VISIT FROM MY ANGEL

Since losing my little dog, Star,

my attempts to depict

her dear and funny figure on a pot

have been futile.

Finally facing a particularly challenging bowl

in a particularly challenging time,

she came to help.

She came as she had always done,

as comforter

and gentle prodder when her human needed prodding.

As in the days of her bright living,

her sweet presence came.

I only needed

to wake up and live…

to let the spirit move

on earth as it does in heaven.

I carried on with faith that carrying on

would get me somewhere.

Whatever gift or capability I had

would see me through the task

however arduous it proved to be.

My little angel’s plumey tail wagged happily

when I thought “beach” and drew a spiraling sun.

Pelicans and drifting clouds were fine.

Small waves and several “stars” were also good.

Star’s sensitive nose tipped upward in approval

at salt-scented air.

Pearl thought she smelled a dog

when I brought the finished pot home

and placed it on the floor for her approval.

My own approval…

or acceptance…

was slow to come:

The glazes were not bright enough, etcetera.

But apparently, my little dog angel

was still whispering possibilities,

and what I heard

as clear as clear can be

was “BEACH”.

Take Music to the beach…

and take that blessed bowl.

Take that infernal camera, too.

Have “FUN”!

We did have fun,

Music doing doggy things,

and me with my little camera

playing with my beach bowl on the beach.

My mind grew quiet.

My heart was softened by salt-scented air.

And back at home,

I brushed the sand off of the beautiful pot…

and placed her in the showroom….

…where on that very morning

a woman recently bereft of her dog

purchased “Visit From My Angel” as a memorial

to take back home to Michigan.

Sigh…

   

LANTANA DREAMING OF MUSIC…or…(MOMENTS WORTH RECALLING)

As I was pondering another blog post with yet another decorated pot (Two just emerged from the kiln), I was browsing pictures that I had liked enough to process and save. I stopped on this one and felt myself drifting into it…recalling that day, that moment that captured more than my eye. I came across others as I browsed, moments that never made it to the blog or any other mode of sharing, and decided to honor a few of those. I will also include a shot of each of the pots that I like as photographs…as moments worth recalling.

Weary of trying for decent images of art as art,

I allowed my butterfly pot to alight upon old Chicago bricks.

Long after the Spring’s abundant blooming,

a single Wisteria vine dances en l’air.

My old dog, Music, continues to teach me

to smell, taste, and listen as I step into the muck.

My cat, Pearl, eats, drinks, and is merry…

bef0re stretching out to absorb the light.

The light broke through like magic

as the water rushed the shore.

I place my lizard pot on a stump to photograph,

but my camera prefers the stump to the pot.

After breaking free from her old outgrown skin,

the cicada dries her wings before flight.

ENTRANCEMENT

On my cousin’s birthday –

walking the trail of a refuge for Sandhill Cranes  –

I found myself entranced by curly grasses.

My sister called them Toothache Grass.

Yet how could anything so fey and free –

so grace-filled and precocious –

be named Toothache Grass?

I fell behind the jovial women I had come with,

surrendering to the dependable intimacy

of taking photographs.

These curly grasses drew me in

to catch the light…

to sense the wind…

to dance against Palmetto and Pine.

Having found my peers,

how could I leave?

ICY MORNING

Last week’s visit from the ice queen

hovers like a dream.

Here on the Mississippi Gulf,

we rarely get such drops in temperature.

(Today the early chill is softened by a generous sun.)

So to be greeted in the morning two days running

by the frigid beauty of her majesty’s passing

is like a miracle

that later one may doubt.

Even photographs –

evidential as they are

of my brave venture with my camera

and my frozen fingers –

are dream-like in the after-viewing.

It has taken several days for me to truly see

the images as my reflected feelings;

to bring them forward and to claim them

as my personal response to ice,

to sun and shadow on ice,

and to exquisite cold.

Numb as they were,

my fingers must have been

completely sensitive to what I felt.

Extremes are evident:

the urge to fully engage,

the urge to flee from the intensity…

seek comfort in the heated confines

of a human dwelling.

I chose to stay and shiver

in the fleeting ecstasy of my belonging.

To gaze in awkward amazement

into winter’s challenging eye

until she let me go.

I saw her magical design

within her abstract patterns.

I saw and felt the power

of her grip,

admiring broken shards

that still held fast.

I knew the beauty

of her harsh effect

upon the natural world.

I wondered further into Inner Harbor,

to find a flock of pelicans in huddled stillness…

below the bridge.

By then I could not feel my hands,

yet when they chose to fly

from my encroachment,

I swung my body,

raised my camera,

caught their ascent above the ice.

LEANING

Leaning into the setting sun,

I can know peace.

The heated flurry of the day just past

dissolves as I lean into what I see:

the truth of me reflected by the dying light.

And this is all I need

before I face the night.

WEATHERED ANGEL

Even angels

reach a point in time

when one wing must be folded close…

retired from efforts to sustain a balanced flight.

 This angel’s weariness is clear to me:

The pull of gravity

is a gift she yields to gladly;

I sense a grateful leaning

into all that life has wrought.

This favored wing

has served her well

has brought her to the heights of glory

and beyond.

Now she must bless it’s failure to arise and fly…

bless pain and weariness…

bless molting feathers and fragility.

Beloved evidence of  countless dances with the clouds,

it is now time to rest.

I feel the weight of your surrender…

As I prepare myself for my own surrender – surgery on my own right wing (my shoulder) – this small clay sculpture of an angel appeals to me. “Look again at your creation from another life. Twenty-three years ago you lifted my warm beauty from the kiln and marveled at the work of your own hands. My soft pink glow was pristine then. Your dancing body – though not so young – was strong and vibrant. Dance was a way of life for you, while sculpture was a little something on the side. But the message was the same: Yield to gravity and accept the gift of rising. My message then – though my particular substance be forgotten – is reaching you anew. My aged form has stood upon the ledge surrounding your screen porch. Your glance has passed me by for years. Rains have blown through and I have softened in the humid air. Storms have threatened my survival. The summer suns blazed down relentlessly, re-firing me, re-hardening my surface. My original purity of surface is quite different from the surface you perceive today. The grime of years is baked into my porous self, and from the accumulated moisture of all the years, a green patina causes me to reflect the foliage of the great outdoors. You now admire my greenish glow and photograph me as yet another gift from nature’s bounty. Yes… I have gotten a little carried away. Perhaps I seem to carry a grudge. Actually, these words are simply a small reflection of your journey. Life has been hard, and you have weathered a variety of inner and outer storms, not to mention tedious repeats of the seasons.  The point is this: You have survived…as I have. Miraculously, our substance is still present…still capable of giving and receiving messages that bring life into focus. And life continues even as we let it go. Though we lie down – or sit on a ledge forgotten –  life is doing it’s little magic tricks. And we are still playing our part.”

THERE IS ALWAYS BEAUTY

Sometimes…

I think I want more

 than the life that I have.

I sense

I am being engulfed by sameness.

I find myself yearning for something different…

something new.

Something appears…

Does it matter what it is?

I have found an escape from the web of sameness.

A youthful joy is aroused in my breast.

Joy leaps toward newness

even as old fears surface…

doubts assail.

I am overwhelmed as joy sings to me of hope,

as doubt and fear do their best

to dampen Joy’s enthusiasm.

It doesn’t take much:

a little compensatory beauty will do the trick.

I have learned well the art of redirection,

and though I can feel the ache

of joy’s diminishment…

I show her the enchanting dance

of a young night heron

feeding on the grassy bank.

Dear little joy;

she does love nature’s creatures…

and the camera is fun.

She smiles at the back and forth sway

of the young heron’s fishing dance

as I take a picture.

Together…we can almost forget

what might have been.

ONE SMALL MOMENT

I CANNOT KNOW

WHY THIS ONE SQUIRREL

ALLOWED ME TO COME CLOSE.

I ONLY KNOW

MY GRATITUDE, MY WONDER

AND MY LOVE.

THIS IMAGE AND MY MEMORY

OF ONE SMALL MOMENT IN A DAY

ARE ONE AS THE SQUIRREL IS ONE

WITH THE OAK SHE CLEAVES TO

SO COMPLETELY.

WHY WOULD SHE LEAVE HERSELF

BECAUSE A PASSING WOMAN

LIFTS A CAMERA

AND WITH HELD BREATH CLICKS THE SHUTTER

TO DECLARE HER LOVE?

SEEDTIME

Returning from Portland, Oregon –

and a two week visit with Kendall

(best buddy in the world) –

my life-long friend,

I find myself waiting

for the promise realized there.

I was bathed in Beauty and companionship,

even as I luxuriated in time to rest.

Over the days

I felt myself gently lifted

from beneath the weight

of accumulated exhaustion.

Seeds of hope were planted that I might heal

from various maladies

oppressing my spirit in recent months.

I return bearing gifts:

 internal seeds of faith in my renewal.

In the Oregon forest,

we discovered a magical tree

wrapped round with ribbons

(a Cherry Birch we were told).

But for us, the magical realm of fairies was evoked.

A childlike wonder wrapped us round the tree.

And elderly as we obviously are,

we frolicked in its ambiance.

Oh, child-like joy remembered,

please dance me back to Kendall:

our mutual pleasure

our freedom in the moment!

Yet I am where I am,

one week and a whole day’s airplane journey removed.

I have returned to obvious loss:

Another lifelong friend

died unexpectedly during my absence,

and Sunny, my glorious orange cat,

is missing.

To be honest, I feel bereft

in the wake of so much gain,

though I have no doubt that I have gained.

And part of me knows I am

companioned still.

Both lifelong friends are in my heart:

And Sunny –

though he shared my life for a while –

was always alert to the call of the wild.

So…I try to remember

the seeds of my healing.

I wait for the light to ripen them

and for the wind to blow.

POEM IN THREE PARTS

In the beginning

the flower opens in all innocence.

Mouth stretches wide in trust

to receive the light.

Light fills the waiting cup.

Light drenches the flawless petals.

Light transforms the willing flower

to reflect the light.

Behold the innocent Magnolia,

humble messenger of light…

before the dance unfurls.

Here is the flower at its most compelling.

Full-bodied and free,

the flawless petals yield themselves

to individual gestures.

Each petal is unique in its response.

Each petal quivers in it’s separate delight.

While one petal may stay curled close

to its beginnings,

others risk the grand ecstatic reaching for release.

Forgetful of the light,

or clinging to its source

they all continue…

to reflect the light.

Life happens to them

even as they seem to choose their dance.

Bruises, tears and brown spots

mar each petal.

Exhausted,

they lie down

and the source reclaims them,

uniting them:

one flower yielding

to the LIGHT.