Friday, February 19, 2016

2.19.16 To let up.


    Sometimes, it's not such a bad idea, to let up on the 'good sport' thing. The 'STIFF upper lip' deal. The "I know we can do it, and I'll do it well' thingiemawhitchus. If it's not a time when letting up would let loose a tail spin, ending in a spectacular crash and burn, well then, why not let up a bit. And just walk or sit or grocery shop or work or drive or write or wash dishes while feeling all kinds of tired out and possibly hopeless or daunted, or simply out of push. 
     The really interesting thing about letting up on push push pushing...to take care of someone, to work enough, to get bills paid, to do the things that we need to do to keep up...is that we interrupt ourselves in the midst of some conviction we came upon, and have been maintaining with a steely grip, no matter how exhausting, ever since. 
     And not always, but sometimes, the huge relentless push is actually not needed. Not functional. 
     Sometimes, the keeping doing is necessary. It just is. Not to make us happy or more at ease with less mess or more comfy stuff in our lives. 
     Sometimes things are quite near enough to the wire, and doing without certain things is tough. 
     Managing to keep bringing in the fire wood, or figuring out nutritious, less costly meals, or getting to work and doing a good enough job, is right up there with some-days-seems-next-to-impossible. 
     And that's hard. But sometimes, we let up a little, and try out approaching the things we do with a little less forcefulness. With a little more leeway. 
     Where we still get what we in actuality need to get done, but we do it without all the unintended intensity, or sometimes, even drama, of the shove-grit-push. 
     Sometimes, if we take note, we can let back, relax, take a breath, and then go do those several more things before the day is done enough, and we can crash into bed, hopefully to sleep like a bear in winter.




2.19.16 And by The High Hadley Fields


 a wildlife sanctuary, that grows larger each year, with profound gratitude to The Kestrel Trust.

 

2.19.16 On it's way home


Down along the horizon, a small length of sky, on it's way home.

2.19.16 Abiding love

I have an abiding love
for the golden dried grasses
of midwinter, revealing themselves
with enough melt, enough rain
The faint glow of the sunset
Pink, orange, and then the
deep penetrating blue
quickening my breath
Corralling gladness onto the block
And then the tentative winds
sweeping into the neighborhood
once the earth has sufficiently
turned on its course
And high above, suspended
our enormous moon
These are the things that fill,
the things that sustain

2.19.16 In a range of hues


 


It's almost 30•, the sun bright and warming, the tree line surrounding us peppered with bright red buds shimmering in the sunlight, as the two adolescent Hawks go languidly by, flying interwoven and with their own delight. The snow and ice melting, small field and forest mice in a range of deep hues 
venturing out for a little food, 
and little warmth and light.

2.19.16 As you were

The infinite number of moments, in one place. 
Becoming acquainted over time, as we would with a friend. 
Slowly, the connection deepens.