Tag: photography

The Serenity of the Rose

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The serene philosophy of the pink rose is steadying. 
Its fragrant, delicate petals open fully
and are ready to fall,
without regret or disillusion,
after only a day in the sun. 
It is so every summer. 
One can almost hear their pink, fragrant murmur
as they settle down upon the grass:
‘Summer, summer, it will always be summer.’
~Rachel Peden 

It will always be summer
if we let go in the midst of the brief brightness,
when all is glorious. 

No cold winds, no unending days of rain,
no mildew, no iced walkways,
no 18 hours of darkness,
no turning brown with mold and rot.

Let us be strong and serene through all seasons
rather than letting go at the height of summer. 

Let us thrive steady through the hard times
rather than withering at the peak of beauty.

Let us age, let us turn gray, let us wrinkle, and go bald.

It may always be summer — someday — but not yet. 

Not here. Not now.

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You Can Have an Abundant August

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But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands
gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.

You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look
of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite
every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,
you can have August and abundantly so. You can have love,
though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam
that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys
until you realize foam’s twin is blood.

You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave
where your father wept openly. You can’t bring back the dead,
but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands
as if they meant to spend a lifetime together.

You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,
at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping
of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.

You can’t count on grace to pick you out of a crowd
but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,
how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,
until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,
and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind
as real as Africa.

And when adulthood fails you,
you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond
of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas
your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.
There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother’s,
it will always whisper, you can’t have it all,
but there is this.
~Barbara Ras from “You Can’t Have It All” from Bite Every Sorrow

My pragmatic mother gave up her teaching career for marriage and family so would remind me regularly that I couldn’t have it all:
there was no way a woman can have a husband and children and a farm and a garden and animals and a profession and write and travel and volunteer in the community and not make a mess of it all and herself.

My father would listen to her and say to me softly under his breath: “you do whatever you put your mind to…you know what you are here for.”

They were both right.

The alluring abundance of this life has invited me to want to touch and feel and taste it all, not unlike another woman who was placed with purpose in the Garden to be a side-by-side companion and co-worker. Yet she demonstrated what happens when you want more than you are given and yes, she indeed made a mess of things.

Yet there is this:
despite wanting it all and working hard for it all
and believing I could do it all,
I missed the point altogether.

Life is all gift, never earned.
Life is all grace, not deserved.
It is all August abundance,
it is right now,
sustaining us through the year’s
droughts and floods and storms and drab gray weather.

And there is this:
I know what I am here for.

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Resolving to Grow Again

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Through sere trees and beheaded
grasses the slow rain falls.
Hay fills the barn; only the rake
and one empty wagon are left
in the field. In the ditches
goldenrod bends to the ground.
Even at noon the house is dark.
In my room under the eaves
I hear the steady benevolence
of water washing dust
raised by the haying
from porch and car and garden
chair. We are shorn
and purified, as if tonsured.
The grass resolves to grow again,
receiving the rain to that end,
but my disordered soul thirsts
after something it cannot name.
~Jane Kenyon “August Rain, After Haying” from Collected Poems

August arrives in the dark

we are not even asleep and it is here
with a gust of rain rustling before it…

but in the stillness after the rain ends
nothing is to be heard but the drops falling
one at a time from the tips of the leaves
into the night and I lie in the dark
listening to what I remember
while the night flies on with us into itself
~W.S. Merwin from “Nocturne II” from The Shadow of Sirius

A long-awaited August rain arrives in the night
and like the ground and plants,
I look skyward
letting the clouds weep on me,
cleansing me of dust.

Will I restore like the
brown and dying blade of grass,
turning green and lush in a matter of days?

Is there enough benevolence from the sky
to cleanse and settle my grime,
yielding yet more harvest? 

I thirst for what I cannot name. 
The mystery is, when I’m drenched,
thirst and dust settled,
I’m aching for more.

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Weeds are Flowers Too…

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Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them…
~A.A.Milne from Winnie the Pooh (Eeyore)

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
~Gerard Manley Hopkins from “Inversnaid”

A weed is a plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson from Fortune of the Republic   

I’ve always identified with weeds and wildflowers
more than cultivated blooms.
Even those which are thorny, bristly, spreading willy-nilly.

I too have undiscovered virtues –
I’m fluffy,
I thrive where I’m not necessarily wanted or needed,
I tend to be resilient through frost, drought or flood.  

The wild persistence of weeds inspires me
to just let most of them be, 
though stinging nettles, poison oak and ivy
need to keep to themselves.

Just as a wild beauty lies just beneath their weedy surface,
I try to keep flourishing in harsh surroundings,
a witness to a world bereft of softness.

O let them be left.
O let me be left.

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An Everlasting Party

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In the home of God, there is a never-ending festival…
~St. Augustine in Exposition on Psalm 42

Some small bone in your foot is longing for heaven
                          —Robert Bly

This twinge at first stir
too modest for throb,
more diffident
than tug,
not an itch,
not the most

incurious twitch
of a hook,
not a jerk,
but the tease
of brustle
of the fine, stiff pinions
of every curtained
saint and cherub.
~Hailey Leithauser “Some Small Bone,”

Even the smallest part of us
~each cell, each skin pore, each little bone~
longs to know what to believe about what comes next.

~perhaps heaven is as light and gentle
as a touch of a feather.

~maybe heaven is as rich as the glow
of a full blood moon.

~or heaven is like the ever-changing colors
of the northern lights illuminating the skies.

~certainly heaven is eternal felicity,
where we join an everlasting party.

yet despite the discomfort of
our questions, quandaries and doubts,
or perhaps, because of them…

it is the Lord in heaven who longs for,
and believes in,
us.

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Each Bright Drupelet

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I eat these
wild red raspberries
still warm from the sun
and smelling faintly of jewelweed
in memory of my father

tucking the napkin
under his chin and bending
over an ironstone bowl
of the bright drupelets
awash in cream

my father
with the sigh of a man
who has seen all and been redeemed
said time after time
as he lifted his spoon

men kill for this.
~Maxine Kumin “Appetite” from Selected Poems: 1960-1990

I’ve always wondered if there was a name
for the small round globe, part of an aggregate berry
like a thimbleberry, raspberry or blackberry –
each so smooth and perfectly formed,
each unique yet a homogenous part of the whole.
Yet if separated all by itself, nearly invisible.

Each is called a small drupe,
or more familiar and lovingly, a drupelet.

Despite such a plain name,
a little drupelet has its own smooth shiny beauty,
a drop of flavor to be savored, unforgotten,
made sweeter by being part of the whole –
even sweeter when redeemed and consumed.

Kind of like us –
each of us a small part of the whole of life –
each sacrificed for a taste of eternity.

Kind of like us…

photo by Nate Gibson

Lyrics: I am a small part of the world
I have a small hand which to hold
But if I stand by your side
And you put your hand in mine
Together we can be so strong and bold

I am a small part of the world
I have a small dream in my eyes
But if I tell you my dreams
And you add your dreams to mine
Together we can reach up to the skies

Hand in hand, dreams combine
Voice with voice, together for all time
Hand in hand, dreams combine
Voice with voice, for all time

I am a small part of the world
I have a small voice ringing clear
But if I sing out for freedom
And you add your voice to mine

Hand in hand, dreams combine
Voice with voice for all time
I am a small part of the world
Take my hand

Writer(s): Jay Althouse, Sally Albrecht

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You May Not Realize…

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Without realizing it, we fill
important places in each others’ lives.
It’s that way with the guy at the corner grocery,
the mechanic at the local garage,
the family doctor, teachers, neighbors, coworkers.

Good people who are always “there,”
who can be relied upon in
small, important ways.
People who teach us,
bless us, encourage us, support us,
uplift us in the dailiness of life.

We never tell them.
I don’t know why, but we don’t.

And, of course, we fill that role ourselves.
There are those who depend on us, watch us,
learn from us, take from us.
And we never know.

You may never have proof of your importance,
but you are more important than you think.
There are always those who couldn’t do without you.
The rub is that you don’t always know who.
~Robert Fulghum from All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

If there is one thing living through the pandemic taught me, it’s noticing the people in my life who may have not been as obvious to me before. I hadn’t realized how many folks truly are front-line serving others day-in and day-out.

It’s not only health care workers, grocery store clerks and school teachers but the list of essential workers is large, including law enforcement, plumbers and electricians, child care workers, water, sanitation and sewer maintenance, pastors, postal clerks, technicians who fix our cars and appliances and the farmers who tend the crops and livestock we need to live, as well as scores of others.

We are remarkably interdependent and need each other.

I realized how oblivious I had been before not taking the time to acknowledge the daily services I received from so many varied people. In fact, it has become more urgent for me to tell my family members and friends – some thousands of miles away from me – how much they mean to me.

Now, in non-pandemic times, I try to tell others – the grocery cashier, the medical assistant, the office receptionist – as simply and clearly as I can, whenever possible, that I appreciate what they have done and what they continue to do, how they make life better for us all.

I also need to continue to nurture relationships with family and friends crucial to my own well-being. I need them all.

I need you all.

And it is important to me that you know.

Well over a thousand of you receive these daily Barnstorming emails and posts – a handful of you communicate with me regularly.
I treasure those messages, thank you!

We all need encouragement that we are making a positive difference in others’ lives and you all make a difference to me.

You can always reach me by commenting on posts or emailing me privately at emilypgibson@gmail.com or giving anonymous feedback at https://barnstorming.blog/barnstormingreviews/

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A Swirling of Seeds

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I am here to modestly report
seeing in an orchard
in my town
a goldfinch kissing
a sunflower
again and again
dangling upside down
by its tiny claws
steadying itself by snapping open
like an old-timey fan
its wings
again and again,
until, swooning, it tumbled off
and swooped back to the very same perch,
where the sunflower curled its giant
swirling of seeds
around the bird and leaned back
to admire the soft wind
nudging the bird’s plumage,
and friends I could see
the points on the flower’s stately crown
soften and curl inward
as it almost indiscernibly lifted
the food of its body
to the bird’s nuzzling mouth
whose fervor
I could hear from
oh 20 or 30 feet away
and see from the tiny hulls
that sailed from their
good racket,
which good racket, I have to say
was making me blush,
and rock up on my tippy-toes,
and just barely purse my lips
with what I realize now
was being, simply, glad,
which such love,
if we let it,
makes us feel.
~Ross Gay “Wedding Poem” from Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude

For the last several days
I’ve heard an insistent tapping
at my kitchen window bird feeder.

A flash of yellow feathers makes the racket
drawing my attention;
I figure he wants the feeder refilled.

Yet it is full.

This goldfinch is wanting my attention,
not more sunflower seeds.

When I approach the window,
he wings off,
returning only if I retreat to the shadows.

Then his tapping resumes.

He can see me in the shadows,
watching him watching me.

I think he is simply enjoying making noise,
as his thanks for the feast of seeds
in a world of desperate hunger and despair.

So much like the good racket
we make when we sing in church,
thanking God when His swirling seeds
of love and care are bestowed upon us.

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Time to Hatch

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In this kingdom 
the sun never sets; 
under the pale oval 
of the sky 
there seems no way in 
or out, 
and though there is a sea here 
there is no tide.
For the egg itself 
is a moon 
glowing faintly 
in the galaxy of the barn, 
safe but for the spoon’s 
ominous thunder, 
the first delicate crack 
of lightning.
~Linda Pastan, “Egg”

It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird:
it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present.
And you cannot go on indefinitely
being just an ordinary, decent egg.
We must be hatched or go bad.
~C.S.Lewis from Mere Christianity

I try hard to be a good egg-
smooth on the surface,
gooey inside, too often scrambled,
yet ordinary and decent,
indistinguishable from others,
blending in,
not making waves.

It’s not been bad staying just as I am.
Except I can no longer remain like this.

The unhatched egg gets the boot, even by its parents.
When there are no signs of life,
no twitches and wiggles and movement inside,
it is doomed to rot.

And we all know nothing is worse than a rotten egg.

So life must move forward,
the fragments of shell left behind
abandoned as
useless confinement.

Newly hatched
means transformed to more than ordinary:
now there is the wind beneath my wings.
I’ll soar toward an endless horizon
where the sun never sets.
and stretches beyond eternity.

No longer scrambled and gooey.

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I Just Want to Ask…

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The ant in the shadow of this blade of grass
Is indifferent to my presence, to the action
Of the day, to the creaking of the limbs
Of the sycamore, to the sun lowering itself
Slowly from the scaffolding of the sky…

The ant has not moved.  It is deep in meditation.

…Ants understand
The principle of undefiled silence.  My ant glows
Like charcoal now in the lengthening rays of the sun.
I kneel and whisper, “Look up at me.  I’m here.”
~John Gilgun from “The Ant in the Shadow of This Blade of Grass”

Today, when I could do nothing,
I saved an ant...

Small black ant, alone,
crossing a navy cushion,
moving steadily because that is what it could do.

Set outside in the sun,
it could not have found again its nest.
What then did I save?

It did not move as if it was frightened,
even while walking my hand,
which moved it through swiftness and air.

Ant, alone, without companions,
whose ant-heart I could not fathom—
how is your life, I wanted to ask.

I lifted it, took it outside.

This first day when I could do nothing,
contribute nothing…

…I did this.
~Jane Hirshfield from “Today When I Could Do Nothing”

Each day I look for words
which might bring a smile,
a nod of recognition,
or moistened eye.

I seek common ground
with those I may never meet
in the chaos of existence.

So I ask:
how is your life?

Though I can do nothing else of import
in the scatter-mess of life’s ant hill,
I’m here,
listening for your comments, feedback and messages.

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