morning

Oh, the morning is just perfect,

the renewed energy, the sunlight, the coffee, the cats.

It would be nice to feel this way all day,

awake, alive, aware,

calmness, stillness,

sitting outside,

Only to watch and listen to the little stirrings that slowly come and go,

the week has ended,

everyone takes their sweet old time to dig out from their mountainous blankets,

Not me,I can’t wait to smell it and feel the crisp air, it’s fleeting stillness, I want to sit and absorb all I can. 

Lava Tube

           Tunnel,

     in the ground,

darkness all around;

   Stepping down,

      wet rocks;

   trying not to slip

      

      Roots hang 

    from charcoal,

 dripping with water

      Molten rock;

       taffy flows, 

        stretches,

    dissolves Earth

        Eyes, giant

 then they disappear,

        altogether 

           Watch,

         your head,

      rock sculptures,

  hang from the ceiling

     If your flashlight 

               fails,

           reach out,

   feel your way through 

        Something soft,

             cool, wet,

           grows deep,

         along the wall,

      Flashlight flickers,

             reveals;

       greens, yellows,

            oranges

       Bacteria, worms,

              spiders,

          make a tube,

           their home

            Flip flops;

       loose toes, skin,

           scraped off,

          by lava rocks

       Touching the floor,

           smooth clay,

           sharp glass,

          Is there light?

           Move slowly,

             cautiously,

          trust one path,

              leads out

             Lightness;

          fills darkness,

       restores humility 

Enter Sandman

Spiderwebs the color of snow and sand wisp forming a crown around the sandman’s sun-kissed head. Flaps of brown skin dangle over the waistband of his frayed board shorts, his ass slipping out the backside. His beach ball belly bounces and gracefully vaults over fossilized corals, piled and fused together into boulders along the shoreline of Pupukea. They point their serrated funnels in all directions, ready to slice apart his brown bag papery skin. The timeless lizard knows well how to avoid the coral fossils with the sharpest razors, and the slimey lava rocks that will toss him flat on his ailing back. With his substantial weight, he only trusts the massive flat ones that don’t wobble or lie sideways. Navigating across the coral graveyard is only for a seasoned chess master. Sandman staggers through the labyrinth by artful toe pointing and tiger crouching. His crooked spine steers a lingering branch, touching down into splintered bowls of calcium carbonate. His flip flop clings desperately to the layers of peeling dead skin on the soles of his burnt feet. He finally spots a familiar cavernous passage that lowers him to a bright yellow patch of coarse sand, a welcome sensation to his talus and tarsals. A wave rushes into the yellow oasis, greeting his burning calves and bringing instant coolness. A startled rockfish scampers at his arrival, dodging his feet and taking refuge underneath a coral outcropping. The sandman slinks down into the secure yellow patch and conducts his heat into the gentle pool of water whirling around him. As the washing machine twirls him in and out of the coral graveyard, he grips a tombstone to keep from thrashing against the splintering rock wall. The water moves out and he spats a marshmallow loogie into his diving mask, smearing it into a thin, clear film across the glass lens then presses the frame firmly against his saggy face. A wave rolls in deep enough for him to make an exquisite merman dive over the pointy corals and into a pool of Moorish idolfish waiting to guide him into a sunken garden of cerebral corals. His stiff shoulders and vertebrae loosen from one another as they spread out into the salty bath. Arms extend outward into flippers, legs splash and kick his tail flying upwards and downwards; aquamarine delight sprays into the sky. Pock marks and stretch lines along his back take in the water and exchange carbon dioxide for oxygen, fueling his sea legs for a deep dive to say hello to the Yellow Tang and Parrotfish hiding in a decaying coral outcropping. They dart up towards him and take a nibble at the dead skin and tasty jam between his toes. Their nibbles tickle him but he does not mind too much, for in their snacking they gently steer him to a rocky structure where he spots the silvery school he always intended to join. The water is suddenly dense with silver sparkly streaks, streamlining, swirling ovals in a single swollen heap. His pulse quickens, gills widen, fingers-cupped together, he swoops upward, skims the surface and butterflies eagerly into class. He throws off his mask and lets go of his snorkel. A blinding sunray gleams along the surface, obscuring the sandman’s silhouette, his stroke fades into a column of silty green solution, sinking fast into the dense, viscous bottom. 

Summer Repose

Summer is for stretchpants;

all day long.

Summer is for sleeping in until 8:30 or so…

Summer is for shopping;

one dinner at a time,

perusing the market for the most colorful and fresh things to eat,

spending the late afternoon chopping vegetables and mincing garlic while listening to public radio,

Summer is for sitting with cats on the ground,

giving them sticks, strings, and brown paper bags to attack,

Summer is for stretching and organizing sweater boxes in between yoga poses,

 

Summer is for seeing friends old and new,

walking and talking through the park,

Summer is for dropping off a bag of treasures at the Goodwill, 

then sifting through their shelves for an 8x10” frame for a new print, that is exactly two dollars and fifty cents,

Summer is for salvaging empty bottles of olive oil, hair conditioner, and spices, and taking them, to be refilled;

instead of recycled or thrown away.

Summer is for standing back;

noticing the walls,

the space between two pictures, 

the food smeared above the trash can, 

the picture frames slightly tilting,

Summer is for conquering the cords competing for the same electrical outlet,

zip tying them together,

Summer is for hammering a nail or two into the wall,

leveling out the pictures on the wall, 

adding one or two,

sponging off the smudges of sauce and coffee grounds from the countertops,

listening to the cars zoom past,

and the sparrows making their nests.

Worthwhile

Travel

Is the -

backache, headache, swollen knee, and heartburn worth it?

Scratched up, a little bit burned,

disheveled, disoriented, sleep deprived,

Taking time, taking a risk to go somewhere new,

May leave you battered, blistered and catching the flu.

Wandering around,

stuttering at strangers,

misplacing important papers,

Desperately in need of a two-hour… shower.

Last minute change of plans,

takes a toll, and does demand,

unworldly patience-

Sleep walking through the street,

bumps all over forgot the deet,

Assuming your traveling companions know which route to take,

can be a terrible mistake..

feathers get ruffled, at mention of walking further,

Why not take an Uber or a taxi? Instead of a bus/subway combo?

Mom and Dad conspire together because they know,

They will save at least thirty bucks, if we take public transportation,

Still, the trio holds it together, 

Regrouping amid lots and lots of coffee,

Dazed and confused,

Walking through the streets,

Supporting each other’s ideas,

Scrambling to the gate,

About five minutes too late,

Was it all worth it?

Could we have done better?

Maybe, … probably, but at least we stuck together.

Yes, and Yes,

And, that counts as a success!