Category: Tenneson Woolf Poetry

Dinner one night last week. Tuna in avocado mayonnaise. Includes some finely chopped red onion and pickles. Lightly peppered. On green leaf lettuce — giant leaves. Cucumber and tomatoes from a friend — summer generosity. Avocado. Corn cut from summer cob. A few olives. A drizzle of olive oil. Another drizzle of chocolate balsamic vinegar. Yup, yummy.

Grateful.

Gratitude is many things. This I learn. It’s a way of being. An attitude. And a disposition. And an orientation of kindness and appreciation. A contribution. A discipline. A commitment. An energy. A way of seeing. A way of acting. A gently fierce orientation to seeing good. An exercise. Self care (cause, it activates the appreciative way). Gratitude is a way of learning. It’s a way of activating.

Well, I’m learning all of that. Delighting. Failing crazy. Yet, gratitude still remains a direction that proves so fruitful. So life-giving.

And so, a poem, as so often is my offering and expression.

On Gratitude

There is life.
I’m so grateful for it.

There are friends.
I’m so grateful for them.

There is meaningful work and community.
I’m so grateful.

There is surprise.
I’m so grateful.

There is coffee.
Yup, grateful.

There is a todo list for today.
Grateful.

There is pause.
Grateful.

And, and.
Grateful.

I’m appreciating a few days of recovery. Septum repaired (with some intentional re-breaking to help with a 40 years-ago-break). It’s a pretty good sized headache. And mouth-breathing (the stints come out on Monday). And gauze and tape changed regularly. I’m glad for good docs. Loving care (thx Dana). And some space for poetic reflection.

The intention, long haul, is breathing.

So I wrote.

Short On Words

It is poetry that quiets me.
A sentence or two.

Especially the ones about dogs,
or weeds,
or peppers,
or doing the dishes.

You know, regular things of life
that live long on experience
but so often, short on words.

It is poetry that so often quiets me,
and heals me, and brings me breath..

A photo from earlier this summer. Hiking with my pals Roq and Sarah. Whidbey Island.

And a poem, a few words from recently. I love the way the sky reminds of such things.

I want
to set free
this wild and creative heart.

I want
to fly and glide
with these yearning wings.

I want
to know more fully
the sky’s openness.

Trusting
every inkling 
of invitation.

Yesterday’s bike ride — a treat to myself. West toward Bacchus highway (it’s 2 miles). Then south toward Rio Tinto Mine (another 1.5 miles). Most of this is slow climb. PS: I’m slow and steady on a bike; not at all speedy and sprinty. Then a slight coast down to the mouth of Butterfield Canyon (.5 miles). Then west again, and up until I’m ready to stop (2 miles). More slow and steady. There’s no finish line. Just the enjoying.

Looks like the pictures above. All on a paved road. Total climb is about 1,000 feet. An hour to get there. What joy. Breath. And enough challenge to be a challenge.

A pause to take in the creek and the mountainside. Eat the banana and orange that I brought. Sip some water.

The return is pretty easy peasy. 30 minutes. Mostly a coast. Saw a Wild Turkey. I’m reminded.

Be still.
In heart.
In belly.
Just ride.
Just move.
So much flows from there.

I listened to Ian McGilchrist and Mark Vernon a bit (thx Marshall). They talk William Blake.

“We have imagination. True.
Imagination also has us.
What if the world weren’t harsh and random,
but rather kind and patterned?”

So. Yah. Riding. Moving. Imagination having me. Pretty good to carry into the patterned day.