praying

praying –

it doesn’t have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones, just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try

to make them elaborate, this isn’t

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

— Mary  Oliver

wonder

when this passes, i wonder…

…what it will feel like to go back to my routine. will i even want that routine anymore?

…how we all will re-engage with one another. who will be our first dinner guests? what will we cook? and talk about? will we have guests over more often?

i wonder what my body will feel like swimming laps or working on a reformer. will my muscles remember the flow? how much time will they need to be re-acquainted with working out?

what will it feel like to be in public, to go to the grocery stores without a mask, to stand in line without being distanced from the person next to you? will the parks and beaches be crowded all at once, in a collective effort to be outside, unhinged?

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i wonder if we will all choose to slow down. be off the roads and off our devices. practice more kindness to one another. will we have more compassion toward each other? empathize and validate each other’s struggles? is it possible that we might have more respect for the people doing the hard work behind the scenes – the very people who kept our pantries stocked, our bellies full, our minds a bit more at ease?

what will the flower shop be like? will the blooms be more vibrant, even more satisfying than before? will i have a fresh outlook on colors and combinations, textures and arranging? am i going to return with an inspired creativity?

and this earth. how lush will she be? will her fields be green, her wildflowers blooming? will her air remain clean, her waters clear? and how will she receive us? will we care for her the way she has always cared for us?

when this passes, i wonder if any of us will be changed for the better.

…if we will all appreciate the small beautiful things of the everyday.

…and be grateful for them.

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to consider

things to do in the belly of the whale:

“measure the walls. count the ribs. notch the long days.

look up for blue sky through the spout. make small fires

with the broken hulls of fishing boats. practice smoke signals.

call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.

organize your calendar. dream of the beach. look each way

for the dim glow of light. work on your reports. review

each of your life’s ten million choices. endure moments

of self-loathing. find the evidence of those before you.

destroy it. try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound

of gears and moving water. listen for the sound of your heart.

be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,

where you can rest and wait. be nostalgic. think of all

the things you did and could have done. remember

treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes

pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.

— dan albergotti

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currently

i didn’t expect to come back to this space amidst the world’s current affairs. at the moment, and for the foreseeable future, we are “sheltering in place” and practicing “social distancing” in an effort to flatten the curve and get ahead of the coronavirus, Covid-19.

wow. it literally feels like something written in a sci-fi novel. a global pandemic caused by some ominous virus. the world is at a standstill – or at least California is – and though i continue to work at the hospital, life outside is quiet. isolated.

i don’t quite know how to put my thoughts and feelings into words. each day oscillates between a mild anxiety and unwavering gratitude. the anxiety – a result of the uncertainties, finances, the restrictions from gathering and socializing. but then of course, there’s the gratitude – for our health, our home, the opportunity to pause and allow our earth a chance to breathe. to allow us to breathe.

i am choosing to view this time as an invitation to be uncertain. to notice the flow of energies through, and around, my body. i want to seek the silver lining, to believe that there is, in fact, one. above all, i am taking inventory of the beautiful, everyday things that make up this wild life, and leaning heavily into the love that surrounds me – a phone call, text, or FaceTime away.

here on out, i will use this space as a home for positive excerpts, poems, or writings related to this particular time. because, after all, this is our reality and we are here for it.

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“and the people stayed home. and read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still. and listened more deeply. some meditated, some prayed, some danced. some met their shadows. and the people began to think differently.

and the people healed. and, in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal.

and when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed.”

— kitty o’meara

f i v e

today, we celebrate five years of marriage.

we are home after spending the past week nestled in a secluded cabin in the high sierras. to say these days have been wholly replenishing would be a severe understatement. in a way of sorts, they allowed us to tap into ourselves, together.

i could easily wax poetic about my gratitude for being married to the kindest, most radiant man, but my written words would never be able to illustrate that kind of love. it’s so deep, so engrained in the inner workings of my soul that i will leave it at that. and cherish it nonetheless.

october 18, 2014.

five years later, and i can still feel the warmth of my blood flowing through my body the moment we exchanged vows. but interestingly enough, i feel it more now. i feel it every day i wake up next to him. i feel it through the joy and the sadness, the victories and the setbacks. i feel the beating, the pulsating of my heart – a heart that is so in love with the man i get to call my husband – that i feel stronger for it. he builds me. delights in me.

i celebrate this day and every following day for the opportunity to live in this union. it is far from perfect, but it is absolutely genuine, as true to us as could ever be.

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xoxo

 

song for autumn

officially fall, here is mary oliver’s song for autumn…

don’t you imagine the leaves dream now

how comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the

nothingness of the air and the endless

freshets of wind? and don’t you think

the tress, especially those with 

mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep

inside their bodies? and don’t you hear

the goldenrod whispering goodbye,

the everlasting being crowned with the first

tuffets of snow? the pond

stiffens and the white field over which 

the fox runs so quickly brings out

its long blue shadows. the wind wags

its many tails. and in the evening 

the piled firewood shifts a little,

longing to be on its way.

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back

forgive me for the lapse in time between postings. there was an expansive trip to peru in july and beach days in august. many dinners eaten al fresco. countless bottles of rose enjoyed. our kitchen saw no shortage of farmer’s market goods, and the naps – well they continued effortlessly. there was serious contemplation of going back to school for acupuncture, and a current ease with the decision not to. not at this time, at least.

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i guess all of this to say, summer’s vibrant energy kept me away from this space.

but here we are mid-september, days from the autumn equinox. although the indian summer might continue relentlessly, i find myself craving reflection and groundedness, shorter days and deeper thoughts. the energy and vibrancy of the past few months is now being harnessed for this next season of introspection, and i cant’t help but celebrate it. the shift happening externally is certainly reflecting the shift i’m feeling within.

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as i journey back into this space, an excerpt from the poem Under the Harvest Moon by Carl Sandburg:

under the summer roses

when the flagrant crimson

lurks in the dusk

of the wild red leaves,

love, with little hands,

comes and touches you

with a thousand memories, 

and asks you

beautiful, unanswerable questions.

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