Living in a Poem

Our hazy 80 degree Augtober days are coming to an end. The rains march inexorably closer, and will put out fires, clear the air, and bring… what, I don't know. Naomi Shihab Nye says, “You are living in a poem.”

Oh the Water!

The power of moving water that has traveled many miles is a mighty sweep of mind that displaces all the detritus and details and picky little annoyances of life, and smashes them to bits, and brings me back to nothingness - more than than I ever get on the mat or on the cushion or by watching my breath.

Rolling Down the Deschutes River

Rivers call out for a song, their various facets and qualities changing and amorphous - the meandering or rollicking currents, the broad then narrow passages, rolling reflections and scenery, the power that lies beneath the seemingly endless flow. Roll along with me...

It’s Quiet Here

The sun glistens on the water, wild daisies shimmer in the breeze near my feet, and the warmth from the rock seeps into my hips. Tiny waves lap on the rocky shore. A stand-up paddler passes, barely a wake behind her, and I wonder in this quiet, do I really want this quarantine to end?

The Equinox Blues Turns Yellow and Red

It's one of those sparkly days between rains as the sun came out again (note to self: AS IT DOES) .... The mid-October gift of sunshine makes me feel like the Grinch as his heart grows three sizes bigger.

Sprung

When we first arrived in Portland our son warned us that spring was actually several seasons in one - fake spring, late winter, early spring, summer, real spring, winter again, and so on.

The Nick of Time

But what a difference a day makes. Last Friday most everything melted. The skies cleared and views of the Cascades showed gleaming snow-capped peaks. Clouds of the white and fluffy sort drifted lazily in a dazzling blue sky. The temperature climbed to 50, which we haven't seen in a while. Or at least I don't remember; perhaps it's frozen out of recollection.