Zen Gardening

Local Botanical Garden's Japanese Zen Garden

 

J and I ran from a local park to the local botanical gardens to see what was left of the blooming cherry trees. We visited the area close to the tea room which also contains a Zen Garden. I have been to the garden numerous times between high school and present day. I have seen this garden a multitude of times, looking at it, over it, beyond it. Even when J and I travelled to Kyoto and saw the Ginkakuji temple, I viewed the “sea of silver sand” and wondered the meaning of these large areas of gravel with rocks arranged within it in a purposeful, random way. 

 

All this time, the gardens meant little to me. I did not see how it lent itself to meditation or represented the struggle between “impermanence and stasis in human life.”[i] And I was okay with this ignorance. But my feelings changed on our run to the gardens a week ago.

 

I admired the garden and looked at the concentric circles around what I considered the “living objects” of moss, boulders and a bonsai-type cedar. The circles emanated from the living objects, stretching in more encompassing circumferences. 

 

In an instant, I felt the Zen masters knew something about reality I did not. They intuited what Einstein would formalize. They “saw” how particles, waves, molecules, quarks existed beyond the large, splashy and utterly embodied objects which hold and distract sight. 

 

I also thought of my grandmother’s death vision of Christ. When my mother first told the story, she said Granny’s words were “everywhere He goes is love and peace,” and in my mind, maybe even viscerally, I “felt” the force of the love and peace. They had weight, girth, and strength – the forces invisible, but experienced as enveloping. . .

 

Much like the gravel in the garden – the circles at once emanating out AND radiating in. The material world being both the originator of these forces while also being created and molded by them.

 

But also and ultimately all are connected and interconnected in the never-ending flow of permanence and impermanence. All material things creating waves, forces which bind us, repel us, link us together – the actions not purely physical, but metaphysical – existing in a plane we cannot see, but sometimes experience.

 

As Eric Cunningham posits, “One is very cautious about drawing any deep conclusion concerning what all this [Zen Gardening] ‘means,’ knowing that meanings will change.”[ii]

 

But this revelation strikes me as truth in a moment where so many seek to separate and divide us. We are connected in more ways than we can imagine and it seems wise to act like we are.

 

4/3/26

 

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[i] https://www.asianstudies.org/publications/eaa/archives/cultivating-enlightenment-the-manifold-meaning-of-japanese-zen-gardens/#:~:text=Although%20Zen%20gardens%20as%20landscape,faithful”%20into%20a%20metaphysical%20space.

[ii] Ibid.

 

Coffee

Photo Credit here.

My first experience with espresso, where I ordered it and paid for it, happened during a trip to Europe as I returned home from my year in Ukraine. My friend and I visited Rome and were leaving to head to Pisa before making a quick trip back up to Paris to meet another friend. I don’t remember if I wanted to try espresso because it seemed an Italian drink to experience or if I thought I might need the caffeine. Still, I went to an open-air café, bellied up to the bar and ordered an espresso. I received the small cup with the goods and sipped. . .I wanted to spit it out. It was awful! I had no idea why anyone actually liked the stuff.

About two years later, as I worked with graduate students at Vanderbilt, I made another attempt. Fido was the hip coffee shop in Hillsboro Village and some of the grad students visited it religiously. I ventured out one evening and got the Pink Poodle – an outrageously large (and fluffy pink) latte with plenty of sugar. I had finally found a way to drink espresso, though I still preferred Mr. Pibb to a latte any day. 

 

My coffee tastes and explorations changed little as I moved to do my own graduate degree in New Jersey, though I joined friends at local shops here and there. When I moved to Berkeley to work with college students again, my appreciation of fresh foods and expertly roasted coffee grew. With Peet’s and the influence of Alice Waters, I continue to associate lattes (especially served in a large bowl) with a truth-telling, unifying and inspiring time of my life. 

 

After marriage, I started trying all sorts of diets – more to find the perfect collection of foods which would strength and nourish J and me, not to try and lose weight or sculpt my body in some way. In Kentucky, we fell under the influence of the Whole 30, and by that time, coffee was a staple of the morning and sometimes the afternoon (but with lots of cream). Dairy is forbidden on the Whole 30, so I started drinking coffee black. I immediately returned to half and half when we ended our reintroduction phase. I will still occasionally drink coffee black, but really, coffee continues to be a conduit for lush, frothy warm half and half.

 

Now, approximately 25 years after that first espresso in Rome, I have a growing intolerance of caffeine - another gift of “the change.” If I have nothing to do, I drink coffee and lattes with abandon, but I notice. I notice I do not feel at ease come bed time. I can still sleep, but I don’t sleep well. I’m a little more cranky and irritable. I don’t have patience for much foolery. 

 

So I’ve started limiting my coffee intake when I am working. I allow myself a (large) cup for 3 out of 7 days, usually the weekends, but the other days are caffeine free. I find myself tired by bedtime. I sleep incredibly, and I wake up with energy. My mind clears and my mood remains steady (or at least steadier) as I work through the day. I’m a kinder, gentler human.

 

If I have really been hitting the coffee on my time off, I have headaches and brain fog for the first couple of days, but J and I drink 75% decaffeinated coffee now, so the withdrawal is minimal. If you try this route, I suggest getting decaf prepared by the Swiss water method – the beans still taste excellent and no chemical agents, like ethyl acetate or methylene chloride, touch the beans.

 

I have other female friends who have experienced this change in caffeine tolerance with menopause. I’ll have to see if anyone has figured out why tolerance decreases, but given how little is researched with menopause, or with women-specific issues generally, I’m guessing no one has cared to investigate. Still, I’m glad a simple fix can improve my sleep, mood and outlook. 

 

But I still love a good cup of coffee, especially shared with J and friends over breakfast. 

After all these years, it’s grown on me. 

3/30/26

Deep in the Dirt

Photo credit here.

 

Deep in the dirt,
We ripped growth
knotted with time
And the striving, which
makes each of us.
 
The elephant danced
on rooftops
While the dog
lapped the pool,
laid in the dirt
 
Dug out all those rocks
making up the world
Or at least our section,
Thrown to hold the earth 
in place, just this once. 
 
Buried treasures.
All around us
waiting for discovery
Whispering of past lives forgotten
Deep in the dirt.

3/28/26

Subversive Acts

Photo credit here.

The House of Coffee had their Grand Opening today beginning at 3pm. J and I arrived fashionably late but just in time for the party. A crowd stood outside the coffee shop. Gold and black balloon arches framed a small hut where hibiscus tea and mint lemonade awaited tasting. Gold and black bags emblazoned with The House of Coffee and their logo held party favors: A pen, a keychain, a coaster and a small coffee cup – all carrying the name and emblem of the shop. In addition, a small note with “thank you for celebrating with us” and a tea bag sized sample of coffee rounded out the gift’s contents. 

 

Men in – you guessed it – gold and black danced around in a circle as an older gentleman kept time to the music with a drum. The leader of the dancing men carried a staff similar to a drum major and began throwing it to other men in the crowd, inviting them to join the dance. About half of the men came out to dance and half did not. All of the would-be recruits were dressed in suits and ties – a terribly hot choice on a sunny, 80-degree day. 

 

Bayt Al Qahwah (The House of Coffee) is a Yemeni coffee house which officially opened its doors with music and dance, food and drink, smiles and welcoming.

 

J commented as we left, given the political climate of the country these days, he was glad the event went off so smoothly. I shared his relief. So many things could have happened to infuse the event with fear or hate. Instead, people smiled, laughed, danced, ate great food, imbibed fruity concoctions as well as caffeinated beverages and celebrated a new type of coffee shop in our area. 

 

I am glad to celebrate the opening of a Yemeni coffeehouse. I am grateful for the diversity of this world. I pray every act of celebration will break down the walls which separate us.

3/27/26

Gardening

Photo credit here.

 For a moment today, I felt unscheduled, free to sit in the sun or lounge in the shade. I had no “to-do” list, no task pressing me for attention. My cortisol levels dropped precipitously, my mind blank and only open to the present moment.

 

Earlier in the day, we parked a little over a mile from the local botanical gardens, then walked and jogged over to the Japanese garden to catch what was left of the cherry blossoms. On the walk back, we stopped for coffee, meandered across a creek, kept searching for Jack in the Pulpit along every leaf covered hillside. Nothing was pushed or pressing. The temperature in dappled shade fell just shy of perfect, the humidity obviously on Spring Break with everyone else.

 

Currently, J is house and pet sitting, so after our excursion I joined him for the midday release of the pup. The back yard of the house contains a pool, Adirondack chairs, loungers, a cast iron dining set and several large umbrellas. I opened an umbrella up after dipping my feet in the pool, shading my upper body while exposing my legs and feet to the sun. In the quiet warmth of their back yard, all other tasks melted away. 

 

We drove back home for lunch, and my brain cranked back up with the lists: the Work list, the House list, the Yard list, the Trip list, etc. The gift of gardening lies in its absolute insistence – if a garden happens at all, the seeds must be started in the spring or the bulbs must be planted in the fall or the pruning must happen after (or before) the plant flowers. The garden has to have water, appropriate soil, sunlight, spacing. Weeds cannot get the upper hand; mulching will help every plant’s and person’s nerves. 

 

So despite other lists, the Yard list took priority and I spent the afternoon planting seeds for giant sunflowers, Rose of Sharon, basil, cilantro (hope it’s not too late!), tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, okra, and eggplant. I dreamed of where the seedlings may go in the yard and how to create space for them. I took out plants from the basement, so they can begin their spring transformations. I weeded around returning azaleas, hosta, black-eyed susans and crepe myrtle. I doted over returning day lilies, swamp irises and star-gazers. I wondered how best to reign in pushy canna lilies in one part of my yard and how best to spur their growth in another. I hoped the peony at the corner of the porch would bloom this year.

 

By four o’clock, I began to clean up the remaining tools and ended by cleaning up myself. Now, after dinner, I’m sitting on the porch with my vigilant Maltese enjoying the transition from bird song to crickets in the slow decent of the spring sun. 

 

I’m grateful for these days which slip from task to taskless, which whisper promises of bright yellow heads heavy with seeds or the sweet burst of a perfectly ripe tomato, while reminding me to care for what is most important right now. I pray that I am and trust in grace and mercy for the rest. 

 

3/26/26

Trouble

 

Photo credit here.

Writing Workshop prompt from 8/2022: “Did you ever get in trouble at school? What happened?”

 

Ms. Tew was my first elementary school teacher. I don’t remember how many children were in my class, but she chose to set-up her classroom tables in a large square. The space in the middle of the tables seemed enormous to my 6-year-old self. 

 

Our classroom abutted a second-grade classroom which had a reading loft. I yearned to be in the class with the loft the next year and pined for the adventures a loft might bring. Even in first-grade, rumors spread about teachers and their relative kindness, coolness or harshness. The teacher with the loft was known to be cool and kind, which seemed to me a perfect combination. 

 

Our first-grade classroom, much like the arrangement, was square: No mood lighting, no loft – just bulletin boards and chalkboards with harsh fluorescent above. A rectangular floor-to-ceiling window provided the only natural light, but the window faced South.

 

Sometime during the first couple of months of the school year, Ms. Tew received word she had a phone call to take in the principal’s office. She pointed toward the worksheets before us telling us to work on our letters, and she sternly warned us about making too much noise. She also told us to stay in our seats. She would be gone briefly, and we needed to behave ourselves during her short time away.

 

I do not know the nature of the phone call, but seconds and minutes turned into what felt like hours to a classroom of aesthetically starved first graders. I’m sure it started with small conversations between neighbors on the square. A little later, the hyperactive boy sprang up to bother a friend seated across from him. Paper began to be wadded up and thrown. The girls screeched as the boys began pulling hair. Small, and then large, arguments broke out. The decibels grew louder and louder. 

 

At least once, maybe twice, another teacher passed by the room and encouraged us to shush and get back in our seats. But as soon as she left (and they were all she’s), mayhem commenced. Herding cats comes to mind. 

 

My predilection is for rule-following. Given the regular chaos of my home, rules became a safe-haven providing security and defense if needed. While my classmates got out of their chairs, drew scribbles on the chalkboard, poured Elmer’s glue on the tables – I sat trying to focus on my alphabet, keeping my head down and trying to stay out of trouble.

 

When Ms. Tew finally came back, her normally calm demeanor morphed into wild-eyed rage. She yelled while making statements about what she had told us to do, how we were disrupting the entire wing of the school, how we only needed to be still and quiet for a little while. I imagine the floor was covered with pencils and markers, poorly cut construction paper, glue bottles and paper jets with the nose-gear bent sideways. Chairs must have been in array, maybe the tables were knocked askew – but in our defense, she was gone a LONG time, especially for freshly minted first graders. 

 

She had us straighten the room up and return to the square while she found her wooden paddle. She stood the students on each side of the square up in unison, then went down the row whacking our rear ends with the board. “Thwok, thwok, thwok” 

 

I wanted to protest, to tell her I had not participated in any of it. I didn’t want to get paddled. I feared the pain, being lumped in with all the rule-breakers and what if my mom found out! I might get a whooping again for being disruptive. I think I started crying – maybe we all did. All the exuberance of childhood shenanigans squelched thwok by horrible thwok. Replaced by alligator tears and smeared “A’s, B’s and C’s” on our pages. 

 

An event like that did not happen again in all of elementary school (or beyond). I don’t know if Ms. Tew received a reprimand with other teachers forbidden to act similarly. Maybe the rumor mill did its job and scared all of us straight. Who would think the teacher would paddle ALL of us? Truth is stranger than fiction sometimes.

 

Still, the event is my lasting memory of first grade and my lasting memory of Ms. Tew.

 

Written 3/25/26

Hometown

Photo credit here.

I never expected to be back in my hometown. When I left it “for good” in my late twenties, I imagined being somewhere close – a neighboring state – but not in the state. I needed the breathing room and the only way I found it was by physical distance. 

 

My grandmother did not understand why I “always left.” Granted, she never asked me to stay, never said she missed me or wanted me close. Maybe she assumed those things were a given. Considering her words now, I wonder if she felt rejected – more of a I was leaving her. At the time, I thought of my travels as exploration and finding myself. Now, I recognize I also needed to leave to make sense of all I experienced. 

 

Growing up in the South, the connection to and expectation of family felt ubiquitous. Granny expected mother to care for her and her needs. Dad expected mother to take care of the household duties (cooking, cleaning, caring for the children). Mom expected her daughters to also clean, cook and listen to her worries and concerns about her projections on other people. The boys took care of yard work and helped dad with various projects around the house.

 

As a family, we had an image to project and uphold, generally, but it’s the South, so a sterling image was most important at church. My sister and I wore dresses or pants to church, absolutely NO denim. My brothers wore slacks, a collared shirt and a tie. Mom expected us to sing in the choir, attend all services and generally behave. She wanted everyone to think our family was “perfect” or at least “doing very well.” 

 

She told me during my college orientation she never said a word to anyone about my brother’s drug addiction, run-ins with the law, suspensions, anger outbursts, etc., until that weekend. She met with the mother of an old elementary school friend of mine who happened to be at the same orientation weekend. Somehow, my friend’s mom provided mother the space to talk and mom told all. What amazed me, even then, was mom’s reticence to show any sign of “unordained” weakness to anyone. If the imperfection came upon her, she might share it with church people; but if the imperfection may have been associated with or caused by her, no one was going to know it. 

 

I was too aware of my family’s shortcomings, but mainly the dangerous dynamic between my brother and my parents. He transgressed any and all rules or lines. My parents, desperate to save him, and save face, tried to smooth over the infractions or to ignore them as if they never happened. My brother took and took and took. My parents never stopped giving (even to this day). 

 

When I got old enough to suggest they allow my brother to suffer the consequences of his actions, my mother gave me the stink eye and then proceeded to tell me they had no other choice than to support him. By that time, however, I knew they had other choices. I realized they would choose him any day, but I was not so sure they would choose any of the rest of us. Ask them, or especially my mother as dad has never been a talker, she would deny this one hundred percent; but by their actions throughout our childhood, they chose him over us one hundred percent of the time.

Once I tasted freedom in college, and especially after my summer in Alaska, I could not return to the family dynamic. I saw different ways to be in the world, and I wanted a different path than the one expected of me by my specific Southern culture. Even so, the culture’s embrace remained and it took years to find release – or a kind of release. I’m old enough to know the difficulty and even impossibility of leaving a family dynamic – parts of it seem genetic – but the travel and distance changed me enough to provide more filters for viewing it and living in it. 

 

I am forever grateful for the opportunities to live in other places and to know people with a wide variety of life experiences who live in cultures different than my own. They provided perspective, opportunity, windows into a thousand ways to be in the world. They helped me discover my agency. 

 

And my agency (as well as my intuition) brought us back home. Home surprises me with its creativity and ability to reinvent itself. This is not the place I left two decades ago and I am not the person who left. I’m enjoying our reacquaintance. J and I are slowly bringing out a new side to the old home place. We have more friends here than we have anywhere else in our married life. My work has a balance I dreamed of back in Memphis. 

 

I never expected to be back in my hometown, but I’m glad we are. 

3/24/26

 

Emergency Room

 

Photo Credit here.

Having just spent 7 hours in the ER with my father (after a fall, which fortunately did not end up with broken bones or bleeds), I am "worn slap out" as my Granny used to say. 

No musings on the ER at the moment, but maybe it will arrive another night. 

Now, to bed.

3/23/26

Resilience

 

They had taken the metro to the island in the middle of the Dnieper River. The war had not yet begun, the Orange Revolution had not yet shifted the political landscape. The catacombs remained intact, St. Michael’s gleamed golden in the sun, Lady Victory signaled an era which recently passed into history. This moment culminated a few weeks of planning between the English teachers and students which included gathering at the island to experience a cookout in the “usual” Ukrainian style. 

 

By this time the snow had given up and warming temperatures melted what remained. The teachers followed the university students on an unmarked path back into the woods. They found a clearing and a barbeque by magic, and soon, the students were unpacking their backpacks with the different snacks and food they brought. 

 

Potato salad, bread with dried fish, butter and dill; a dish called Shuba (layered fish, carrot, beet, mayonnaise) and Sala (or pig’s fat) came forward one by one. While the other dishes were cold, they heated the Sala a bit, then passed it around. They told stories of how Stalin, during World War II, starved the people of Ukraine. When they could no longer buy meat, Sala provided calories to keep them alive another day with hopes to see Stalin defeated. They were survivors. 

 

The English speakers sat silent – how does one respond to resilience of this magnitude in the face of vicious hate? 

 

With awe and respect. 

The picture was a Writer's Workshop prompt from February of 2023. I gave myself 15 minutes to write on the picture prompt and it took me to my time in Kyiv, Ukraine '98-'99. 3/20/26

Getting Here

Photo Credit here.

We finished our taxes today – a win on any day. We took a short walk, the sun calling us outside, the wind chiding us once out. We had a nice breakfast, warmed up leftovers for lunch and spent some time with the contractor reviewing the claims process for the roof. After he left, we drove to a CVS to pick up Dad’s Boost and as we curved and swooped around the crest of the hill, J wondered aloud, “How did we end up here?” 

He meant the particular suburb of our habitation – one which grew around the farm land my great grandfather purchased over 100 years ago. While once considered a “dangerous part of town” per an old college minister of mine, the area developed into an affluent section of the larger city. J quipped years ago we would never be allowed to live in this part of town unless we bought newer cars. I don’t know if he ever expected we would live exactly here, in the home of my childhood.

 

By his question, he’s still figuring it out. Or maybe he simply wants to make sense of the aimlessness of retirement or the boredom of home management – how did HE end up here?

 

Only he can tell his story, but as I sit in the room we now call the office, I remember it’s many iterations. When my sister moved into this room, we were a package deal. She read to me at night, fixed my hair in the mornings and put up with my kung-fu theatrics overnight. When she hit her teenage years, I moved to the front bedroom and she had this room all to herself. She painted the walls purple with a zig-zagging rainbow right in the middle interrupted by Garfield and his thought bubbles making sarcastic comments. I thought it was the coolest room ever. 

 

She left to go to college and I inherited her space. I can’t remember if I left the bed on the floor or if I placed the bed on the floor. Because I thought my sister cool, and myself not so much, I’m sure I left it on the floor, catty cornered to the middle of the room. The stereo system sat just behind the bed in the corner and it became my crystal ball. If Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings” or Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know” came on at just the right moment, then my crush had to have noticed me that day/month/year.

 

The room has been a place of confession, study, creativity; of prayers, tears, heartache. In the five years since our return, it has served as a TV room, an office, a dance studio and a music conservatory. We have all imposed our wills on this space and place, molding it to our needs, wants, desires. We ended up here because we have made it so. Each decision bending us toward a future we only recognize in hindsight.

 

For me, the decision to leave so many years ago inevitably led me back because I needed distance to discover the edges of myself and now, I need proximity to solidify them. It’s that simple and that complex. 

3/17/26

The Third Option

Photo Credit here.

Just underneath my left rib cage I feel a small hole opening, a beak scraping the inside of my stomach as it opens and closes waiting to be filled. Just above the curve of my right hip, a small pinch nags my back until it moves just enough to shush the nag for a moment. My feet cheer the invention of ottomans. My eyes would like a break from the day. 

When I perform a body scan, my body talks to me, tells me about where I hold stress, reiterates the need for rest, reminds me all things change, get out of kilter occasionally (or more permanently) and grow older. At the end of the work day, my body tells me, and I mainly feel, tired.

 

There was a time I would have pathologized my tiredness. Do I not like my work? Am I in the job I’m supposed to be in? Do I need to change professions (again)? A lot of close-ended questions, begging a polarity which serves no one. 

 

Granted, many people discuss the importance of loving one’s job summed up in the “Love what you do. Do what you love” mentality. I loved the idea of this and have wanted work which felt effortless and filled with “flow” or the “energy of love.” Yet I didn’t account for my own personality quirks or even reality. 

 

I believe there are people who “love what they do and do what they love.” They are likely the ones who came up with the phrase. They are likely extraverted sales people who know how to market an idea which can hook people into the dream of what might be. I tend to enjoy living in the “what might be” space because dreams are easy and require no work and little effort. In other words dreams are easy and reality is hard. 

 

Being back in my childhood home, taking the same route into downtown my mother and father took before me and experiencing, again, various degrees of resistance/dislike for my work; I am reminded of my mother’s expressions of frustration around her own job. She got up early and rushed to get out the door to beat traffic downtown. She was responsible, conscientious and trustworthy; but she hated working. When my father retired, she got out 1 year later when she was about 55 years old. She did not want to miss any time with Dad and she resented having to leave him everyday, at home, when they could have been together. 

 

I failed to appreciate this early example of “don’t love what you do but do it to survive,” which I saw in my mom. I do not know how my Dad felt about work. When the work was steady, he steadily worked and came home caked with dirt and simply wanted to sit and relax. He worked extra when he could to cover for the inevitable times he would be laid off. 

 

Somewhere being exposed to all of their attitudes and actions regarding work, I absorbed a “hate work” mentality. Don’t get me wrong, I worked from the time I was 16 years old. But no job ever brought me to the place of feeling “flow.” The psychological weight of work made getting out of bed miserable each morning. I have wondered for years what was “wrong” with me and why I could not find the work I “loved.” 

 

Now I recognize I “stewed” in an atmosphere with a vocal mother who really never wanted to work outside the home but had to work to pay the bills. I saw my Dad physically exhausted from his blue collar job. What felt normal for me was to have resentment about work or to find it fatiguing. I had few examples of people who “loved” work and certainly no examples within my home. 

 

Some of my disdain for work was simply carrying on the family tradition because that is what felt normal for me. In this realization, I felt some release from “weight of work” I carry. It also gave me freedom to live in a third space which isn’t just “love what you do” or “hate what you do,” but allows me to do both and be okay with it. It also helps me allow work to simply be neutral to me – I don’t have to get so emotionally involved – it’s just work!

 

But I still want to enjoy what I do. And after years of trying out different options, I finally found the work which smacks of vocation and calling even when I am tired at the end of day or occasionally dread the beginning of the work week. I don’t have to love the work all the time, nor do I have to question if my quest for my “life’s work” is in peril because of the occasional dip in enthusiasm or energy. The third option, as usual, gives the most freedom. 

 

For being tired, this post is way too long. Good night and may you always find the third option.

3/12/25

Ventilator

Photo credit here.

His family hangs

On

Every

Breath

Refraining from taking

Too much in.

 

Oxygen, Nitrogen

Carbon dioxide

Molecules heavy with meaning;

Molecules worth their weight 

In gold.

 

I hold the weight

In my gut

A never-ending

Sucker punch-

Inhalation halted

The life force 

Expelled

 

Can I not give mine

To him?

Brain burning-

Mechanical breaths 

A metronome - 

Counting time

He may not have.

 

8/1/25

 

Loblolly Pines

Photo credit here.

Pines provide the boundary for our property and have since I was a child. My great grandfather seemingly cleared this land for farming, then my grandfather took over the few acres given to him when he married Granny. In elementary school, a neighboring house stood at a distance from ours, surrounded by woods, mainly Loblolly Pines. As a teenager, the family who owned the house sold the land to someone who created a subdivision and all the pines disappeared – the land scalped, the earth paved over. 

Across the street a similar story: one home on the hillside, surrounded by woods. Then a sale and bald earth and finally a subdivision with two and three-story homes. Some of the pines remained, but most were gone. 

 

When we moved back to my home place 5 ½ years ago, my aunt and uncle removed one, maybe two, of the pines at the roadway. Mom, Dad, J and I sat on our porch watching the theatrics and death-defying stunts of the tree removal crew. I sensed sadness for all the years of life felled in a few hours. The tree had definitely watched over the land when my grandparents still thought of growing old; watched when my mom and dad first kissed; watched as our home was built bit-by-bit by my father. 

 

Little is a stately and grand as a Loblolly Pine, decades old, wide and thick, branches reaching towards the sky. A giant reminding you how small you truly are. A teacher of how to weather storms. A sage whispering “carpe diem, your life, Little One, is brief.”

 

When our neighbor asked if we would remove one of our Loblollies a couple of years ago, I simply could not do it. I have watched the skyline since childhood and these trees have been a part of it. It seemed wrong to simply cut it down. . .

well tonight, it chose to take itself out. Or maybe the high winds helped it make up its mind. 

 

I heard cracks and pops for a bit, just outside the office window. I thought the wind was blowing debris against the house. These noises occurred on and off for five to ten minutes. Then a loud crack followed by the shaking of the house. I met my husband’s startled face in the hallway. Something big had happened. 

 

We went outside to see the pine draped across our front lawn and the ramp for my dad. The scent of pine fragranced the air while bent gutters spilled water onto the hedges. For tonight, it is the only damage – and miraculously so. 

 

I will miss the tree, though maybe not its yellow pollen. I wonder if this tree produced the large pine cones of wonder which litter the yard and drive? Maybe I will investigate tomorrow. 

 

But tonight, I offer this eulogy: 

Thank you, pine, 

    For providing shade, for giving us pine straw for our garden beds

    For being a resting place for birds, a playground for squirrels, a haven for the blue-tailed                 skinks (who are anything but Common)

    For providing enough edges for cicadas to shed their skins, enough grooves to commute ant         colonies and enough natural wood for busy carpenter bees. 

May you rest in peace. 

3/9/26

State of E

Photo credit here.

 

Take me away

To the State of E

Where war is waged

 

With foam swords,

Foam blocks – 

Where death

 

Relinquishes

Its foe

Through kisses.

 

A land of

The Tiny Bomb

Explosive with

 

Vitality and

Vigor

 

From day

To night

(with a nap in the afternoon).

 

High screams,

Low growls

And sand

 

Spread all over

The yard

On the best February spring day.

 

“Let’s Go!!!!”

Away, away

To the State of E.

 

For E - 2/28/26

Nashville - Part Two

House of David, Music Row

A trip into a "familiar" part of Nashville, now not so familiar, spurred me to consider what makes space valuable, what creates the connection between a space and memory and what happens when that space changes? I'm not sure I answered all those questions, but it's a start.

Nashville Part Two

I met my former supervisor from IVCF at Sitar off of West End Avenue tonight. I drove the 1.7 miles as I did not have time to walk it. 

 

My 14 months in Nashville happened 21 years ago. I dated someone who lived off of West End Avenue and my job with Lex Brodie was off of West End, so travelled it fairly often. Tonight, nothing triggered a memory. I liken it to a dementia: The name of the street sounds familiar, but I recognize zero landmarks. Disoriented, I follow the voice of Siri, guiding me around the crosshatches demarcating blocks until I find the now diminutive building that holds Sitar.

 

“Siri, are you sure this is West End Avenue?”

 

“Yes, Kara, don’t you remember?”

 

No, Siri, I don’t.

 

On the 1.7 miles back, I made a wrong turn and ended up on Music Row. For about a block, the Nashville of my memory flooded my eyes. The early to mid-19^th century homes, neatly lined side-by-side with their muted colors trimmed in white. Across from these homes, the perpetually-empty, chain-linked-fenced lot dances in the corners of my memory, but is now replaced with something more commercial, something to feed the stomach or eyes or empty places within us all.

 

Even Siri missed that Chet Atkins Way no longer goes straight through to 18^th Avenue South as construction on a new several-stories-high condo/loft/apartment building blocks its path. Maybe Siri is having her own dementia issues. Maybe ChatGPT will be her guide as she slowly fades away.

 

The Nashville of 20 years ago wasn’t inherently better or worse than the Nashville of today. Just as the Nashville of the mid-19^th century Music Row wasn’t inherently better or worse compared to 20 years ago. I simply miss the familiarity and how certain places in their particular situation (the buildings, the streets, the green spaces, etc.) hold the familiarity and return it to me in an embrace. I see the place, and the place sees me, and we tell each other the secrets we share. 

 

When the space changes as drastically as West End Avenue has and is changing (and can anything that has taken 20 + years to change be called drastic? But work with me.), it turns cold: an old lover whose reinvention resembles nothing I found attractive in the first place.

 

And so, Nashville will be easier to leave, easier to release in my heart, easier to forget in my mind. . . maybe. I still hold the secrets after all, and somewhere the city holds them, too.

Photo credits:Andrew Nelles/File/The Tennessean

 

In the Valley of Dry Bones

I worked on taxes today, so the title aptly portrays my feeling. I thought it might be nice to take the images presented in the passage from the lectionary texts (Ezekiel 37:1-14) and work with them a bit in a of-my-own-making poetic format.

In the Valley of Dry Bones

 

Turkey vultures - 

serrated wings spread long

as a human body.

 

Draft circling: 

Desert heat

expanding the air

 

drawn from the lungs of the fallen.

 

Hundreds? Thousands?

Millions?

Expanse as wide as time

 

Bones whitened by

blazing sun above –

Scattered callously as

 

An open grave, mouth wide in exhale.

 

Mine a slit,

“Live bones. . .

Knit together, be enfleshed . . .

 

The Sovereign says,”

By human words

and Holy Breath

 

Mine held within, resisting the pull of draft and desert heat - 

 

Awaiting the rattle.

Awaiting the ruach.

Awaiting the Rising.

 

Source: pastorjesusfigueroa.wordpress.com

Labyrinth Wisdom

Chartres Labyrinth, 12th century

It is not finished - 

this journey,

the discovery of

my vision, my path, my way

 

It is more labyrinthine:

Twisting one way,

then another

doubling back, crossing over, seeking its way to

 

The Center 

of all things –

the space of reflection,

a primordial beat of life.

 

A circle, yes.

An image, yes.

A metaphor of winding,

turning, resting, returning. 

 

The Path 

holds us all.

My path, where

any direction is 

 

The Right Direction

for it is the way

laid out for me.

I cannot stray.

(10/23/22)

The Change

 

"The Change"
 

I always thought this euphemistic – a code for talking about the reproductive system’s cycle as it nears its end – used because this period (or lack thereof to be more precise) embarrassed those in process of it or associated with it.

 

Everyone said The Change was normal, but spoke in hushed tones. I figured the whispers were more about the inherent embarrassment of being female and talking about something that had anything to do with sex. My conservative Christian upbringing was prudish about sex, women, bodies. . .science. I didn’t understand.

 

Now, going through The Change, I realize it is an apt and grossly encompassing term that expresses entirely, though not precisely or with detail, what is happening.

 

It isn’t just THE CHANGE from CYCLE to NON-CYCLE, but also from even-keeled to never-know-when-the-rage-will-hit as well as from straight through the hips to where-in-the-hell-did-this-ass-come-from.

 

The Change is having to, again, come to terms with a changing body and psyche and pathos which is difficult enough once in a lifetime, but twice? COME ON.

 

My face breaks out. My hair gets brittle and thin and mousy brown. I HAVE TO SHAVE MY FACE. My memory sputters and stops sometimes – words go to ether in my brain.

 

My body surges with some chemical warfare and suddenly my skin is aflame AND soaking wet. When I’m asleep, this wakes me up like a fire alarm. My bedside fan and hairclip are my most prized possessions.

 

New wrinkles appear on the reg, and I finally get why my grandmother wore turtlenecks even in the summer. My boobs have lengthened abnormally, and as Rachel Welch told Oprah, this stage of life is truly Men On Pause – libido has caught the last train along with my menses. . .and the train has pulled out of the station.

 

There is more: The dimply skin, the worsening GERD, the next-day price of indulging in bread or sugar or dairy. . .my body simply does not bounce back as it did. . .

 

And while it is all the rage to say 50 is the new 40 OR to find the positive spin to the curveballs. . .well, it glosses over the grief that simply needs expressing.

 

For changing means that something is being lost as much as gained, and grief must have its due. So this is mine to own and mine to reconcile while figuring the gain (that isn’t just on the scale). . .

 

Because I don’t want to be embarrassed or cowering about this change as I’m not 12 years old anymore. Maybe I’ve never needed to be either embarrassed or cowering, but I bought into the lie. . .another grief for a different day.

 

So I am changing in more ways than I ever expected. I just ask, Lord, that with this change, I grow further into all I am meant to be and I recognize myself as more truly myself with each reincarnation.

 

(8/18/22)

Photo from https://www.travelweek.ca/blog/independent-insights-change-is-good/