The deserted house at the edge of the shore
whispers of lives lived there before.
The bones of the house creak in the wind
empty of families that Time has thinned.
Swaybacked from wind, salted by sea,
the windows are sockets, the clapboards pitch east.
A parade of generations left marks on the house.
To ask who they were, query the mouse.
My feet find a path that winds to a dock
no colorful kayaks, no boats near rocks.
The smell of the Sound meets my nose.
Time stands still.
I am not alone.
Thank You, November.
A walk in Arboretum –
a feast for the eyes.
Within and without —
cross the threshold for new dreams
in the pulsing heart.
I came upon this lone door in a valley outside the town of LaConner, WA during a 2015 bike ride before the pandemic.
It was a treat to stop and ponder a displaced door in a rolling valley near an old cemetery with leaning tombstones.
Surreal.
But not nearly as surreal as 2020. We collectively crossed the threshold into a changed world.
What would be our attitudes? To get riled up by world chaos? Or to find moments throughout each day to be in the present moment? Easier said than done!
I lie on the grass to contemplate the sun filtering through our mountain ash tree. Sun sparkles through its pointed leaflets.
At night, I listen to the wind rustle its branches. Music! Our mountain ash uses two of my five senses: sight and sound. In fall and winter, I am surprised to learn that robins, blue jays, and black-capped chickadees become drunk on its fermented berries.
Must keep eyes open to witness the little winos.
And You? What activities or non-activities bring you joy?
May your one pulsing heart find you safe and happy!
West Seattle was blanketed by a thick, fresh snowfall in December. It was beautiful; definitely a day to tug on boots and enjoy a walk in our neighborhood — such an uplift from the omnicron buzz.
I hear a robin trill and find her perched on the snowy branch of a tree and take her picture.
Hamilton View Park is my destination. The Park overlooks Elliot Bay and has a hill where kids take their sleds and saucers to have a merry time in the snow. Just as I am about to cross the street towards the Park, a child approaches. She is alone and crying.
“Can you help me?” she says.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I’m lost. I don’t know where my home is.”
“Alright. Be calm, dear. What’s your name?”
“Rosemary.”
“How far have you been walking?”
“I don’t know. I left the house because I wanted to play in the snow. I asked my brother to come with me, but he didn’t want to. He’s autistic.”
“Were you with the kids at the park?”
She shakes her head “No.”
“How far do you think you are from your home?”
“I don’t know. My Mom lives near the water. But I don’t live with her.”
My mind processes the situation. We are in a snowstorm in the midst of a pandemic. Snow reshapes things. Is the kid lost and confused because of the snow? Or maybe covid has added to her confusion? It has certainly added to mine. I want to help, but how?
“OK, Rosemary. Just be calm. Walk with me.”
We walk in silence. My brain is processing: This girl is surely old enough to know where home is. But when I ask, she does not know her address or her phone number. I size her up. She looks to be maybe eight years old. She is bundled in pink and lavender layers and looks cared for. Her blonde hair drapes over a fluffy scarf. I wonder about her home life.
I think of the robin on the tree branch whose picture I took. An old song from my childhood arose: The North Wind Will Blow And We Shall Have Snow and Where Will Poor Robin Go? I feel I am walking with a lost, little bird.
At first, I think about taking Rosemary home. That would not work; we would be no closer to finding her home. Then I have an idea: the fire department. I remember walking past Station #29 after taking the photo of the robin.
“I know what we’ll do, Rosemary,” I tell her. “The fire department is a few blocks away. We’ll go there.”
She nods, calms down.
We ring the bell at the firestation. I explain to the three firefighters there that the girl is lost. “Where did you find her?” one of them asks. I give him an approximate location.
Then a female firefighter asks Rosemary: “Are your feet cold? Do you need socks? Want some water?”
All the firemen try and make her feel comfortable.
Then one asks “What’s your last name?” Rosemary tells him and he taps the information into his cell phone.
“Is your mother an attorney?”
“Yes,” the girl says.
I am amazed by mankind’s ability to collect so much data so fast by simply consulting a smartphone.
Rosemary then explains that her parents are divorced and she lives with her father. She says her Mother lives near the water somewhere.
“You mean Alki Beach?”
Rosemary nods.
The firefighters discuss how they will handle the situation and end up agreeing that Rosemary’s status as a missing child needs to be addressed by the police.
“They will drive you around, Rosemary. They will help find your home.”
At dinner, I tell the story to my husband. We come up scenarios about the divorced parents, the autistic brother, the police showing up at the door with the lost girl, the parents blaming each other for this incident.
And when my head hits the pillow to sleep, the old song is there: The North Wind Will Blow And We Shall Have Snow and Where Will Poor Robin Go?
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.
Panicked that I’d lost my heart,
I use my GPS device to track its location.
Somewhere between brain and breastbone
I am navigated in a new direction:
“Follow the course of the road from the cerebellum along the pituitary.
Now turn left and then turn right at the atria for three beats.”
Tracking the route, I am delayed at the hippocampus.
With a name like hippocampus how can’t it be a fun place?
Long-term, pleasant memories surface:
the ice pond where I skated as a girl,
my first kiss from a boy,
swigs of Boone’s Farm Apple wine,
kelp smells scenting a faded jeans jacket creased with beach sand.
I want to dwell in the hippocampus.
“Course correction, course correction,” my GPS robotically signals.
“You are living in the past. You are not in the now.”
What fun is the Now with its reality of creaky knees, aching feet?
I steer towards hoola-hoop days – spry and supple hips and hearts
and am led to my sisters – both no longer girls — masters of the rolls and twirls.
We sisters approach, tentatively now: thinning hair, a wobbly gait, faulty hearing.
Our impatience and anxiety with each other –
our nervous laughter —
fearing that my tongue will speak the reality of my own truth
and I will offend.
I could be seduced into believing myself and my kinfolk are strangers –
that my heart has disappeared.
(The following poem is by my Mother who died in 2008)
A candle’s but a simple thing —
it starts with just a bit of string.
Yet dipped or molded with patient hand
it gathers wax upon the strand.
Till rainbow-hued or snowy white
it gives at last a lovely light.
Life seems so like that bit of string —
each deed we do a simple thing.
Yet day by day if in life’s strand
we work with patient heart and hand
it gathers joy, makes dark days bright
and gives at last a lovely light.
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