Category: nature

Ruminations on his 83rd Birthday

Published on by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments
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.

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.

~

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

Published on by geriatric pilgrim8 Comments

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.

~~

Wading

Published on by geriatric pilgrim8 Comments

~

The setting sun lays down a carpet on the bay.

A school of clouds across the skyline floats

over humpbacked islands of pointed firs.

Closer to shore, three skiffs face out to sea,

and closer still, silhouetted

against the light, my wife wades, 

legs cut off at the knee by undulating waters,

back straight, arms out to the side for balance

(always important as we get older),

testing each step, her face turned to the sea,

while on this shore of tide pools and broken shells,

I, who find the water too cold,

the stones too sharp for my old feet, 

lean against a barnacle-encrusted rock

watching, wading in gratitude.

~

Gazebo

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

~

“We are saved in the end by the things that ignore us.”— Andrew Harvey

~

At the Spiritual Renewal Center in Arizona

I’m not feeling renewed spiritually or otherwise.

Dusty desert wind sears my lungs as I sit in 90° heat,

stuck to a faded plastic chair in a rundown gazebo—

rotting floor…peeling paint… broken railings—

good place, I think, for an octogenarian

with COPD, a weak heart. and arthritic joints.

Just six years ago I walked the nearby desert trails 

for miles past petroglyphs and rattlesnakes,

up rocky canyons and down sandy washes.    

This morning, I reached for my inhaler after 20 minutes 

and turned back feeling old and dilapidated.

Now, I sit in this decaying gazebo awfulizing about my future:

a sudden heart attack that strikes me down

before I can say good-bye to those I’ve loved, 

or a stroke which leaves me paralyzed and drooling 

while others change their lives to look after me,

or worse, dementia, unable even to say thank you for caring.

Which leads me to wonder: Will I be missed when I’m gone?

Certainly not by the flat cumulous clouds 

floating over the hills on the horizon

 or the wind through the prickly pear, cholla, barrel,

organ pipe and ocotillo cactus,

 not to mention the saguaro standing

with arms raised to the heavens,

 and certainly not by the coyotes 

barking from the copper-colored hills behind me, 

or the doves or cardinals or flycatchers or thrashers 

or warblers or wrens or quails,

nor, come to think of it, by the yellow blossoms

from the palo verdi  blowing in the desert wind, gilding

the rotten gazebo floor and my decrepitude 

with the golden certainty of new life. 

~

First Thoughts on Spring

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

We would rather be ruined than changed—W.H. Auden

**

The sun shines on budding branches;

snow has retreated into the shadows

exposing last year’s dead leaves.

A cacophony of cardinals, titmice, finches

sparrows, jays, and crows 

fill the chilly air.

I want to yell out the window,

SHUT UP! IT’S TOO EARLY!

*

I’m not ready for this.

I want to spend the day

by the fire with Jack Reacher,

sipping hot chocolate and petting the cat

while Jack beats up bad guys,

look every now and then

out the window,

agreeing with me and myself

that’s it’s too cold/snowy/icy

to go anywhere.

*

Hibernation may be dull,

but it’s a peaceful dull,

free from having to expend 

all that energy

walking in the woods,

planting a garden,

going to a beach,

having coffee with friends, 

celebrating birthdays with family …

*

But those damn birds keep chittering,

like an orchestra tuning up before the symphony begins.

***

Sonnet for the new Year

Published on by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments

The hemlocks in the hollow all have toes

That curve and claw down into rocky ground

To keep them anchored when the north wind blows,

And waters rise as heavy rains come down.

But overhead, these trees sway in the gale,

Dancing a jig to nature’s stormy song,

As if in celebration while winds wail,

Of their sure faith no tumult can last long.

Great lesson, that, especially this year

When God knows what strange winds will blow ‘round me:

Grasp on to love, trees say, instead of fear;

But sway, be supple, let adversity

First rev and race and then run out of gas.

Keep faith, my soul, that this as well shall pass.

#

On Hope: an Admonition

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

#

Stop confusing it with expectation.

You’re going to be disappointed,

resentful, angry, pissed off at God

because the cancer didn’t disappear,

you didn’t get that new job you wanted,

Hurricane Hattie flooded your basement.

#

(Write this down: Don’t hope for anything

you can see, hear, touch, smell, or taste.)

#

And even if you do get to come home

from the hospital a day early,

or the car coming right at you swerves

away at the last saving second,

or your friend’s stock tip pays off enough

to finance an Aruba vacation,

please, please, please don’t proclaim to the world

how God in His goodness answered your prayers.

You’re only setting yourself up for

future resentment, not to mention

guilt and shame for having somehow displeased

His Royal Holy Hood.

#

Instead, divest, dismantle, ditch, doff, dump

expectations, anticipations, wishes.

Take a deep breath, and go for a walk

along that path you’ve been walking all

your life. Don’t worry about what’s ahead

—Here be dragons, right?—

but have a seat on this old tree stump.

Take more deep breaths, turn, look back

at all those times when, despite all your

mistakes, your blindness to injustice,

your embracing each Seven Deadly Sin

as if your happiness depended on it

while breaking all Ten Commandments

like you were making a hash omelet,

times when, despite your screwed-up family,

the hereditary overbite,

hip dysplasia, and weak heart,

times when despite the ugly divorce,

your daughter’s even uglier death,

all those goddamn operations,

the loss of lung capacity and libido,

you love the woman you wake up next to,

you sing to Sirius FM’s ‘Fifties Gold,’

you savor your morning hot chocolate,

you look forward to lunch with old classmates,

you feed the birds, play the banjo, plant

a garden, enjoy Wordle and Brit Box,

worshiping in silence, dabbling in poetry,

watching the grandchildren grow up.

#

Hope is not about getting what you want,

it’s about seeing what you already have,

the force that makes life worth living,

that same power that is pushing new growth

from this dead tree stump you’re sitting on.

#

Now, go get those dragons!