Decision

Decisions pondered at night are best made in the light of day.  Sometimes, then, we find they are not even our decisions to make.  It's amazing what a little sun will do.

At 2 A.M.

I realize I have settled

Too soon

On a decision.

It is not even

My decision

Really.

At 2 A.M.,

In the dark,

I think of so many

Different decisions,

Even permutations

Of decisions.

All this energy

On a small decision

In the middle of the night,

But really early morning.

A small decision fills the space

At 2 A.M.

It is not even mine

To make.

Promises of blue jays

I love opening my eyes and knowing it will be a good day.  On a day like this I can hear the promises of blue jays for the winter... and believe them

I know the day will be good

Or mostly good

When I open my eyes

And think

Oh a new day

I have plans

For this day

So I get up

Open the doors

Hear the geese honking

Getting ready to fly south.

They too have heard

It will be a harder winter

Than the last.

The flicker

Makes his flicker noises

As he loads up on bugs

On the dead branch

Of the ash.

The blue jay promises

I will stay here

In his raucous blue jay voice.

Oh a new day

I think

A new day

And promises of blue jays

For the winter.

Singing bowl

Morning meditation.  Glad for it.

I watch the early morning sun

Through still green leaves,

Doors open to hear the birds,

I hear lawnmowers instead.

I find my finger circling

The top of my dinosaur coffee mug,

Realize almost anything

Can be a singing bowl,

Faint singing

But singing nonetheless.

Now I hear the birds

Under the sound

Of the lawnmower.

Moods

Before winter sets in, I am charting what "mostly fine" looks like.  I tend to remember the good days and delete the bad ones.  I am relatively new to figuring out depression for myself.  I think birds will figure in somewhere.  They always do.

While everything

Is mostly fine,

I put my moods

On paper.

I think a collage

Might be more appropriate,

Bits and scraps of colored paper

A flower here and there

A stone or two

Certainly some birds.

I have never

Been easily categorized.

Still

Last night hope

Settled down around my shoulders

Rather like the soft blue prayer shawl

A friend made for me.

Dickinson said “hope

is the thing with feathers

that perches in the soul”

I knew birds

Would figure in here

Somewhere.

*Emily Dickinson's poem may be found here:  http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171619

Next step

Off to meet with clergy colleagues in a few minutes.  One I have not seen since 1983.  Wow.

The next step

To anything,

Is always

Right now

Right here.

Even when I sit

Completely still.

Even when I work out

Or not.

Even when I finally

Clean out the car.

The next step is always

Here

Now

Even here

Even now.

I remember the owl

There's something about owls... all owls, really.  Last night the great horned owl (and, I think, his mate) hooted as the night came on full.  I left the back doors open, put on a sweater, until they went off to do other things.

This morning:

I remember the owl,

His hoot

As the dusk paled

To dark

Last night.

This morning:

The passing faint smell

Of skunk,

The freight train

Rolling rolling rolling.

This morning:

The morning birds

Are quiet

I remember

The owl

In that fading light.

Not so empty

Everyone gets his or her own experience:  parents, children.  This nest is not defined by its emptiness. It is not so empty.

How’s the empty nest?

They ask

Not so empty

I respond.

There are traces

And texts

And the occasional phone call.

These tell me

Which updrafts

My not-so-baby bird

Is catching;

Which trees

Provide shelter;

What the flock looks like;

Where she flies alone

But still

Not too alone.

Empty nest?

Maybe

But still

Not too empty