Three Wiser Men

                A man who possessed all the world can offer went to church one Sunday and discovered he really had nothing at all.  There were three cars in his garage, but he could only ride in one at a time.  The finest delicacies found their way to his table, but only his guests enjoyed them.  His appetite long satiated, the hunger which now consumed him was a craving beyond three meals a day.  The cashmere coat did nothing to warm him because a chill had settled on his spirit.  And so he left everything he had and went on a journey.

     A man who had never ceased to be a boy went to church one Sunday and wanted, fiercely, to grow up.  Like a drowning man, he saw in a flash the wasted years and minutest disappointments borne only in the half light of intoxication.  So he cast aside his bottle and went on a journey.

     A man who wore a constant sneer went to church one Sunday, and for the first time in his life wanted to believe in something. So with the corners of his mouth turned up, he stepped into the light of day and also went on a journey.

     They travelled long and far, not knowing what they sought, and at a particular fork in the road it happened that they all came together.  Each welcomed the presence of the other, and they continued on as one.  They wandered in a weariness, and as night-time fell and finding themselves no closer to their goal, the three sat down to rest.

     Whether real or a dream, I do not know, but each became aware of a figure in the shadow, and then it, or he, spoke, “You have travelled on familiar ground—three others came this way, many years ago.  You bear a close resemblance.”

     “Who were they?” said the first man.

     “How many years ago?” said the second.

     “Why did they come?” said the third.

     “The world remembers them as the three wise men, and they came this way nineteen hundred and sixty years ago, following a star.”

     “I can hardly be called wise,” said the rich man in lowered tones.  “I had everything a man can wish for, but not the wisdom to enjoy it.  I left it all behind.”

     “A wise man can stand alone,” said the drunk.  “I used a liquid crutch.”

     “If I was once wise, it was only because I knew enough not to believe in anything.  Now I am confused and filled with wonder at many things.  If I was once wise, I am no longer,” said the cynic.

     “True wisdom is often cloaked,” said the figure.  “You,” he said to the first, “in possessing all, had a deep obligation to your fellow man.  Through not understanding what you were to do next, you stripped yourself in order to find yourself.  A man less wise would bask alone in the glory of possessing, only to find he must leave the world as he came to it, with nothing, having given nothing.”

     “And as for you,” he said to the second, “though you think of yourself as a coward, you found the courage to cast aside your crutch, as you call it.  This was a beginning—weakness acknowledged can become strength.”

     “In the past,” he said, turning to the third, “you believed in only that which you could see or touch, and what you saw was not always pretty, and what you touched turned to ashes.  All three of you have come this way in search of a star, but it is for you to find it.”

     Glancing up at the heavens they at first could see nothing.  But as they gazed each saw, according to the depth of his desire to do so, a tiny fleck of silver in the night sky.

     “Are you able to see anything,” said the figure.

     All admitted to having seen something.  “If it is a star, why is it so dim?” asked one.

     “It was not always so,” said the figure. “The other three saw it clear and bright from the very beginning, because it was a beginning.  It has since been tarnished with centuries of injustice—people against people.  They failed to see that each year at Christmas, with the birth of Christ, a rebirth is offered to all who will but seek it.  If the star is exceedingly dim, be thankful that it is even barely perceptible, for once it disappears from the sky, it will not be seen again.”

     “But we are only three.  What can we do?”

     “All of the evil, down through the years, has been born in insignificance.  An isolated event, the craving for power on the part of one man has brought nations to war.  Man, instead of humbling himself before God, has envied Him and sought dominion over his fellows.  His greed has engendered an appetite impossible to fill.  Three of you can do much to turn the tide, while there is yet time.”

     “We are a sorry lot—God must weep at our creation.  I will go back and give all that I have to the poor,” said the rich man.

     “It would soon be done and finished, and you would have yourself left over.  Rather, use your position to better conditions for those beneath you—a man should receive all that he earns, but must earn what he receives.  A beggar soon learns to despise his benefactor.  Go back now, and seek to find the true meaning of the word, giving, and your life will no longer be empty.”

     “I will never touch another drop,” said the man who was known as a drunk, in a moment of high elation.  I will tell everybody of this thing that has happened to me.”

     “Softly, softly,” said the figure, “lest too much talk creates a thirst.  Rather, live each day at a time, turning to many tasks, and those who once laughed and called you “fool” will marvel at your strength.  Go now, and through quiet example prepare a path for others.”

“Tell me, now, how I can help,” said the cynic, who was beginning to believe in himself.

     “You, perhaps, can do most of all.  Whereas, you once believed in nothing, you are now free to break through the barriers that separate men from good will – prejudice which divides and conquers, based on religion, or nationality, or the color of a skin.  Let integrity be a part of the smallest venture entered into, and beware of the harmless little joke that belittles another’s dignity.  Pray, too, that the soul of man will not be judged by color.”

     The man of wealth awoke in silken sheets, while the one who as labelled a drunk became cold sober in a place where he had gone to forget.  The cynic, henceforward, saw everything as he wished it to be, and did all that he could to make it that way.

Turf Wars

We have a chestnut tree in our back yard.  Chestnuts and leaves blanket the lawn.  The squirrels are in fat city.  They scamper and scratch holes in the grass.  They bury their treasure in the rockery.

But this year, the blue jays, who have a nest in our mountain ash tree, are in on the action too.  I witness a chestnut battle.

One of the Blues descends from the mountain ash.  Soon, a nut is in his beak.  He returns to a branch with his prize.

Squirrel stands erect and looks distressed.  He is frozen and perplexed by Blue.  His tiny front paws fold over his chest.  Discouraged?  No.  He darts to the lawn for more chestnuts.

He hops around, stores a nut in his cheek, and eventually scratches a hole to bury it.  Squirrels bury an average of 10,000 nuts a year and end up eating only about 4,000. 

Is it greed?  Since the Blue jays have been showing up, is he hiding more of his booty?

Enter Squirrel #2.  He leaps toward Squirrel #1 who scoots into the rockery. 

More Blue jays descend.  

Blue jays are carnivores known to rob baby squirrels from nests and prey on juvenile squirrels.

Squirrel #2 has intimidated Squirrel #1 who darts away to a more distant cranny in the rocks. 

He scratches and inspects a burrow, stands on his hind legs, and looks distraught.  Has Squirrel #2 confiscated a nut from Squirrel #1’s domain?

“Where’d my nut go?” he seems to be saying.  Squirrel #1 is hyper, scampers to a tree, circles around its trunk, and then disappears into the tree canopy.

 I imagine a squirrel conversation in the canopy:

“Betty.  Sid just moved in on my turf.  He’s the greediest squirrel in our berg.   Even worse, the bluebirds must have a nest around here.  They’re bogarting our chestnuts.  Do we have enough nuts for Thanksgiving?  Check the pantry.”

“Oh, Lenny.  You know that I do.”  Betty opens the tree pantry.  Empty shells spill out.

Lenny is panicked.  “OMG.  Who got to them?  Was it the blue jays or that greedy Sid?”

Betty shrugs.  “Suck it up.  We’ll get by.”

“Young Sammy will have to help.  Where is the boy?”

“Last time I saw Sammy he was chasing his tail,” says Betty

What?  I thought only dogs chased their tails.”

“Chalk it up to adolescence, Lenny.  Let it go.”

Okay, this may not have been the scenario in the tree canopy.  And there may be no juvie squirrel named Sammy.  But if there is, he should watch his back.  The blue jays may move up the food chain and prey on him.


Have you ever been divebombed by crows?  If so, did you think:

  • Wait a minute.  I like birds.  What do crows have against me?
  • Should I board up the house to protect against a larger attack, ala Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds?
  • Are they looking for food or protecting a nest?
  • If it is true that crows remember faces, do I need to start wearing a disguise?
  • Is this part of a planetary plot?  First COVID, now CORVIDS?

The first time this happened – a few weeks ago – I was planting sunflowers in my garden.  I felt a tap against my low back.  At first, I thought:  “Strange.  A silent neighbor with aggressive touch?  A stranger on our block wanting attention?” 

Then I heard a whoosh and witnessed the black wings fly above and away.  

The second time I was divebombed, I was pruning.  The King Crow flapped away to the top of our Doug Fir.  I shook my fist.  “Hey…you are not the boss of me!” I shouted at him.

I am not the only one in our household who has been divebombed.  I cautioned my husband to at least wear a bike helmet while mowing the lawn.   He has been strafed by a Corvid four or five times in the last week.

We’ve laughed over these incidents.  How cool – what are the crows trying to tell us?

But I do not feel as comfortable while gardening. 

To quell my angst, my husband shared an article by Lyanda Haupt, author of Crow Planet.  Her blog piece in The Tangled Nest says that crows will divebomb in spring and that the behavior is linked to protecting their nestlings. 

Small fry birds with sweet little nests can hide in shadowy corners, and more easily escape human detection. 

Not so with the crows.  Being loud and bulky, they are at a disadvantage as nesters.  We humans are on their radar.

Haupt is not a crow apologist, but asks us to consider matters from the complicated standpoint of an urban nesting crow parent.  It’s spring.  Give them a break. 

She reminds us that once the fledgling is grown, the divebombing will stop.  Soon the crows will turn their gaze towards the raptors – eagles, hawks, owls – to protect their kin.

Nature sure is wild.  Would that some human families take such good care of their young.

So there you have it.  No longer will I curse the crow.  But I might just shop for a CORVID mask to disguise myself and keep a bicycle helmet handy.

What Is The Sound Of One Hand Clapping?

Is the above sculpture a Zen koan? 

I encountered this piece of public art near Puget Sound in West Seattle on a hot summer day in 2020.  The koan “What Is The Sound of One Hand Clapping?” rose in my thoughts. 

Koans are meant to bewilder, to provoke what Zen Buddhists call the “great doubt.” 

Could things be any more bewildering than the Summer of 2020?  A time capsule of our uncertain times:

  • We have a global pandemic
  • The tragedy of George Floyd’s death and its global repercussions
  • Protests and riots across the country
  • Fires raging across the West Coast

What do the above events have in common with Zen koans?  From what I have read, koans are meant to free one from the constraints of rational thought, by offering something different from formal logic. 

Formal logic?  How to explain anything? I thought the day I encountered the sculpture. 

And then I looked beyond it, to Puget Sound.  I was surprised and cheered by the sight of a few bold souls who braved the chilly salt water inlet with its sharp rocks and sea lions. 

Perhaps the sound of one hand clapping is the point beyond which speech exhausts itself.  The point where we know when the world is too much with us and we try something new.

I vowed that I, too, would plunge into the chilly water.  I returned the next day in my swimsuit and watershoes.

Be the water, I gasped.  It was exhilarating!

Stay tuned for the Summer of 2021 — I hope to be taking more dips in Puget Sound.

And may the planet be at peace!

Turn, Turn, Turn

“Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.” ~ James Joyce, Dubliners

Ah, the neck muscles of youth. Was that really me?

Around the time of these antics, my Father died suddenly of a heart attack.

Life was irrevocably changed. My sisters, new mothers at the time, were gone from the house. It was just me and Mom.

I felt like a lone confused wolf. The breadwinner who provided for us was no longer at the dinner table. Shouldn’t I be sad?

I confess that one part of me was relieved. No more fights between him and Mother, the worst being a particular Christmas Eve — finding him slumped over the steering wheel of the car in the driveway after his visit to a local tavern.

I did not want to be a grieving 16-year old.

I wanted fun, to make people laugh. And so I sought surrogate sisters vis-a-vis my “friends.”

But Mother told me my friends were sophomoric.

Sure. We were sophomores in high school.

Then Mother told me I had to find a job. After Dad’s death, our social security checks were not enough. If I wanted to go to college, I’d better start saving.

The florist in town hired me part-time. She had a heavy German accent. Wass ist los? she’d ask, hovering close. My reply: “Eh?”

I found myself emptying containers of stinky flower water and making corsages for the prom I did not attend.

The jewel in the crown: helping the florist set up funeral wreaths in churches. My Father’s spirit seemed to hover at every turn. I felt lots of heaviness and guilt in my heart over him. What had I not expressed to him that he needed to hear from me before he crossed over?

I showed up erratically at the flower shop. The florist dismissed me — I was no longer needed.

Meanwhile, my friends seemed like they were having a ball. They worked at Turnstyle, a discount department store. They bought hip-looking clothes on the layaway plan. They formed a clique, but I was not in their sisterhood.

The lone wolf once again.

To everything turn, turn, turn

I started dating a guy down the street. He was Edward Scissorhands minus the scissors. We talked about our plans once we graduated from high school.

What were his plans? He looked forward to joining the circus.


When my “friends” learned I was seeing “circus boy” (as they called him), they laughed. Then they spray-painted an expletive on ES’s driveway.

ES did not deserve this disrespect.

Lightbulb: my friends were sophomoric. Could Mother possibly be correct?

Though I severed from my friends, I did not stay with ES. Barnum & Bailey claimed him and I needed to move on.

And so, to supplement college savings, my Aunt found me a summer job at the factory where she worked. I found myself bagging cotton and polyester fabrics alongside a tall, dark hippie sporting a handlebar mustache.

Here’s where the rubber meets the road …

Name a maiden who does not want to be looked upon as eye candy. Especially by a hippie who sports a handlebar ‘stache and rides a Harley-Davidson.

My Aunt, much to her dismay, spotted me on the back of Easy Rider’s motorcycle as we fled the factory and sped down Cuba Road on our lunch hour.

A short-lived tale. ‘Stache and the factory did not last beyond summer.

Fast forward. I am in college. Headstands are a long-gone thing of the past.

I trudge across campus, pre-Kindle and pre-computer days, backpack laden with classics: Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Charles Dickens’ Bleak House, and James Joyce’s Dubliners.

It is in Dubliners where I learned that “Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.”

I could relate to Mr. Duffy. I was largely living in my head, an English Lit major, enthralled by the classics.

I was in heaven, curled up in my apartment with its old, hissing radiator, sipping Constant Comment tea. Books became my BFF’s. I was feeding my mind.

Was it around the time I was reading Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis that my neck and shoulders started aching? Relieved that I did not wake up in bed transformed to a vermin like Gregor Samsa, I phoned a chiropractor.

“Lose the backpack,” he said, after examining and noting the Atlas bone in my neck was out of alignment.

Was it the backpack? Maybe it was the headstands of the “sophomoric” years. Or reading so much and living a short distance from my body, like Mr. Duffy.

No. I would never give up reading.

I feel I personally know Mr. Duffy.

Now, my book choices are more of a buffet. The entrees include Zen meditation and mindfulness books, creative non-fiction, poetry and contemporary literature. And when my eyes are tired, podcasts. (Some fave podcasts: Ten Percent Happier with Dan Harris, Clear & Vivid with Alan Alda, The New Yorker Fiction, and On Being with Krista Tippett).

My body is becoming a portal for the breath. I “train the puppy” as the mindfulness facilitator leads our weekly meditation group. Why is it so difficult to sit still? “Don’t just do something, sit there!” my brain scolds my squirming body. I embrace that voice too and listen for waves of breath, to let go.

I am not the only Boomer who has lived a short distance from her body.

We are at the end of 2020 and approaching the hopes of 2021.

Turn, turn, turn.

Is it a cosmic coincidence that 1/21/21 is a palindrome? Read backwards and forwards it is the same — and it is the day our new President is sworn into office.

I leave you now with that mystery.


It is a Halloween like no other.

Skeletons love nothing more than to wave at us as we take walks, drive by, or ride bikes. Skeletons wave from Adirondack chairs, Barcaloungers, hammocks.

Skeleton families group together in rockeries.  Mama Skeleton holds Baby Skeleton on her lap.  Papa Skeleton digs out skeleton hands from the earth.  Junior Skeleton hangs out with Doggie Skeleton who holds a bone in his mouth. 

A content, friendly skeleton family.

Skeleton sporting shades leans back in a chair holding a red drink. Kool-Aid? Somehow, I don’t think so. I sense this is Alcoholic Skeleton. Perhaps family life got to him? Maybe he needed Al-Anon?

Solo Skeleton swings from a tree swing wearing an Audubon cap.

Skeleton on porch holds a pair of binoculars: “The better to see you with, My Dear.”

Skeletons hang from rooftops, climb trees, drape themselves around lamp posts.  Skeletons pirate a ship on a lawn.  Skeletons dance on porches.

Skeletons, skeletons, skeletons.

Where do all these skeletons come from? Are people buying them on Amazon or do they have skeletons in the closet?

I try to hop on the skeleton bandwagon, but brick and mortar stores are sold out. 

Clearly, a case of skulduggery. 

Witches, ghosts, and vampires?  Sorry, guys, but you are passe this year.  Skeletons rule in Halloween 2020. 

And rightly so:  it seems the Grim Reaper has never shadowed our world so close with COVID, race riots, environmental meltdowns, United States presidential election turmoil.

As for the masks…I won’t go there.

Watch your back. And rest in peace.

Fairy Garden

Mom in her fairy garden. She inspires my Muse.

Come dance with me in the fairy garden
in the glow from the harvest moon.
We’ll prance in rings to the fiddler’s strings
under archways of silvery blooms.

The fireflies shall light the path
with lamps of amber and gold.
You might spy an elf, a pixie, a gnome
in the hollow of a tree trunk’s soul.

And if you spot the Fairy Queen
arrayed in a dress of rose petals
give her a wave and your steps will grow light
as the down of the nightingale’s feather.

You shall feel much joy in this secret garden
where the stars sprinkle dust from the heavens.
Where the robins pipe songs from dusk to dawn
and the wind softly carries bird blessings.



George Orwell penned a fable, a tale called Animal Farm;
hogs rebelled against Farmer Jones, much to his alarm.
Though this is only fiction, I could almost suspend disbelief
when I read news of Corona, and its effect on the world’s beasts.

The unpeopled streets of Paris have attracted wild boars.
They root and grunt for food, but cafes have shut their doors.
Rats replace the revelers on silenced Bourbon Street;
perhaps they will host a Mardi Gras where humans do not meet.

Starved monkeys battle in Thailand, they fight over yogurt cups.
Corona has emptied Thai tourist squares; the primates now erupt.
Let’s not forget Welsh mountain goats who migrate into towns
they frolic and munch on hedges and play like a troop of clowns.

Beasts emboldened by Corona try out new behaviors
while we observe a brave new world, six feet away from neighbors.
What if the animal kingdom continues to revolt?
How do we know that pigs won’t fly?  Or pick at our dead bolts?

But take a look at Venice – its canals are crystal clear.
Is Corona all that bad?  Do we have so much to fear?
Cruise ships retreat from Venice while Gondolas skim with swans.
Perhaps our plague has benefits for us to ponder on.

We hear that COVID 19 is cleaning up our air;
from China to Los Angeles, the ozone might repair.
The noise pollution’s dwindled, bird songs are loud and clear.
Humans are more awake to birds – more silence helps us hear.

Life is stranger than fiction; of this I have no doubt.
If pigs could fly or pillage homes, I’ll give you all a shout.
George Orwell’s tale is curious, he had wild imagination.
What would he make of the deer in Japan who wander the subway stations?

Blue Teapot


I question why I write this poem
of a family relic from a place called home.
The teapot is blue, a Lipton coupon special;
I am caught in the spell of this memory vessel.

You thought of yourself as “the trunk of the tree.”
The tea leaves are muddled, but not your memory.
Decades have passed since I left you in Chicago.
Your DNA is in my cells, you cast a long shadow.

I imagine your oilcloth, the table where I listened
to yarns of the past while prunes stewed in your kitchen.
How you came of age during the Great Depression –
tales of gangsters, and flappers, and Italian processions.

The World’s Fair of ’32 – a Century of Progress;
Sally Rand’s dance with fans to conceal her undress.
Woven in your remnants are ones of Grandma too;
how she bore twin boys who perished during Spanish flu.

Now a sun shower blooms out my window in Seattle,
as I sip jasmine pearl to soothe the current rattle.
We have a pandemic in our year 2020,
so I sweeten my black tea with extra honey.

Picasso had his blue period and I am having one too.
It seems that 2020 roared in without a clue.
We The People scratch our heads, world leaders obfuscate
while we test vaccines to inoculate.

Where is our Century of Progress?  Who are we of the digital age?
Are we, as Shakespeare said, just players on the world’s stage?
When will we meet face to face in our community?
The world’s stage seems to shrink as we gather virtually.

If I were at your oilcloth to share Corona’s madness,
what would be your antidote to this peculiar sadness?
Would you brew me some Darjeeling to comfort and appease?
I would cross the moon and visit, welcome a wild breeze.

This simple little teapot has triggered these old times;
the Lipton coupon special that you saved for with dimes.
I find it a comfort, I find it a friend, in this year of our plague –
though you may muddle tea leaves, your tales are seldom vague.

The Wanderer


One of the four led an attack,
loosed the yarn from the skein.
Unraveled thus she flew to the woods
to sort her heart from her brain.

Pinesap and toadstools welcomed her home,
in treetops she spotted birds nests.
It was here she need not think too hard,
here where her heart found rest.

Did the four influence this wandering child,
friend of the thing with feathers?
For in the woods is where she sensed hope
a place where she was untethered.