The tiny blossoms of the wild plum

Are set to life by the dark grays of the forest –

Not yet ready to leaf- am I?

The white merganser is

As he tucks into the current

Gone – until popping up

Like a jack in the box- thrilled

By these small surprises

The insistance- to join in the fun

Of the crab apple in full bloom

PINK- PINK PINK- we will be renewed

Whether we are ready or not.

My mother savored the melancholy

Of early spring-reciting a painful poem

By Edna St Vincent Millay( called Spring)

Just going to show-

That there is pleasure to be found

In our moody questioning – of all this joy.

Tra- La

I joined a laddership pod- through Service Space

And I’ve been in Nerd Heaven

Exploring from Me to We to Us

With 200 other people & the voluteers organizing us..

It’s been great, ( next one in 3 months – perhaps it’s for you)

Well-

You know how we struggle with being here…

But as a result of this pod experince

Of being with a field of a loosely kindred flock

Of odd birds- my people…

I just needed to know that they were out there

Not my personal connections – but random – others

Tracking what I’m tracking

To turn the tide.

To help me jump

Into the murmuration

The over arching theme of isolation- dissipating

Replaced by a natural alignment that was always there

Can be felt as real-

The black tar gone from our feathers

As we turn on a dime

I somehow needed to know that there was a bunch of us out there

Vibing with what is might mean to be an – us

Does anyone else feel- the repeat

Like the Movie- Groundhog’s Day

Am I perfecting in myself

That which I have no knowldege of

So as to convince the universe

That I am it’s mate

The one it’s been waiting for.

Humbled by how much I don’t get it-

What is happening to time

And my sence of self and

All the other illusions-

Slipping through the hour glass

Awake- asleep= Awake.

``````````````````

Are we on a trajectory?

As in- “Do we have a destination?”

Having entered what feels like a giant pause-

The eye of the storm- waitng for fresh breath-

Stalled or cosmically resting….

For the final push?

Eating our vegtables and

Managing to say a few groovie things

Here and there- but that’s about it.

Oddly inspired by how odd it feels…

What’s your take? xo Sally

What a change in the weather-

The long awaited snow has arrived

At last we can relax—

Banks gets muddy feet and eats grass

Saying- Lets stay our here forever.

I am the old woman- Bank’s companion-

And I agree- Let’s stay our here forever…

Having tied a string to my figure

As a reminder-

That I have signed my name

Sally White King

To The Book of Love.

We get to stay.

Mid path- the snow covered brambles

remind me that I have always been at home

The love that I trusted

Releasing what no longer serves

Whom I had written to – trusting love

THE FIELD

This photo is a self portrait-

My hair – dry as winter grass-

Eyes a wild sky- nosing the air- my feet tap

Wanting to enter the distant edge-

The myterious woods- the adventure in my soul-

A beckoning bramble patch…..

Where are we going – you might ask

And I will say – this way.

“Let my love open the door.. let my love open the door

Let my love open the door-To your heart….”

Joseph Campbell said of marriage

That it is an ordeal

Because it means yeilding – time and time again

And this is why it is a sacrament ( a ritual toward grace)

“You give up personal simplicity

To participate in a relationship”

```````````````````````

In several of the older couples I know.

One of the two- is failing cognitively

(While the other has something going on with their body)

This is wildly uncharted territory-

Demanding a kind of acceptance and a lettng go…

These folks are our unsung heros-our saints….

But it’s impossible situations- like these

That change us into diamonds.

There is grieving too-

These changes in our partners

But perhaps it is grace itself that opens again

The reluctant ” door to your heart ”

Squeak.

```````````````````````

Margit- grew up over a trains-station in Germany

Her father played in Hitler’s symphony-

But she had a picture book of tropical plants

And now lives in a garden on the big island.

Making art – like these charming geese –

Naming them-Kate ( for the Duchess of York)

Gracie and Josie- the Defender.

She did this work for her amusement

And so to this point – watch on YouTube

Isabella Ducot- Now I am fully an artist.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

It is very daring indeed to think

That by giving ourselves to what amuses us

We are fulfilling our purpose-

Is it that simple?

Yes.

No one will want to hear this-

But I have seen again-

The deep conditoning of the diminished self

Of women.

We were not supported -and

There is guilt and shame

In our lineages.

( affecting our strength and power now)

`````````````

A friend told me that her mother

Got pregnant- her first time having sex…

High School boyfriend- they broke up

Four months later she understands that she is pregnant

The parents make the kids get married

The baby is born and dies.

And this story was kept in secret – until an uncle

Mentioned the baby-

A baby that my friend knew nothing about.

`````````````````````````````

Secrets were the name of the game in my mother’s generation

But also too in the 60’s onward-

We have been so well taught

That the blame is ours.

There is recovery in shared stories

Hearing about my friends mother- heals me

And makes me mad- in the best of ways….

``````````````````````````

There has been no healing for either of them

Her mother shut off her heart long ago

Saying to her daughter- I moved on- and so should you.

But there is no flow between them and she is 83.

This is a travesty… we can do better.

I was beyond spent and my soul said

Go to the high country- NOW

Wild basin is the headwaters of the creek

We call our own- the St Vrain.

But up there – it belongs to nobody

And I needed that kind of wild.

We were zombies

So I wasn’t suprised

That when we returned to the truck

Pink cheeked and restored- that

We had locked the keys inside.

So we made a day of it-

Hitching a ride from the parking lot

Back to Lyons

Only to go back up again.

But I swear this is just what I needed.

Letting the power of the mountain

Claim what is not mine in the first place.

An eagle was involved

I had just begun my meditaion

But nature had another thing in mind

As the hawk made a hasty landing

Her feathers in disarray.

We waited- the hawk, the eagle and I.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But what was my part in the story?

Am I just the witness ( is it enough?)

Or am I the interpreter of the dream?

My feathers too are ruffled

My beloved America is in trouble

As we witness a steady flow of disruption,

We wish there were more we could do.

``````````

The eagle took flight

Who knows what actually happened?

I like that I can ask this question.

Keeping my heart open

Is a full time job.