Happy Anniversary

Habitation



Marriage is not
a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

The edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn

where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far

we are learning to make fire




Margaret Atwood

Life, Love and the Pursuit of... well, you know.

Just as the roller coaster has a slow ascent and a race car driver modifies tactics to take a turn on the track, so I feel that in our pursuit of happiness in this life it is helpful and even beneficial to slow down in various circumstances. Life cannot nor should not be eaten all in one bite or swallowed in one single gulp. Who can determine complexity of flavor, revel and linger in the sensual experience if we hastily grab and devour what is in one's way?

Let us pursue methodicaly, deliberately that which we seek to experience in order that every nuance might be revealed and admired. So when we are old it is not forgotten. So we do not become the tramping bull in the china shop, shattering the delicate things in our environment.




"As he watches her walk away he feels a loss.

'How is it possible' he thinks, 'to miss a woman that he kept at a distance, so that when she was gone, he would not miss her.'

Only then, does he realize that wanting part of her and not all of her had hurt them both and how he cannot justify his actions, except to say that it was... well, it was Life."

Falling Water

I wonder
what's behind the hello
when you wink
and tilt your head
in that way you have.

When you laugh
that laugh
and hug and kiss
and touch
the elbow or the hand
of the one
who listens.

I wonder
what's behind the water
when it falls?
Cascading violently
down the path
it has created.

Looking sweet
and refreshing and effervescent
as it pummels away
at the rock
that receives the beating
so gracefully.

My heart could be a rock
stoic and elegant
taking in the flow
that pours
turbulent from your spirit.

If only I could be sure
and stop always
wondering
What's behind the hello.

Capistrano Calls

My heart is a swallow
that at times
flies free

It flits from here to there
and glides on tiny wings
pearching now
singing now
to no one in particular

Most often it sits
contentedly in a gilded cage
with wings trimmed neat
looking at me with
darting eyes
that say more than they see

But every now and then
I lift the door
and let it fly
to unknown trees
with leaves
I don't quite recognize

It tries
to perch in places
that feel like home
and finds comfort
of a sort
that's really no comfort
at all

and the older I get
the more I wonder
at the wisdom
of letting my heart fly free.