Güd wrtr

The first one was actually Diego
overnighting in the bathroom
sink, which I did not discover
until a 4 a.m. foray in the dark
and a flipped light switch before
I turned on the faucet.

Not five hours later, on a morning
walk, Deb and I came across
a literal silly goose nestled
in the center of Sandburg Drive,
sleeping, its neck twisted backward,
as they do, beak tucked neatly
between its folded wings.

I stood over it, urging it to move.
Like Diego, it blinked at me,
beak still tucked into feathers.
We could not leave, we two
animal mothers worried about
this silly goose who’d decided
to nap in the street.

We did not nudge but got so close
that most other birds would have
risen in fear or at least hissed,
but not this guy/gal/whatever
giving us the go-away eye.

Finally, he/she/they flapped
out a wide webbed foot, then
another, and less-than-gracefully
stood, fluttering feathers a bit.

“Gotta move, dude!” I said from
behind, recalling that the kids
use the term for any gender,
and besides, the silly goose
wouldn’t care as it eventually
sauntered to the sidewalk,
where Deb admonished,
“Stay out of the street now,”

as if we could convince such
a headstrong animal of anything—
least of all the wisdom of choosing

a better spot than a sink or
a street as a lovely bed for
a snooze.

But, you know. Silly people.
We have to try.

Just begin. Always begin again.
Sit in meditation. Move prayerfully,
or at least thoughtfully, though,

really, it’s better to let thoughts fall
from your hands like sand as you
embark on this small pilgrimage,

the one with others walking ahead
or behind you, some going in
the opposite direction,

making turns you can’t fathom—
why are they going that way?—
walking with you.

Always someone—or many
someones—walking with you,
waiting for you.

So walk. Solvitur ambulando—
it is solved by walking—
St. Augustine is said to have said.

And perhaps he did, but
we cannot know for sure.
Here’s what we do know:

Any path, whether seemingly
straight or circuitous, will take
you where you need to go,

though you have no idea where
that will be on the next leg
of your journey.

Just begin. One step. Begin again.
Another step. Notice art and magic
in the broken bits,

the cut-apart bits, the stray threads
and scraps of fabric that make up
a life.

Keep walking. Allow for surprise,
for unexpected beauty in less-than-
beautiful spaces.

The way is made by walking,
by noticing, by collecting gifts
strewn on the path.

They’re for you. Pick them up.
Dear one, hold the gifts
in your grateful hands

and walk on.

•••

Thanks to Jen, Kate and Frances, for walking and writing with me this week. And with gratitude to the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento for the use and inspiration of their labyrinth.

Mother and I commune with the lilacs
in her backyard, she taking my hand
to lead her into the shade where

the faintly purple globes hang like
heavy breasts, a little droopy, a little pale,
not unlike mine, actually.

We stand and inhale lilac, which means
that not only is it truly spring, but also
it’s hand watering season.

So I take up the hose on this patch
of earth where she raised us,
the two blonde sisters,

where we played with friends and
puppies, this unfenced yard where
Father hung rope swings,

where more stately oaks once stood
as guardians and tree-climbing
companions till they collapsed from

age and watering. Now I aim the hose
at bushes brimming with first roses,
squirt a profusion of azaleas

in the front yard under the pink dogwood,
upright and blooming in yet another
spring, this one

we’ve all been granted by some miracle,
which we do not take for granted
in our corner of Granite Bay Vista,

an unshakeable foundation—
this rocky bit of Earth where we
and the lilacs have put down

deep, deep roots.

Why capitalize “I” but not “me”?
Is I more important than Me?
Is Me not of equal weight to I?

Sure, grammar gurus, I is a subject,
the doer, the mover of a sentence.
Me is the receiver, the object—

but the object of no less adoration
than I—am I right? Only in English
do we uppercase the I, the lone

single-letter pronoun. The logic
goes that lowercase i is difficult
to read, gets lost on the page.

Uppercase I symbolizes importance,
gives added weight to the first
person. But really, while we’re

at it, are not You worthy of
capitalization? For You and I
together make a We (or an Us).

You and Me and I and We—all of
Us pronouns getting personal,
meaningful to ourselves

and to each other, hand in
uppercase hand, skipping from
line to line to warmhearted line.

Honey, cut yourself some slack.
Give yourself a break. Ease up already.
Whatever it is, stop it.

Instead, get yourself outside.
Look around. Spring is putting on
her annual fashion show, and it’s
a doozy. Just yesterday, you zoomed
by a bush of exploding rhododendrons
spreading lavender like confetti.

They don’t last long, the rhodies
or the hot pink azaleas, before
their quick end, though, yes, more
blossoms will likely show up again
this season.

But take a minute or ten and walk
around and appreciate them now,
the show-offy flowers, the mini fans
sprouting from the slender ginkgo
that will golden and drop by
Thanksgiving.

Like the ginkgos and sycamores
and oaks slumbering all winter,
building up energy to push out
eye-popping chartreuse baby leaves,
you’ve been resting, too.
As you should.

Here—let me help lift you off your
own back. Carrying all those
woulda shoulda couldas
is exhausting, isn’t it?

Enough castigation. Self-flagellation’s
not all it’s made out to be. Let’s take
a walk, my friend, feel our lungs expand
with fresh breath, and watch Spring
strut her stuff on the runway.

Let’s be an appreciative audience,
applaud her flowery excess and marvel
over such creative energy that—with
no help from us—magically fuels
our own.

I don’t know why I say this to her,
as if she’ll understand what I mean—

as if I understand what this means,
aside from the rhythm-y rhyme—

but Poki has learned the difference
between chicken cat food in a can and

actual chicken, and, most of the time,
she’ll take off my finger for a bit of bird.

And why not? The real deal is always
better, right? For years I boiled chicken

breasts when the pets were ailing,
had upset tummies, gave Buddy

shreds of chicken and rice, which
he gobbled and then looked at me

expectantly, grinning his doggy grin:
More? There always was for him.

But cats are trickier. If not raised
with it, they’ll often sneer at real

meat—even tuna, which I thought
no cat would pooh-pooh. But, cats.

Poki has come later to chicken,
but now when I utter the magic

phrase, “bicken chicken!” she
issues her highest cry, the ones

kittens throw at their mothers
for food—this old cat, so skinny

and limpy now, the one sitting
next to me as I type, waiting

patiently for me to finish my
banana nut muffin so she can

lick the crumbs from its pleated,
papery skirt.

It is good to have an end to journey toward;
but it is the journey that matters, in the end.

—Ursula K. Le Guin, “The Left Hand of Darkness,” 1969

•••

And a good friend to do it with helps, too.
Someone who can carry you when you’re tired.

Someone who is up for the adventure of not
knowing what’s next.

Someone who make you laugh and who laughs
at your jokes—especially on the roughest roads.

And, if you are lucky, you may have more than
one someone to walk with, different ones

whom you meet along the journey. Not all
will stick around till the end. That’s OK.

They’re not all meant to. But hey, you’re
here now, traveling this bit with me.

Thanks for that, my wandering spirit friend.
Your presence is one of life’s great presents.

•••

For Rose Varesio on her birthday… glad to be one of your wandering spirit friends! (And to my other wandering spirit friends… thank you, too!)

The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—’tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.

― Mark Twain, from “The Art of Authorship,” 1890, quoting his friend Josh Billing

•••

When the words aren’t coming—
when the right words aren’t coming—

when you’re searching for the lightning
and finding only the lightning bug, you might

find yourself singing the I’m-washed-up,
done-for-good, why-am-I-wasting-my-time

blues that make you think you’d have
been better off letting your grandma teach

you to crochet or develop some patience
for jigsaw puzzles, or anything that doesn’t

involve words or sentences or metaphor
or, heaven forbid, poetry—any of that

silly writer stuff. Go mow the lawn, maybe,
or walk the dog, if you have lawn or dog.

See if the sky looks dark enough for the potential
of lightning that—please, God—might strike

you (metaphorically, of course) with inspiration.
And if not, take yourself outside into the night,

and, if you’re in a place that fireflies also call home,
look for flashing dots of light that unmask

the soft-winged, bioluminescent beetles. On some
stormy summer nights you might luckily catch

lightning electrifying the sky at the same time
lightning bugs Morse Code their presence—

self-illumination to ward off predators, to attract
mates, to provocatively lure unsuspecting prey.

Lightning and lightning bugs in the same sentence,
light attracting light, for you to gently capture

and tuck into a glass jar, to study their little
flashlight selves blinking on and off, off and on,

before you release them into a poem.

•••

See fireflies (aka lightning bugs) in action in this lovely two-minute video,
“Firefly Experience—Summer Night with Fireflies (Lightning Bugs)”
by Radim Schreiber.

One bright morning
as I cut your hair on the deck
within sight of the ocean
whooshing its way into shore,

I stop, look up at the sound—
not the familiar call of geese,
but the whoosh of hundreds
of wings, dark arrows overhead,
migrating north along the
California coast.

Billions of birds make their way
up the Pacific Flyway each year,
and, unlike whales, which,
though huge, are much better
at hiding,

the geese, arrayed in three
ragged ribbons across a swath
of sky who knows how big,
catch our attention. We listen
for their calls that coordinate
their positions, that help them
navigate the impossible journey

that they, like us, make so often
over the distance of these lives.
And when we hear the ones behind
honk encouragement to the ones
ahead, we remember that they,
like us, take turns leading
and following, coaxing
and praising,

as we fly these long, familiar
routes to the places we
call home.

My mother tells me she found her first dead fly
in her wine glass last week.

“It’s fly-in-wine season,” she says to my puzzled
look. This as her happy azaleas bloom their
pastel heads off, and the pink dogwood shows
off in the front yard.

“Is this a spring thing?” I wonder aloud.
When I see flies zoom into my house, I know
it’s spring. Maybe it’s also fly-in-wine season.

My mother considers. “I don’t know,” she says.
“But recently, in the morning, I’m finding
a dead fly in the wine glass I left on the table
overnight.”

She wonders where they’re coming from,
if house flies are breeding inside her house.
(Possibly, notes Mr. Google, in any place food
is present, even drains and garbage cans.)
They’re also quick zoomer-inners through
open doors.

“They must have good sniffers,” I say, reading
that, sure enough, the little party crashers do.
Wine is a musca domestica magnet.

I imagine these short-lived flies breast stroking
their way in the wee small hours across
the tiny lake of Moscato in my mother’s
wine glass, sipping as they go.

It does not bother her if a bit of nature
drowns in her glass—”wine alcohol inhibits
the growth of germs,” I read. Plus, wine
is antibacterial, and, should they get that far,
stomach acid can kill any number of germs.

Honestly, at 92 and going strong, she’s been
known to remove the fly and continue sipping.

But the mystery remains: Why now and for
so short a season? What tiny timer inside
dogwoods and azaleas triggers such a
profusion of blossoms with such brief lives?

We puzzle on that a while, hoping once again
for reincarnation. Not as flies, of course.
Fortunate humans, if we have any say in it.
There’s so much life we have not yet gotten to.