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The Other Birthdays

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Recently, Adrian Juric of Inner Landscapes hiking retreats, suggested that we celebrate the other birthdays of our lives, not just the one where we entered the world on a particular day. I love that idea. 10 weeks ago I had one of those other birthdays–the day I began to take Sundays off, purposely choosing not to work. It is changing my life. I am growing more aware of the value of limitations, and more aware of how hungry I am for the part of myself where I feel most alive–when I am writing, or creating, when I am walking about,  bicycling out into the world, or when I am swimming. In the world we live in, what we do, how much we do, who we know, where we’ve been–all those external measurements, count. When I write, I go home to myself.  I get to explore the interior world and try and make sense out of the dissonant, the world’s disturbing and beautiful complexity in all its wonder. I get to focus on being. This is central thing that keeps me writing. It is a way to slow down and explore what this life is that I am living, to ask questions of it, to go inside it and poke around, to play. A writing practice can be a way to  make a commitment to ourselves to honor and nurture who we are, what we most value. Fredrich Buechner says, “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”

Starting this blog is a writing birthday of sorts, but this blog is also a way to invite others along on this journey of writing as a spiritual practice and an exploration of the world. I look forward to the conversation.

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Finding Happiness: November’s Observation Writing

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Through the Car Window, New Delhi

A child crouches barefoot beneath a concrete wall
beside the black asphalt, traffic and fumes.
She scoops up dirt with her bare hands, piles and pats it
into a pan, then dumps out the grains and begins again. There
under the freeway overpass the powdery music of dirt
whispers through the cracks of her fingers as she listens
and listens to the calm of its voice, holding it
like satin in the palm of her hand.

Through the Car Windo

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October observation

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A Dog’s Life

The dogs in Venice prance across stone plazas, tails wagging,

toenails clicking as they toss their toys at the master’s feet

and wait for more play. Glossy fur shining, a dachshund

scuttles through a crowded alleyway, calmly wearing its leash.

On the boat a blond terrier boards, spies the legs of strangers

and snuggles up, waiting for pets. A Brillo-haired poodle

with perky ears  turns the corner with his master, and trots

toward a window to sniff a potted plant while his master waits.

Dogs in Delhi do not prance or parade their glossy coats

and frilly hair. Unwashed, uncombed, they wander

wary-eyed and restless through streets and bramble patches

behind ruined temples. Into hard sand they scratch and dig

to make their beds. One grey-haired dog curls himself

onto a manhole lid littered with leaves, then rests its head

on the curb, unnoticed while strangers walk by. Sometimes

there are advantages to life on a leash.

Looking For..., Uncategorized

Observation of an everyday activity that has an important impact:

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Before Moving On

After working all day, we set out
down our driveway with the green arch
of trees reaching over the road. We pass through
redwoods, and glide under branches past
the narrow necklace of stream rolling down
banks of thick earth, then pull up to the main road
and stop. It’s a kind of ritual we go through
each time we come to the crossroad. I look back
up around the corner to the right, past the tall strands
of wild grass, trees and shrubs that have grown up there,
and are rarely trimmed back. I pause and peer
through the branches, twigs, and shadows, waiting
to see if a car, or bicyclist might come racing past.
And there we hesitate, like birds poised on
the edge of flight, lifting and cocking their heads
to gaze into the sky the moment before
raising their wings for the long trip south.
“Yes,” I might say, or, “Wait,” while a
slender-legged deer rounds the bend
and trots past. All our journeys, into town
or half way round the world hinge
on the trust inside those words.