Category: Contemplation

Ruminations on his 83rd Birthday

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Picture Rocks Wash, Arizona. On the right, stairs lead to the Stations of the Cross. On the left are the petroglyphs.

~

His life these days is like walking a trail,

maybe that wash* in Arizona when 

he was on retreat, when on one side of 

him were the Stations of the Cross and on

the other side the picture rocks that give 

the wash its name: 1500-year-old 

petroglyphs by the Hohokam farming

people of the Sonoran Desert.

~

On one side, 14 etchings in metal

depict Jesus’s progression to his

death: scourging and the crown of thorns, falling 

under the cross’s weight, piercing, thirst, and 

humiliation, abandonment by 

friends, followers, even God, death. And 

he thinks of the violence and cruelty

of the empire in which he lives against

the materially poor and the sick

and the marginalized, his feeling that 

God has abandoned the country he loves,

his own pains in places he never knew

he had; indignities; lashings of fear; 

the cross he carries of his family’s

disease; the piercing loss of his daughter.

On the other side, petroglyphs show the 

the sun’s progression during the summer 

solstice: swirls and spirals and strange designs, 

images of dancing people, deer and 

antelope, alien-looking creatures

(you don’t suppose…), and something that looks like 

a picture of an atom, but which might

depict life’s interconnected circle.

He thinks of the kind and kinds of people 

he’s met in traveling from coast to coast,

this country’s mountains, deserts, and rivers, 

of the smell of the dirt in his garden,

dancing with his wife, watching grandchildren

grow up, his church men’s group, his circle of 

friends, his joy in writing a good poem.

He recalls walking between the two sides

of the wash, hearing what might have been a 

cacophony or what might have been a 

choir of quails, doves, finches, cactus wrens, 

flickers, thrashers, cardinals, fly catchers, 

pyrrhuloxia, verdins…and he hears

the sounds of his life: voices of parents 

who, despite their own horrible childhoods, 

made of themselves a living sacrifice

for their children, echoes of the friends he’s 

lost, and of the friends he still has, some of 

them going back to childhood, the teachers 

he disappointed and the teachers who

were there when he needed them, the students 

he failed, and those he inspired, the sounds 

of the tortured last breaths of his daughter, 

and the glorious voice of the woman 

he loves as she reads the Sunday Gospel. 

~

He remembers the Arizona sky

which canopied both sides of the wash,

feeling the paradox that is his life 

enfolded by Something—The Holy Spirit, 

The Tao, The Great Spirit, Jesus, Buddha,

Jehovah, Allah, Brahmin, The God of 

My Not Understanding—he doesn’t care

about names, he’s grateful to be here and

eager to see what’s around that next bend.

~~

*a wash is a dry, low, sandy riverbed that only carries water during rare rain events. It’s often called an arroyo.

Empty Coffee Cups and Overflowing Ashtrays

Published on by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments
Dad with his coffee and cigarette

Sipping decaf latte with oat milk

at my local coffee shop, watching

the interplay of light and shadow

on granite-colored walls, I recall

growing up with empty coffee cups

 and overflowing ashtrays

in the kitchen, the dining room,

the living room, the bathroom:

flowered cups with curved handles 

tipped over in saucers, stained by years of use, 

and ashtrays mounded with 

Camel, Kent, and Pall Mall butts,

curtesy of my parents and my grandmother,

who often used her saucer as an ash tray—

cigarette smoke and the smell of old coffee

wafting through the house, like 

the resentments and repressed anger

passed down by generations of depression and alcoholism,

not to mention the shame and worry about money

and what would the neighbors think—

a miasma so pervasive I never noticed,

any more than I noticed a house empty

of spontaneity, security, and joy.

So why wouldn’t I start to smoke and drink coffee

and wallow in anger and shame,

until emphysema and heartburn and divorce

said, “Had enough?”

And here I am,

an old man, parents and grandmother

long gone, drinking my latte and 

checking my iPhone (another addiction,

even the size of the cigarette pack 

I once carried in that pocket),

working my 12-Step program,

and practicing gratitude for the life I have.

This too is grief.

◊

Life Smells

Published on by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments
Illustration by Lisa Keppeler. Used with her kind permission.

~

It’s September, 2019 and ten weeks after my heart surgery and I’m taking my first walk in the woods since then and the first thing I notice is the fecund smell of fallen leaves and pine needles and dying trees…

and the scents of hay and cows and horses in my great-grandfather’s barn, and the waft of fried onions and potatoes in Nanny and Grampy Lufkin’s house, and the whiff of perfume and cigarettes in Nanny Cleaves’s apartment, and the aroma of Mom’s fresh baked bread on Saturday mornings…

and a few years later: the earthy odors of the market garden where I worked summers, the pungence of wet towels, dirty socks and jockstraps in the locker-room beneath the gym where I spent so much time… 

and the fragrances of my Aqua Velva, and her White Shoulders blending in the back seat of the family Ford …

and later still: the salt smack of ocean breeze thru the spruce trees around our camp in the early days of marriage when love was new and life’s possibilities seemed endless…

and because autumn is when things die, memory sniffs the acrid smoke from the Old Town Paper Company as I drift, bitter and aimless, across the university campus, no longer the high school bigshot and no idea who the hell I am or where I’m going…

 and then the dank reek of the dregs of the pipe tobacco I used to smoke during the last years of that first marriage…

and the stench of shit and disinfectant in the hospital where my daughter lay dying, when I learned how life and love can also waste away and die… 

and thoughts of shit spark smells of steaming cow flaps in Scottish pastures through which Mary Lee and I hike, and aromas of shawarma, spices, and pita bread mingled with the dust of pilgrims in the Old City of Jerusalem, and the sweet scent of apple tea in Turkey and animal musk on the Serengeti and incense wafting up from the altar into the stony steeple of Iona Abbey—reminders that I not only didn’t die, but flourished—

and the smell of Mary Lee lying beside me in the morning, and the fresh, slightly sweet scent of our newborn grandchild, and before I know it, going into the school building to pick up that grandchild where the fragrance of chalk and cleaners and young bodies take me back to my years as a public-school teacher—intimations that love is stronger than death…

and although I’m surrounded by the smells of dead and dying vegetation and the lingering sickly scent of Mupirocin with which I swabbed my nose prior to and after heart surgery, the decay upon which I walk and which I smell teems with the bouquet of resurrection.

~

The Highways

Published on by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments
Nova Scotia highway

~

‘Be not afraid.’ Those words don’t say ‘Have no fear.’ Instead, they say I don’t need to be my fear.—Parker Palmer

~

So much to fear,

so I fled to the caverns

and sat in the gathering darkness

 around my tiny fire.

I heard the earth, consumed 

by fire and poison, cry out in agony.

Insane voices screamed threats.

The air reeked of corruption.

Gunshots echoed in the canyons.

Grieving parents wept.

I felt my strength ebbing as

I sensed the valley of the shadow below.

How I longed for the sky to light up 

and a voice from the heavens 

thunder, “Be Not Afraid!”

and an angel descend to

sheathe me in unconquerable courage.

But in the silence amidst the tumult 

and the suffering, an old friend 

I’ve never met said, 

“‘Be not afraid’ doesn’t mean ‘Have no fear,’ 

but rather, ‘do not be your fear.’”

I raised my eyes and looked back at my journey,

not only at the deep crevices of death

and quicksands of despair,

but at hilltops of hope,

ponds of trust,

forests of generosity,

fields of strength,

oceans of love,

and saw fear was but part of the landscape.

Therefore, I have risen from the ashes,

left the caverns,

and resumed the journey,

resolving to live on the highways

and not in the hollows,

cherishing each rock on the road.

The sun has not yet set.

Arizona sunrise

~ ~

Broomstick Season

Published on by geriatric pilgrim12 Comments

~

The trees that can have given up their leaves—

the reds and golds you see in magazines,

(though dry and chewed and rotting with black mold)—

standing outlined against the sky: broom sticks

whose branches seem about to sweep the clouds.

~

Hard not to recall those who died this month:

a grandmother, father, mother-in-law,

Thanksgivings when their absence filled our plates.

The Ronald McDonald House Thanksgiving

of turkey, fear, anxiety, and tears,

as my wife and her sons saw my daughter

for what we all knew would be the last time.

~

Well into the November of my life,

I mourn the green and teeming dreams I had,

The gaudy colored leaves of happiness,

chewed by anger and blackened by misdeeds.

Now naked of ambition, strength, shame, guilt,

but rooted in the rocky soil of Grace,

supported by my friends and families,

I raise my bony, brittle arms to sweep

away remorse, and cry in gratitude:

Thank you, thank you, and thank you, for it all.

~ ~

Desert Labyrinth

Published on by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments

**

Entering:

Heel…toe…heel…toe

trying to focus on the boots

that walk this path lined with

tan, gray, white, russet

stones snaking its way

over copper-colored gravel.

Still, the mind twists, bends, curves

with the path going around, back, between

the blue of the sky, labored breathing,

the inhaler back in the room, 

past mistakes, future apprehensions,

prickly pear, barrel, saguaro cactus,

fantasies, “if onlys,”

scrunch of footsteps.

Following the narrow road of stones

toward the center of what looks

like a petrified brain

which is right ahead

and then it’s not,

spiraling further away.

Turning a corner

torso teeters, trips,

boot kicks

a rock into the path.

Voices from the past snicker

Clumsy klutz!

Kicking the rock back into place.

Walking on.

*

The Center:

Finally

three red rocks triangle

a flat altar stone

spilling painted stones, shells,

ribbons, bracelets, a plastic flower,

a wooden plaque that says:

“Too much of anything is bad,

 but too much good whiskey is barely enough,”

left perhaps by someone hoping to leave 

both plaque and whiskey behind.

Sitting on a red rock wondering

Where is my center?

What do I need to leave behind?

Brown rumpled hills dotted with saguaro,

prickly arms lifted as if in praise,

reply with silence

punctuated by

the cooing of a distant dove.

*

Returning:

Heel…toe…heel…toe

trying to focus on the ground beneath the maze,

the silences between 

the ripples of wind, a cardinal’s whistle,

yellow palo verdi blossoms, azure sky,

sunlight on sweaty skin,

overhanging mesquit branch that 

grabs a shirtsleeve like a past sin.

Stumbling again

kicking another stone again

booting the rock back into place again,

breathing to Thich Nhat Hanh

(breathing in, I calm my body,

breathing out, I smile.)

circling, looping, spiraling,

remembering the center—

The soul? Love? Divine Spark?

Face before you were born?—

circling, looping, spiraling.

Gazing over russet, white, brown, tan

stones to the exit

except it’s also the entrance—

accept it’s also the entrance—

to life’s labyrinthian journey.

**

The Goat

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Feral goat somewhere in the north of England. Probably has nothing to do with my dream (although who knows?), but I thought I’d post it anyway.

~

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of…

—Shakespeare

~

I Dream of a Goat

chewing grass

outside the sunroom

of my house.

Which is strange,

because I live in a development

and the only animals

I usually see are

cats and dogs and birds.

But then,

I not sure I’m in my house:

it’s darker, emptier

—only my chair and a bookcase.

Oh, 

and the glass doors

through which 

I watch

the goat 

are bigger,

 and in a different place.

It’s a large goat,

probably female,

although I don’t know

much about goats—

I think 

that’s an udder

back there—

brown, white chest and legs,

 and two small horns

V-ing down

into white stripes 

until they meet 

in a white mask

over a long nose.

At first, 

I’m curious,

but the goat starts butting its head

against the glass doors.

The damn thing’s trying to get in!

I can feel its

 onyx eyes drilling

into my soul.

I lock the glass doors

but one is loose.

When I try to 

tighten a screw

with my Swiss army knife

another screw loosens.

I go from

one sliding door to another

trying to keep 

the goat out.

But when I turn around,

the goat is in the sunroom,

its hoofs clicking 

like some Flamenco dancer,

chewing,

either finishing the grass

or the leaves of a book,

I don’t know.

I worry about shit

on the floor

(like pebbles, right?),

but so far, nothing.

I don’t even smell anything.

From a closet

that seems somehow familiar

I find a broom.

I wack 

at the goat.

It runs away,

but whether 

back outside

or deeper 

into my dark house

I don’t know.

For some reason,

I don’t care anymore.

Actually,

I’m tempted

to open

the doors and windows

to see who else

might come in.

~~

September Interplay

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◊

Through my window, a September slant of sunlight

softened by shadows cast by hemlocks in the hollow

seems a plush carpet inviting me to take off my shoes

and walk barefoot into a golden world.

◊

Summer sun glares, remorselessly highlighting

weeds I failed to pull, dents I’ve put in the car, windows that need washing.

Winter light is weak and pale, helpless against the darkness

always hovering on the horizon, a constant reminder of mortality.

◊

To someone who’s spent his life caroming 

from one extreme to another, a ping-pong ball

sent back and forth by whoever I’m trying to please today,

◊

September says, “Live in the interplay

of light and shadow, 

of cool mornings and warm afternoons, 

of tart cider and sweet corn,

of raucous crows and cooing doves,

of grief and grace.”

◊

Walking the College Campus at 6:30 A.M. on the 80th Anniversary of of the Bombing of Hiroshima

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#

Police sirens fade as I pass through the

memorial gate to an empty quad,

where morning sun reflects off the windows

of old brick buildings, deserted now of

the footsteps and voices, the ambitions,

anxieties, astonishment, fatigue,

confusion, gratitude, egotism,

disappointments, hangovers, and regret

usually throbbing throughout the halls.

Even in the quiet of the morning,

a deeper silence seems to emanate

from these buildings, a collective wisdom—

coalesced and alive—which assures me:

when all is said and done, all shall be well.

The Chapel at Bowdoin College: Painting by Tim Banks

#

Thank God for Another Chance

Published on by geriatric pilgrim15 Comments

~ ~

Thank God for another chance to fold a fitted sheet,

another chance to butcher a banjo tune,

another chance to win at Wordle.

~

Thank God for another chance to make a perfect cup of hot chocolate,

another chance to discover the perfect hot sauce,

another chance to pick the perfect pen.

~

Thank God for another chance to stroll in springtime through a carpet of pink lady slippers,

another chance to walk in autumn through golden bracken and red maple trees,

another chance to snowshoe in winter across a snow-covered pond.

~

Thank God for another chance to slow dance with my wife in front of the fire on a winter night 

to Patsy Cline singing “Sweet Dreams,”

another chance to admire my granddaughter casting a blood worm

into the Androscoggin River on a summer afternoon,

another chance to decorate our Christmas tree with five generations’ worth of 

ornaments. 

~

Thank God for another chance to shed the ten pounds I’ve never been able to lose,

another chance to read “Lord of the Rings” for the umpteenth time,

another chance to write a poem that just might actually be one.

~

Thank God for another chance to keep my mouth shut when I don’t have anything to say,

another chance to learn how to take a compliment without trying to convince you 

I don’t deserve it,

another chance to stop trying to figure out who I think you think I ought to be.

~

Thank God for another chance to say, “I was wrong,”

another chance to say, “I love you,”

another chance to say, “Thank you.”

~ ~