These days, I am grateful for the blessed, passing moments when I am immersed in beauty.  I am grateful for the whole green-lit window in my living room, greened by the beautiful birch that shimmers each day, morning and evening, and when the wind blows, in-between.

Life is filled with so much of importance.  Or so it seems.    What was important is not important at all, I am learning.  Thankfully, I began the journey, long ago, of letting go of all of those things, and day by day, often with tears, I shed the brittle, worried me that was not real.  Now, this:  Life is filled with so much of importance:  the light, a certain light, at just the moment I awake, the cat, purring on the bed, a child’s curiosity, touching my face, a moment when I know this moment, only, is what is.  And gratefulness, a moment of gratefulness, complete.

All of my life, I have yearned for the ancestors, my ancestors.  I miss them.  I love them.  I hope they have loved me.   Perhaps my longing for them is just another attempt to not die, to live forever, to be connected, larger, to something greater than myself.  And so, some day, I will have to let go of the ancestors, too.  Another shedding, another sorrow, perhaps, another moment of wholeness.



Reflections on the ancestors..

Perhaps this anger has a gem hidden in it.  Here is to the ancestors:  I hear you, beloved ones!


Anger sifts onto me
from the ancestors;
into me, like a blessing.

Mom’s sparked over through holes she thought she had buried, by lust.
Grandma’s sparked, too, her eyes filled with tears and dust.

Those who went before are buried in unmarked graves:
Some died with the anger burning – seared hearts.
Some cried themselves to sleep and never woke up.
Some drank from the bottle of vodka forever (still…).

Anger churned: they tried to shake it out, or wash it out over steaming suds.
Some had stiff faces, took the beatings, never cried:
died with it, churning, burning, yearning for salvation.

Their yearning longs to make the foe a friend.