Delight

S. Swan reading “Delight”

  

Every time, I say, I am happy, 

I feel embarrassed, 

as if I didn’t have the right  

to enjoy my own life. 

I live in a furnace, 

I know that. 

How could I forget the pain 

I live in? 

But that’s just it! 

I have lost so so much 

that I appreciate  

so so much more 

what I still have. 

To be able to see 

the blue sky  

with a cloud, 

being caressed by sunlight, 

brings joy to my soul. 

Being able to cuddle up 

with my purring kitty cats. 

Being able to laugh 

in a conversation with a friend. 

Being able to move, 

walk and talk, 

read, write,  

and most of all,  

create. 

The point is, 

I say to myself, 

“You can’t feel happy  

when you’re feeling so much pain. 

You’re supposed to feel utterly depressed. 

You are in so much pain, 

you should be screaming!” 

But that’s just it. 

I am surrounded and tortured by flames. I am suffering so much already, 

that it would be a pity 

to not be able to take delight  

in the beauty of life. 

—S. Swan

  

S. Swan discussing ”Delight”

Oxman Cenote

After a year of lockdown, after getting our jabs, my husband and I pack our carry-on bags and fly
to Cancun. To swim in some of the Yucatan peninsula’s cenotes is more tempting to us than
strolling through museums, so we buy snorkels and seek out sinkholes which were sacred to the
Mayan people: one, a freshwater pool on the edge of the ocean; another, a cave where bats dart
barely above our heads; and an ancient river supported by mangroves, home to an elusive
alligator named Panchito. The deepest of all at nearly 150 feet is the Oxman cenote outside of the
pueblo magico of Valladolid. We descend 73 steps to the water of a collapsed cave, its walls lined with the impossibly long roots of trees that guard the upper edge of the cenote. At the water
level, chattering crowds of life-vested swimmers line up on a dock to grab the rope swing and
propel themselves in. Some are adept at holding on, others drop quickly as their grips slip.
Around the perimeter, lifelines of the trees dangle and dip into the cool blue water.

What are they reaching for?

The word is grounded—
one tree offers
one hundred roots

Mayans valued cenotes for rituals of sacrifice, where the otherworld was accessed as easily as
diving in and opening the eyes. Before arriving in Valladolid, before our first snorkel trip, we
spend ten days in Akumal where I paint on the beach. Each morning, while crews shovel
sargassum, the smelly seaweed piling up on the shore, I open my travel watercolor set and
unscrew the brush from the reservoir tube. I dip the tube into the sea rushing at my ankles, fill it
with salt water to convert the brackish pyramids of seaweed into wreaths. I don’t care for
elevating sargassum; I want to point out how we construct barriers to our sense of peace. I want
to capture the transient beauty of these blooms we earthbound tourists call a “natural disaster.”

Walking towards water—
my memory stops
at the first wave

I’m six and planted in the surf of a beach in the Florida Keys. My family is who-knows-where,
all there is before me is the gently rushing water, the warm sandbed, and a horizon that hints at
all possibilities.

Roots traverse soil
waves erode the sands—
we are nourished

This 58 year old body lines up behind giggling kids who push off from the rope-swing dock with
ease. Toes gripping the platform, I eye the rope guided by a middle-aged guy working for tips
from anyone with a pocket of spare centavos. I build up my nerve and notice that as I grab the
rope, the chattering din around me quiets down...oh, great. Let’s watch the old lady crash and
burn! I take a breath and swing as far as the rope lets me, turn slightly, and drop into the surface.
This win is marred by water rushing up my nose. I surface, snort, and hear the voices resume
their excited pace. This feat closes the afternoon. Next morning, my husband and I wake up early
enough to have Oxman cenote to ourselves. We dive in, float on our backs as a family of
swallows call to each other, making connections between their perches in the dangling roots.
Above our heads, nothing more miraculous than a day begins.

Nature is a moment
of endless beauty—
birdsong etches the clouds

—Melanie Alberts

Turning to Silence

It is a time of turning.

A time when

nothing is as it was,

despite our wishes for 

it to be otherwise.

We have no choice

but to let life unfold

as it will, hard as

it may seem

to bear and accept.

And so we turn

to each other

for comfort

in the knowledge

that we are not

in fact alone.

And we fall

into silence 

as words prove

to be inadequate.

But it is precisely 

the arms

of Silence

that can best hold 

our sorrow and pain

For Silence makes no demands

and is ever present for us,

ready to hold the heart

that has been hollowed 

out by the river of grief.

And so, we sit in silence

holding each other and being held.

—Laurie Winnette

The Whale at Home

When I rattle my keys in the front door

back from my daughter's, back from months on the road

this house looks at me. Where have you been?

it asks. I have nothing to say to you.

So here we are. Silent and dark.

My daughter and her cats are not here.

My hound dog Rex–who smiled on the front seat

beside me nine summers across the continent–

is not here. Sometimes I pretend he is close,

that he goes in and out the door with me

that he snores on the sofa. When I lie to sleep 

in the soft dark, I can hear him scrabble his blankets.

But I don't catch the gleam of his eyes

as I enter a room. He doesn't slam out 

the dog door to bark at someone on the road.

He is as silent as the house–

this house, which is too big for me. I read a book

by a woman who lost the right half of her brain to a stroke.

She said that going down the hallway at school

was like being a giant electric blue whale.

She had no edges except what bounced against the walls.

If we take it from the right brain, the dream brain

always there, as stars are, just masked by daylight

then we're always the whale.

In this silent house, that whale grows.

I become the monster of the Great Sea Blues

blue electrons rising up to the loft and the bedroom

and out through the door, under the wisteria to the studio.

If I get too small–say in the closet–the electrons

squawl through my hearing aid, electric ringing blue

and the Japanese bell with its blue tail of paper

rings back over the vent in the kitchen.

So it's ringing with sound, this place, 

radiant electric

and my dog is waiting in the garden.

—Sarah Webb, written to Eva H.B. prompt. the line "when I've been gone"

Crow love

The female crow stood before her beloved on the electric wire,
her head lowered, her beak bowed to her breast.
Her partner turned toward her and generously 
began to preen her head with his beak.
Never have I seen such tenderness among crows. 
All of a sudden he was done and stepped away from her.
Determined, she scooted closer to him, bowing her head once more.
In response, he hauled his closest leg up and around into the air
and whacked her from the side with his foot. 
Unfazed she stepped towards him again, bowed her head, and squawked.
This he could not resist. Obediently, he turned once more to preen her, 
and then flew off with her in close pursuit.

—Laurie Winnette

Before...

We’ve all been here before…. I’ve been you… you’ve been me. I’ve been the tree, the fox, the grape, the house….. the sunlight…. I’ve been it all. There is no separation. Energy does not die, just evolves. We are the incense that burns and scents the air… ash to ash… I will always rise, dissolving and transforming. I am EVERY thing because I am NO thing.

—Jenille G. Cross-Figueroa

Holy Hush

Walking the side yard
I heard Carolina grasshoppers, 
even before I saw them,
announcing take-off
sending them sailing
above tall grasses—

My presence 
made them hush,
a sacred pause, 
before they landed. 

Whisperings  
of private voices,
echos of
intimate conversations. 

Your presence, 
my hush,
a sacred pause,  
before responding, 
when I carefully consider 
every word. 

—judy b myers

I lived

I remember I lived once.
Truly lived.
It was not the mud we trudged through to get where we were going,
But maybe it was despite it all.
It was dark, the sun still asleep
Before the world awoke for the first time.
Perhaps we were all asleep, our eyes not seeing 
as we trudged through the field
where we would lie, waiting,
asleep in the stubble for what?
We thought we were hunting the wild geese 
That flew south for the winter,
But we didn’t know.  We had
No idea what we were about to see, to grasp, to experience.
The sun peaked over the horizon,
Blinking a sleepy eye and spreading its light
Outward to where we lay, 
Gazing up into a still dark sky.
And then, without waiting, the sun vaulted into the morning
To the fanfare of thousands of wings 
Beating the air,
And the cacophony sound of geese 
Crying to the sun, to each other, to me.
I’m here!  I’m here!
Their wings darkened the sky
As they circled, faster and faster,
A vortex of sheer power and being.
Their cries deafening as they rode the wind,
As I rode with them.
I’m here!  I’m here!
I was one of them flying the skies, defending the flock, raising their young.
I was not hunting them.  
They were hunting me.
Making me their own.
And, then they were gone.
The sky cleared,
The sound of beating wings and shrill cries
Faded into the morning.
They were gone
Back to where they came from,
Back to where they lived.
I remember I lived once.
Truly lived.
Just for a moment, I was part of it all.
And it was enough.

—Paul Causey
Prompt: “A Witness to Creation” by N. Scott Momaday

The Day

what day would it be?  N. Scott Momaday

The day

was a tracing of leaves

young as I was, with their first green

their gloss

willing to cast themselves out and be

caught by sun and air

I sat beneath them in a rising

of twigs and green 

slender limbs drawn by the sun

all of us young, all of us saying yes

the leaves, the child, the slim trunks

and the light that held us

the air that said, come then

since you are willing

here is the door open

open in you

and all of us entered together

leaves, child, the young trees

as we began our lives

in the silt of a flood plain

a glint of sun and water

that moment with the wind still

and only ourselves

slow in the light

—Sarah Webb

Photographs by Deontrai Damond

 

—Deontrai Damond

If I Were a Child and Waiting

If I were a child, I would climb the venerable

Pecan tree, in my backyard. It holds my world 

in place, like the mythic Yggdrasil, whose roots 

hold the world together ~ never to loosen.

Along a sturdy branch, I’d chat with the 

squirrels, and share a nut or two from my

pocket, and wonder at their scampering leaps 

into the space between twig ends of limbs. 

Pausing here, I fall into my adult self.

Grounded, like a plane without fuel, altitude

lost, I recall losses irreparable. Settling

against the massive trunk, filled with the

rings of Time, I recalled that at the heart of 

me is a fragile sprout of beginning.

The rough bark, wrinkled Time, reminds

me that I may grow again from here,

surrounded by accumulated years of 

experience. I can learn the scampering 

risk of leaping from stem end to stem end,

across the space of fear. 

—Martha Ward

Shoot After the Storm by Amanda Webb

Past pleading for warmth 

against the pain of cold, 

the wintery wait, the weight 

of the cold, persisted.

Slipping my arms along my 

sides, I was surprised to feel 

warmth radiating from my core. 

Numbed hands felt their way under 

my buttocks, seeking the supple fat 

for their warm nest, cheek to cheek. 

Head helmeted, in woolen hat, 

only my feet numb, absorbing 

the arctic air stealing in through 

the walls, floor, windows. Rubbing 

them together, only let me know 

their ache. Moving from my shroud 

of blankets, to find warmth for them 

would mean, inviting the cold to wash over me. 

I waited, I waited, then snow gave way

to the sun’s light. And, with it the return

of electricity. Feet arched eagerly, feeling

blood rush, trumpeting.

—Martha Ward

The Little Foxes Salute the World

Little green world, plump as an olive, 

how we love you! 

We, the little foxes 

cavort at night in the grass of your hair. 

The air is sweet with the lavender scent of the chinaberry, 

and the chuck will’s widows 

hide themselves in the dark trees 

and sing their night song like lullabies. 

We were born in the old den, 

the great mound of earth by the oak trees,  

redolent of foxes, 

where our grandmother and grandfather foxes lived from the beginnings of fox time. 

Water was far 

until the human brought it here 

under the old windmill 

towering in the night sky. 

But rats and mice 

scampered through the woods at night, 

and our mothers 

taught us to hunt and climb the cedar trees

to stalk 

  to pounce 

  to rip things apart with our sharp little teeth

and fill our round white furry bellies 

in gratitude 

for the plenty the earth. 

Little green world, 

how we love to be here! 

We love to drink of your water. 

Well water is fine,  

but cold spring water, with a whiff of slime and rot, is even better. We love the little hop rats and the mice, sometimes a lizard or a bunny, a wriggly snake, once a buffet of turkey slices the human put in the field, perfect except for a bit of blue green mold. We love the dewberries and the sour persimmons, the wild grapes that grow up the oaks with stems like trunks of their own. 

We love to roll in your dirt and clean the bugs out of our fur. 

We love to play in your fields 

 and run up and down your trees like playscapes. 

We don’t see much color, but, still,  

the flowers and the sky at dusk are wondrous. 

We are so a part of you, plump little olive-earth 

And we so love being a part of it all.

—Elayne Lansford

Sometimes What Comes to Us, We Never Called For

I never called for cancer, but it came anyway. 

It was not gentle. It was more like the Mongol horde invading. 

I thought I was fine one day. The next day I was told I might be very, very sick. 

Hmm, something could be wrong, let us stick these huge needles in you to get some core samples. 

Hmm, something is wrong, let’s do some exploratory surgery, pull out a bunch of lymph nodes just in case, and cut some nerves. You won’t feel all of your arm afterward, but you will feel most of it. 

Hmmm, everything has to go. We will cut it all off, but leave you with some plastic bags of saline water shoved under your chest muscles, which we can inflate as much as you want. Oh, you will no longer be able to use your chest muscles correctly, and your skin could split, but that is just part of it. 

Those stents and drains, well, that is just part of it too. Wear very, very baggy clothes so no one can see you are full of holes and tubes. You can work with your drains in. Just hide them. 

Uh oh, looks like you need chemo as well. The doses are all standard, whether you weigh 100 or 300 pounds. We can’t give you a smaller dose, even if your liver processes as slowly as a turtle. It’s the law. 

Oops, you didn’t react so well, did you? It hit your central nervous system, you walk like someone with cerebral palsy. It may go away. Oh, the skin in your mouth is sloughing off and you cannot eat? Ensure is great. Try it, use a straw. 

You have shooting pain in your toes? That is neuropathy. You are lucky you can feel them at all. And your fingers are fine, be grateful. What to do about it? We don’t know. 

Your hair has fallen out and you are sometimes so weak you need to crawl? It will pass. Probably your hair will grow back. But it may be different hair, like someone else’s hair on your head. Wear a scarf, wear a cap, wear a wig. 

You feel like the healthy person you once were has died, and you are old before your time, and disfigured? Well, you are alive. That is really the best we can do. 

Cancer is Zen boot camp. You spend a lot of time “in the howl,” as Annie Lamott says. You are too sick to plan, and maybe you are going to die, so you learn to live in the moment. Life? You realize you may not have much of it. That poor bag of bones and skin you call your body? You learn that it is fragile and impermanent. Your mind? You learn it fragments and distorts and falls to pieces when things are awful enough. Your work? You can’t do it, so you can’t identify with it. Your roles? Being responsible, being upbeat, being a giver? Pretty much gone. With your drug addled mind, you can’t be trusted to be responsible. Upbeat? When your life feels “live from the Book of Job?” Pretty difficult. A giver? The only thing you have left to give is your gratitude. 

But if it all works, you learn that none of this really matters. You learn that while you will die, now or later, life will go on. If you are lucky, that will bring inconceivable joy. You learn that not all friends are there in tough times, but many are, and one can live buoyed by love, somehow floating on it when otherwise one would sink. You learn to be very, very present.

—Elayne Lansford