Güd wrtr

Searching for the app on my computer,
I stumble across a photo of you that I
took seven years and eleven days ago

at Burr’s, you having polished off
a turkey sandwich, you in town for
a visit, you upright, on your feet,

the perennial cancer patient, you
called yourself, doing reasonably
well. And you are FaceTiming

with Emma in Washington so she
can say hi to me—the grownup
girl who, as a baby, cried for a solid

month after you brought her into
your life. (Rescued is not too strong
a word.) I’d come to your house

and walk the floor with Emma,
wailing through all manner of young
trauma, so you could go to the store.

That day, years later, we joyfully
reunited, even if you did have to nap
on my couch for a while, and big old

dumb boy cat Diego draped his lanky
orange self along your side as you
slept. I am brought back to the now

as Terri and I try to puzzle
through long-distance connection
gone wonky, not unlike you and Burr’s,

both vanished into mystery. If we
keep at it, we can connect through
one means or another, the living,

the non-living and those in between,
the how-can-this-still-be
of enduring love everpresent,

if we pause long enough to let
our ravaged hearts settle, practice
patience as grace searches

then finds us just where we are,
we thirsty beings, holding out
our nearly empty cups,

ready for love to fill them
to the brim.

•••

(for Terri Wolf, with thanks and love,
and for the late BFF Georgann Turner,
likewise)

•••

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ’s disciples being fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.

—Norman Maclean (Dec. 23, 1902–Aug. 2, 1990)
from his novella, A River Runs Through It

•••

We know so little of John—
that he fished with his father,
Zebedee, and his brothers, one
of them James—so the story says,

that they became some of the first
fishers of men, and that John
was perhaps the “beloved disciple”
who sat near the foot of the cross,
who ran to the empty tomb to see
his dead friend and teacher
resurrected.

But I imagine fisherman John
not on that great sea with a net
but with rod and reel and creel,
one of seven men who miraculously
caught 153 fish after Jesus
urged them to keep trying.

And even more miraculous,
when I happen upon a river
where fishers ply the water,
I see the apostle—not unlike
the fly fisherman who loved me—
tall and bearded, strong armed,

standing in the shallows
waving the long, supple rod
high overhead on a 10-2 count
before loosing the filament
with its dry caddis fly to glide
lightly upon the water—

later walked upon by his
beloved master, who
multiplied the fish
and fed the 5,000—

he, the light of the world,
the prince of peace,
whose birth we herald
this blesséd season.

for the Together We Heal writing group
on the winter solstice, 2023

•••

Heads bowed, bodies stilled,
it looks as if we’re doing nothing,
when, actually, so much courses
through us like snowmelt over
rocks, making its way down,
down, down.

Not wanting to go there, we
find ourselves amid rapids,
a little fearful of what we might
find, not wanting to tumble over
the rough bits, to scrape paper-thin
skin on unseen rocks, to dredge up
what we’ve so carefully buried.

But in the depths there’s more
than dark, more than sorrow
and loss and great gulps of pain—
the scariest things with no names.

Together we write; the page
can take it all—the hurt, the rage,
the ugly parts we’ve worked
hard to keep hidden.

As the letters form on the page,
the worst of the worst begins
to melt, to run downstream
away from us, whispering
as it goes:

Even on the longest night,
so much good lies ahead.
You are safe. You are held.
Tomorrow you will see
more light.

I am one who sits with you
under the mystery of stars,

whether by day or night,
always present, visible or in-,

long fascinated by the universe
that both creates and holds us.

You, too, comprise part of
the greater One, the Is,

and we often rise and dance
together, knowingly or un-,

even on this, the year’s
longest night, under a waxing

gibbous moon that will set
just before sunrise.

And when you breathe into
mystery—in awe, in grief,

in joy—you extend the cosmic
hand of divine love back into

creation, on a single breath,
right back to me.

(In memory of Julia Ellen Cook)

Her voice still ricochets around in my head
when I’m chewing on a problem or in grief—

Honey… in Julie’s nasally twang—though I have
no idea where she picked that up, not having

grown up in a place where folks twanged
their vowels. I met her when I rented her

studio next to the garage on Serenity Hills
Drive. Out my window I could hear the

neighbors’ two horses and a goat munching
sweet grass in season and where I learned

that a cut-up apple or chunks of carrot
could make you a friend in short order.

Julie’s Honey… came out as kindness, not
condescension, always accompanied by

a heartful smile of affection. In my twenties
then, I wondered how old you had to be

to carry off such an endearment without
sounding patronizing or, well, old. And I’d

never have her twang. Years later when I
found myself standing in front of roomsful

of college students, some of whom appeared
at my office door in tears, I heard myself

Honey… a young woman who reached for my
hand and squeezed hard. I squeezed back.

I found that if I delivered the sentiment
(or maybe an occasional Sweetie…)

with the right smile and honest compassion,
it could convey a gentleness and the kind

of sympathy that feels like a just-right hug.
Now that I live in the land of older ladies,

I hear myself Honey… people—hoping
they feel the verbal embrace, a kind of

holding that says I’m sorry, I’m with you,
How can I help? Which we all need more of,

that sweetness, that tenderness, that mercy.

Singin’ and swingin’ and gettin’ merry like Christmas.
—Maya Angelou

They are makin’ merry, those ladies harmonizing
in the California statehouse, singin’ and swingin’,

jingle bell rockin’, winter wonderlanding and
hearing the angels sing for twenty-five years

in the rotunda to let their voices float high
into the dome—my mama in the front row,

this year rockin’ a zippy walker-with-seat.
Not that she needs it, mind you, but it does

make things easier, she’ll allow, walking from
the parking garage across L Street, into

the north entrance to the Capitol, then
standing for a good hour in silver and red

sequins, gettin’ listeners into the spirit
of the season—not least me, humming along,

capturing this sweet moment of my mama
so happy, makin’ music with her friends,

ho, ho, ho, hallelujah, and to all a good night.

For Deborah Meltvedt

On a Friday walk-and-talk
by the river, Deb spots him
first—the dog-like head

periscoping out of royal blue.
We’ve seen him before here,
this sea lion who’s apparently

vacationing far from the sea—
or perhaps he’s decided to relocate,
given the ample supply of…

Has he got a fish? I wonder aloud

as the big guy’s back curves
like a new tire on the surface
for a moment, followed by

a whopper set of thrashing,
tail-flipping, water-churning,
gymnastic moves.

I think so, Deb says.

Riveted, we watch nature in
action, wait for glimpses
of silver glinting in morning

sun, likely a salmon trying
to make its way upstream
caught in the jaws of a hungry

predator. We, who would
typically root for the underdog,
cheer on the mammal working

to subdue and swallow breakfast—
though he is the interloper and
salmon need to spawn upstream.

But what do we two soft-skinned
creatures know about catching
our own food? We’ve never

had to kill another to eat it,
never had to cultivate
the strength, to summon

the determination, assume
a posture of predator,
though our species creates

them in numbers we don’t
want to imagine right now.
Which is perhaps one

reason why we stand
in awe as the dark head in
the river tips back and, little

by little, gulps his catch
until the silvery prey
disappears.

All those years ago
I stood facing him, my small
hands in his large ones
as we promised each other
our forever love.

Though I left him, and, later,
he left me, we kept that promise,
my companion spirit and I.

And today, on the 40th anniversary
of those I do’s, I will stand before
a different audience to introduce
an author I have published,
my old self an entirely remade being
unrecognizable to the young
woman deep inside who walks
with me still.

How could she know what we
would become?

Through the gauze of memory
we can only wave at
the where-we’ve-been,
keep looking ahead to
the where-we’re-going.

Because, I remind us,
if we’re still here,
our human experiment
continues—

we’re not done yet—

lucky us,
amene.

Is there any other kind?
The kind I offer too often?
But I have such good suggestions.

Like: Nibble a little. You might like it,
I tell the cats when they turn up
their noses at food they practically

inhaled a few weeks earlier,
laser beaming a feline what else
you got? sneer in my direction.

Or when I look at the sycamore
still clinging to its brittle leaves
as if they’re its best friends.

Let go, I urge. You’ll feel better,
lighter, ready to grow new
little buddies in the new year.

But does it listen to me? Of course not.
The sycamore just stands like the stoic
it is, arms folded, back turned.

Look, I say to the unseasonal
camellias already blooming their
pink heads off a good month early,

save some for later, why don’cha?
You, too, narcissus, popping up tall
with your merry paperwhite flowers

just as December frost hits,
just as rain is on its way and will
do its best to drown you.

But you know what? They all
ignore my advice, thankfully,
and proceed according to

timelines embedded deep in
their cells, all of us living things
heeding our own itineraries,

doing exactly what we need to do
precisely when we’re called to do it.

When I was a kid, I thought I had
only two: Pat and Dee, daughters
of my father’s sister, our Auntie Lo.

And then Pat and Dee grew up
and had babies, and my sister and I
learned about second cousins,

a nice concept. And then those
babies grew up and had babies,
and we now have third cousins

like Emily, whom I will take to lunch
today to celebrate her completion
of another quarter at college.

And that’s just on one side
of the family. It turns out that we
have many more cousins—ones

we may never know. But Mom
and I had lunch yesterday with her
first cousin Kate, whom I’d thought

of as a second cousin until a friend
deeply into genealogy patiently tried
to explain the “removed” thing—

like Kate, it’s someone one generation
away from yours. I’m still a bit fuzzy
on all that—maybe Emily is really

my third cousin once removed?
But none of that matters. When
Kate comes toward me with

a big smile and bigger embrace—
when I do the same with Emily—
there’s no remove, just closeness,

just that sweet magic of family.