what I've learned from life, by Mary Elyn Bahlert
The wind,
the trees,
the graying thunder-studded skies
greet us,
sitting close together on a creaky bench.
Beneath the eves we huddle
as big, cold drops plop
before our eyes.
Like a cat I sniff the cooling air,
reach out to catch a few cold drops
in the warm of my hand:
And I am comforted, sitting with you,
with the storm.
***”Arrival,” by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 5/2025
Early morning, day light
hangs loosely on our shoulders,
in our hair
as we walk, silent,
sniffing like the deer who crosses our path,
who stops – still as a statue –
sees us,
darts away.
We make a narrow path
in the darker places,
walking in a line.
We are One then:
with the path,
with the eager birds,
with the sky,
with the silence that holds us,
carries us.
***
“Early morning, day light,” poem by Mary Elyn Bahlert, May, 2025,
at the Ridges, Baileys Harbor
“At the Ridges,” photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, May, 2025
In sadness the lively tree is shed of color,
gleaming ornaments
carefully, safely wrapped in soft paper,
paper that wrapped them safely when I was young.
With each one wrapped, a memory:
a smile,
a tick of sadness arrives
as I lay them to rest for another year.
These days, I lay them in their boxes
with a wave of grief at how many Christmases have passed,
how few festivals of Light there are to come.
Mary Elyn Bahlert, 1/2025
Sometimes, a word is needed to describe something ordinary, something that is recognizable, something wonderful. A word is needed to describe a feeling that is ordinary, recognizable – and wonderful. Or a couple of words.
Jeff and I understand completely what a “warm fuzzy” is. We have both had moments when a sensation of happiness and contentment arrives in our solar plexus – for a moment. And then, it passes. As quickly as the sensation arrives, it passes. Unless we notice it, it will pass without our knowing. That would be sad.
And so, Jeff and I honor the arrival of a warm fuzzy, usually by noticing its arrival on the face of our partner, or maybe even a stranger. Having felt that warm and comforting sensation ourselves, we can see its presence in someone else. “He has a warm fuzzy,” Jeff might say to me as we pass a gentleman on the street who is chatting with someone on his cell phone. Alone in his world, the man has received a compliment, or something else that is good, and it shows on his face. Alone in his world, he might not even notice the sensation that has arrived, and that the sensation has as quickly left him. But we noticed!
It would be good spiritual practice to take note of the warm fuzzies that come into your life – into your solar plexus. “Ah – there it is again: a warm fuzzy!” Or maybe a journal entry could be made: “10/6/2024 – on this cloudy day, a warm fuzzy.” As life with its people and events and days and weeks and months passes so quickly, we could honor that life by noting the warm fuzzies that accompany those people, events, days, weeks, and months.
When we meet with friends, so often our conversation turns to the more difficult things: the coming election, the illness of a good friend, a sudden change or loss of health. And so it’s up to us to make room for the other things: the warm fuzzies.
We hold them in our awareness for a moment, like a prayer.
Autumn branches, Niles Canyon, California, 10/6/2024; photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert
For a moment the city is still,
the rush of cars silent,
the air full of silence, holding
as we hold this second, we stop this second.
A towee stops, too, on the back stoop
and the cat, stealthy, climbs the steps to watch,
careful.
Then the feathered one flies past the cat.
We are waiting for the appearance -
the Blue Moon -
to show itself above the houses,
the lush summer trees,
to hold still for a moment
as we hold our breath.
---Mary Elyn Bahlert, 8/2024
photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 8/24
Waiting for the Blue Moon
