Archives for the month of: February, 2012
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Latch

February 28, 2012 //
0

February 28, 2011

A squirrel perhaps,
on its way to tree or ground,
knocked the green man down.

And so the month of February ends and today is the latch that closes the circle connecting back to the green man first mentioned on February 1.   February is usually a down time for the green man (and this year is certainly no exception) who has his ups and downs through the seasons.  I want to thank the squirrel that checked out our green man face-to-face to see if he was okay and make this picture special.

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Spark

February 28, 2012 //
0

February 27, 2011

Now twisted matchsticks,
the extinguished burning bush
awaits a new spark.

Many plants can provide texture and architectural interest in the winter garden landscape.  Sometimes we leave decorative grasses and perennials in the garden until early spring just for that purpose.  Our burning bushes (Euonymus alatus) are of course always there and described here waiting (there’s that word again!) for new green flames.

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Awakening

February 26, 2012 //
1

February 26, 2011

Saturday morning
the moon, peeking through a tree
from blue sky, wakes me.

This sunny Saturday morning, I had probably been up for an hour when I looked out our back window.  There it was, as clear as the blue sky that was its background, the moon peeking through the bare branches of an old hickory tree.

It was such a surprise. It was enough of a surprise to keep me from sleepwalking through the day. It was enough of a surprise to change the pattern of the fabric that had already begun to be woven for the day. Maybe we need the moon to peek into our lives a little more often.

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Temporary

February 25, 2012 //
0

February 25, 2011

Wind allows winter
yet one more gust of glory
dressed in rented robes.

All robes are rented.

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In Memoriam

February 24, 2012 //
0

February 24, 2011

Flakes falling softly
find tiny niches and nooks
in the oak’s rough trunk.

The tree pictured here in our back garden is now gone.  It was slowly dying, had few strong roots, and was endangering another healthy oak.  So it had to come down.  There will be less shade in the summer, less acorns come late August, less leaves falling in the fall.  There is a hole in our garden, a surprising empty space, a niche no snow can fill.

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Categories haiku

Remembering

February 23, 2012 //
1

February 23, 2011

Though winter loiters,
Earth, invisibly busy,
is remembering.

Remembering is important.  There are stories, holy stories from various traditions, in which the protagonist has forgotten who he/she is, from where he/she has come: that sacred source.  In his classic poem, “Ode Intimations of Immortality,” William Wordsworth says, “Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.”  Perhaps that is how we are different from Nature: we forget.  Perhaps that is why we need to be in tune with Nature, because it is our own nature too, and it can help us remember.

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The Irony of Health

February 22, 2012 //
1

February 22, 2011

We within winter
sense only chill and hardness.
One must step outside.

How does one “step outside” of winter?  The answer I think is actually across the circle in the haiku from February 8.  To step outside of winter, one must step into winter, and make it one’s own.  If you want to get past something, you must accept it rather than avoid it, brave it rather than fear it, feel it rather than desensitize yourself.

A personal physical example: I used to have chronic lower back problems that would often leave me unable to walk and recuperating in bed for days with the lingering effects lasting for weeks.  If I felt a spell coming on, I would immediately take to my bed or the sofa in hopes of getting around the debilitating pain.  I have since realized that because I tried to avoid the problem, it set up shop in my body; because I feared the pain, I prolonged it.  Now if I ever feel a twinge in my back, I do just the reverse of what I once did:  I take action.   I gently stretch to get to know the pain, where it is, what it needs to be satisfied.  I feel the pain, accept it, let it have its say, so it can get the attention it needs and be on its way.  Because I have changed the way I live and continually practice preventative medicine, I rarely have the back pain, but because I have changed the way I react to the pain when it does occur, the pain no longer lingers.

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Categories haiku

Sacrifice

February 21, 2012 //
2

February 21, 2011

A broken branch hangs;
the tired arm could no longer
hold the winter up.

The world sacrifices itself for us all the time; if it didn’t, we could not live.  Yes, we are 100% dependent on the beneficence of others to lay down their lives so we may continue ours.  This cannot be avoided because life eats life, feeds on life and could not otherwise exist.  That is the circle of life of which we are all a part.

The purpose of meditation or prayer before meals, I would think, must be to acknowledge this ultimate sacrifice and express our sincerest gratitude.  How do words express such a thanks?  How can words express such a thanks?

If we truly recognize this sacrifice, if we stare in the face of this undeniable truth, how can we live without a profound sense of guilt unless we do something vital with the life we are given, with the life we are continually given each day?

What am I doing with the opportunity that these countless sacrifices have given me?

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Categories haiku

Squirrelly

February 20, 2012 //
1

February 20, 2011

A red squirrel runs
a limb’s length – thin to thinner -
to another oak.

With the warming temperatures, the squirrels are more active and, with their stripped-down playground, they are visible to all.  Sometimes one will chase another up and around an oak trunk onto its branches at breakneck speeds.  They always, however, seem to have some sort of plan for when the scurrying lead squirrel gets to a point where the thin branch can no longer support its weight, it will leap to another unbelievably thin branch of another tree and follow it to thicker, safer footing.

Have these suirrels mapped out their escape routes in advance?  The trees are living and growing and changing.  Or can they calculate the distance and branch strength accurately faster than they run?  Cool but crazy!

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Categories haiku

Equivocal Skies

February 19, 2012 //
2

February 19, 2011

Equivocal skies
remain in a quandary:
Do I rain or snow?

Living where we do in the in-between, straddling past and present, birth and death, pleasure and pain, is a tremendous experience: gripping, uncomfortable, suspenseful.  We cannot hope to preserve any fixed spot — like a snapshot or some museum exhibit — when life is fluid and any effort to hold a moment to ourselves ends in failure and disappointment.  Life is now, in the in-between, always equivocal, a lovely touch and a letting go.

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