Between the Aether and the Mud

We live

somewhere 

between the aether

and the mud.

Dwelling on the

dirt of the lives

we inhabit,

abiding as a “we”

in the shelters of 

our being.

The simple and glorious

transcendence 

of the molecules 

we learn to call

thought or feeling; and

sometimes even desire,

haunt us with 

meanings

we are not always

given to understand.

And yet, 

we persist

in the mysterium tremendum

as waifs looking for porridge

each and every day. 

Something small

for our bowls;

a tiny morsel for

which we beg.

Angels 

bound to carcasses 

with a call to 

wonder and awe.  

And, in all the

fanfare of quarks and quasars

as they perform their

murmurations all about us,

we are given

small moments of pause

in which we can -

as we close our

eyes - drink in the

clambering vastness of

the Yosemite Valley 

or the damp loamy humus 

of Great Redwood Sequoias

or the sidewinding curves

of the Delaware River.

Only sight,

only smell;

leave the understanding

for another day.

For today, just leave room

for your center to hold all

it consumes in stillness

and repose;

chewing on it slowly, 

so as not to choke 

on the grandeur.

Pandemic III

He told me that

some years are good

years and some years

are bad,

not just in personal

growth, but in

relationships with

spouses, and families,

and friends.

He was not the

only hospice patient

to tell me this,

but he was 

the first.  

He was glad

that he was dying

in a year that 

had been 

good for everyone -

himself, his wife,

his kids, and friends.

Others

were not always

so lucky.

When we open

up a tree in felling,

we find a painting of

concentric circles

moving closer and further

away from one another

in the size and the

color of the ring.

Tough times of slow 

growth appear 

as the thin dark 

rings of autumn 

and winter. 

Plentiful times of fast 

growth appear 

as the wide light 

rings of spring 

and summer.

The death of a child,

or spouse or parent

tightly darkening a

piece of our trunk

in a narrow band.

Tendernesses and 

fondnesses of all sorts 

freely lightening a

piece of our trunk

in a wide band.

I have felt

these numbnesses and

celebrations inside

over days and days 

and days.  Seeing them

as rings of my me

has shifted a piece of

me to know

these things we feel

are natural and leave

lasting marks on

our landscapes within

and without.

Groans and gales

marking us with

pox of pain and

pleasure now are

carving us with

markers of this

pandemic and

its strange, harsh

newness we have not

felt in this measure

before.  But the

cutting down of life

is about the same.

The warm dankness

of an opened tree

trunk rises and fills

the air with a tannin 

that lends itself to the 

peatiness of the loam.

It has only one will,

to intoxicate the man

who knows to stand still,

close his eyes, lean 

back and inhale.

Marking the giving of

this life and the laying

bare of all these years of

struggle and repair is

sometimes the only

offering.

The Hollers

The places that call 

to me in our mountain home 

are the hollers and low flats 

that hold deep beds of peat.  

Often these spaces are 

treed with tall pines – only 

having twenty feet of greenery 

atop an eighty-foot tree.  

The hollers are less crowded 

than the low flats.  Both share 

a variety of needle bedding.  

They are hush.

It is the feel of shapeliness 

or spaciousness protected by 

holler walls and treetop canopy 

that calls out to me the most.  

That, and the usual sound 

of water, as it courses its gurgling 

way along and through these idylls.  

Stillness rises in these places and 

hangs low enough in the air to stay 

cool and breathable and delightful 

all at once.  They induce and imbue 

contemplative rest.  They are still.

They are often connected in their 

aperture and display.  The light 

passing through them - just so - 

to reveal a sense of seclusion.  

If you muddle down the sides of 

a holler and land in the flat lands 

adjacent to the notch, you will 

feel as if you are wending about 

in a glen or a dale that has been 

hit hard with tall trees.  The smell 

of loam and humus rise to meet 

your nose in warm and cold alike.  

They drowse you into a sleepiness 

that just might have been responsible 

for Van Winkles's demise.  

Their lichen and spidery white roots 

crawling through the heaping 

tufts of unearthed peat that have 

given off this aroma of intoxication.

It takes so little for me to find a pad 

of needles and lean myself to sleep 

against the bark and on the loam 

that is at once mine and beyond me.  

These places on the landscape give rise 

to feelings of being at home.  It is 

not unusual to hear the rakish chatter 

of blue jays or the chirping squawks 

of chipmunks as I settle in.  Years ago 

I would have needed some nag-champa 

incense to fill the air with a sense of 

calm release; today I know the dirt 

as all I need to be at one with all I see.