Because I didn’t want to miss the last of the early wildflowers, and because it was such a perfect, blue-sky day, and because I knew the lake surface would run to cobalt under that sky, and, suspecting that the water would be quite high, which it was,
I made my way to the lake I still think of as mine, a folder of stories tucked under my arm, imagining that I would sit in the spring breeze under the shade of a white willow tree near the waterline, get some work done.
But there were two boys at the lip of sand and shore attempting to cast a line, and a woman with three dogs heading for a point to the north that I love.
And on the lake, a motorboat droning a familiar hum zoomed toward the dam as two riders on horseback meandered across the sand, a dog leading the way, as if summoned for a photo.
And when I finally found a place to sit under that willow, I heard but did not see a fish jump in the shallows,
and one of the boys, who had put down his pole, walked the shoreline with a confident stride much older than his years, ankle-deep in my lake that is now his, too, off to go see what he could see.
(Top) Boys fishing, (above) horses and riders, Granite Bay State Park, Folsom Lake, California / Photos: Jan Haag
I loved the pale pink leotard that hugged my six-year-old self, and even more, the stiff pink tutu worn on special occasions,
though my little body tottered not only when I rose to my toes but standing flat-footed, or walking, or running. I could and did
trip over obstacles, real and imagined, which was one reason my mother took me to the ballet studio. There I began to learn
that I could be not particularly good at something to love it. I’ve been practicing grace ever since. Not just in my unsteady
self that had, as a wise older friend told a 20-something me, “not yet decided to stay” in my body. I resolved to stay, and have.
But grace, I’ve learned, is not only about the “-ful” bit, about refinement of movement or courteous goodwill, or offering thanks,
but also about blessings constantly bestowed upon us for free, for no good reason, because of the generosity of the spirit
of the universe. So that every time I totter and sometimes fall, when I am caught and held safe, the words “thank you” cross
my mind and lips, which the little pink tutu’d ballerina likely did not say often enough to her mother and father, to the little
sister who, too young for ballet class, stood in the doorway learning all the steps her big sister struggled with. And so I say
again, to all of them, those beloveds here and gone, to the great spirit that made us all, thank you. Thank you so very much.
•••
Thanks to Micah Darden for this wonderful line that inspired the title of this poem. He was one of ten people who spoke on March 22, 2026, at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento service, reflecting on Mary Oliver’s phrase “Your wild and precious life,” from her poem, “The Summer Day.”
Today amplifies creativity and ambition, offering new paths and expressive channels. —Daily Om horoscope, March 21, 2026
•••
How do they know, those horoscope writers?
It says that Leo is my most compatible sign, that it complements my dynamic energy. So as a Leo, does that mean I’m most compatible with me?
Still, the Daily Om horoscope nails it today:
You may find yourself leading a meeting at work, inspiring your coworkers, or even speaking for a discussion group in your personal life.
Though I am happy that I no longer have work in the traditional sense, much less superiors or coworkers, I like this bit:
By embracing your own natural talent for empowering others and allowing your true personality to shine today, you could end up making a positive impression on superiors, coworkers, or even clients.
And I get a horoscopical pat on the back for rising early (for me): Expect to feel a surge of initiative combined with a steady resolve to see things through.
I should, my horoscope advises: Focus on fostering connections that enhance personal growth. Explore fresh opportunities and let your personality shine today. Harness the energy for growth.
This makes me blush: Your charm and charisma could be strong today, and this could attract many opportunities to shine.
So I’ll take it, me with my steady resolve doing what I know I’m meant to do—
Now close your eyes and absorb all the love of the universe, even the bits that you don’t think are for you.
They’re for you.
And everything you’ve ever wanted? That’s there for you, too. Perhaps not in the form you imagined. Expand that vision. Allow for substitutions, amendments, additions, maybe for the wonky and weird.
Maybe wrap some white, healing light around it, or a rainbow or two—any kind of shimmer that illuminates your soul.
Now release it all; watch it drift away like dandelion fluff.
years ago, now 25 of them, and for so many of those I thought what a shame it was that, as early flowers were raising their heads and tiny flies and ants were beginning their work, when you could see the buds on winter-bare branches, you were missing the best part.
But now I think you had it right: To lift off into mystery when the Earth you knew was brightening makes perfect sense, when surely, you, too, were heading into light.
As if we have a choice, which perhaps we do, though we may not be aware of it, like the purple-throated lilies popping up in our backyard, opening into spring, their timing always perfect.
•••
In memory of my husband, Clifford Ernest Polland, who died March 18, 2001, at age 48.
Purple-throated lily in my backyard, which was once Cliff’s backyard, too / Photo: Jan Haag
I did not know its name until I took a photo of the wingéd thing clinging to the stucco wall near my front door, and looked it up:
a white-lined sphinx moth, aka, the hummingbird moth for the way it hovers. Large and lovely as some moths can be, but unmoving.
Not wanting to disturb it, I left it there until morning when, as is my habit, I brought kibble and fresh water to the porch.
Then I ventured a tentative finger to a lower wing. Not a twitch, not a flutter. And as this small death registered, I could not help but think of the neighbor’s kitty who faithfully arrived every morning to see what good stuff he might graze on.
“It’s always more fun to eat out,” I’d tell his embarrassed mom.
Hearing me inside the house, Hercules would rise from his spot on my doormat, arching his back into a “Finally!” pose, then, as he bent to nibble, allowing a gentle pat down the back of his head.
Years ago, he’d hiss if I tried to touch him, but he came to allow it, eventually seeming to tolerate— if not like—the affection.
Last week, away from home, when I got the text from his mom saying that Hercules had died, I felt that space in my chest open to accommodate this fresh grief, knowing that mornings on the porch would not be the same.
Which is why I have not dislodged the hummingbird moth. Why I’m still leaving food—not for the one who will not come again, but for those four-footed neighbors who will,
grateful for the visitations, whether daily or of the moment, all of them temporary blessings.
(Top) The white-lined sphinx moth (aka hummingbird moth), and (above) Hercules chowing down, Feb. 1, 2026. (Photos: Jan Haag)
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