Friday, August 19, 2021


            A serious wind-and-rain storm called Henri will come close to Connecticut in the next few days, which actually gives me a great opportunity to consider storms of other kinds – storms that make Henri seem more like a fascinating spectacle to be studied and appreciated rather than a mighty monster There’s the storm, for instance, of patience – a soft storm that knows no boundaries and can absorb endless amounts of fear flowing from storms like Henri. There’s the storm called kindness, a storm that actually loves storms like Henri, because they give it the chance to spread its gentle helpfulness for boundless distances. Then there’s the silent, irresistible storm called acceptance, a bottomless and shoreless ocean of undisturbed tolerance that truly welcomes the Henri’s of this world, and by welcoming them softly turns their menace into coolness, serenity, and a source of wisdom.  

            So perhaps I should say, “Welcome, Henri. Storms you’ve never before imagined await your presence.”      

(about Bill M., 87, Blessings, CT, USA)

He trusts it, 
the present moment,
a force he feels 
will always stand beside him. 
The whole sky 
could sit inside 
the present moment,
and mighty storms 
of softness are stirring
inside each one. 
He walks in confidence,
for a friend
is always with him. 


Tuesday, August 17, 2021


            Sometimes small things don’t seem to work in our house, which actually gives me the opportunity to stand back and see, again, that the whole world always works flawlessly, in one way or another. If a window won’t close easily, I could say it’s working very well as one of my teachers, telling me to take my time and stay patient when problems arise. If the flow of water from our well slows while I’m showering, the good news is that it’s flowing more slowly because it’s working in perfect rhythm with the condition of the water table beneath us. If a light switch won’t switch on, it’s possibly working quite nicely as a reminder to me to stay serene and let small problems pass by like the breezes that are blowing outside this morning, making trees sway in the most perfect ways.    


This poem isn't sure what it wants to do.
It has wings, 
but they're just made of words
on a silver screen. 
It has the feet of dancers and racers,
but whispering is what it loves to do. 
It was born in the morning, 
but may bring its best gifts at sunset.
It praises the pulse of life, 
but also screams from its veins and bones. 
It's a small, confused poem
in kids shorts and sneakers, 
poor thing.