Today

Ever since I started this daily poetry blog, I tend to get a little nervous when I have one of those days in which not much seems to happen. What's remarkable about today, I wonder, and what the heck am I going to write about? Then I remember that I should take a step back and be grateful for uneventful days, and for the mere fact that I live and move and have my being. St. Fred says, with regard to the idea of "today":

It is a moment of light surrounded on all sides by darkness and oblivion. In the entire history of the universe, let alone in your own history, there has never been another just like it and there will never be another just like it again. It is the point to which all your yesterdays have been leading since the hour of your birth. It is the point from which all your tomorrows will proceed until the hour of your death. If you were aware of how precious it is, you could hardly live through it. Unless you are aware of how precious it is, you can hardly be said to be living at all.

Ah--today! This makes me want to send up one of those "thank you thank you thank you" prayers that Anne Lamott talks about. I came up with a quick list of some of the things that make today wonderful:


The hum of the dryer, the call of crows.

My laundry room wallpaper, all lotuses and silvery leaves.

My children circa 2006, smiling out at me
from a picture frame on my desk
and
my children now, lanky
and always foraging for food.

My husband, a virtuoso at almost everything
and fun and funny too.

Yes, even the cat hair
on my keyboard.


Reading Before Bed

This is what I'm doing most nights with Willem. We're currently reading The Kite Runner, which has some content that many would deem unsuitable for a 13-year-old. But it's a wonderful story, and I've decided that if he's watched "Family Guy" he can read about love, betrayal, violence, and ultimately redemption in Afghanistan. Sometimes I have him read aloud, but usually I read to him until he falls asleep. I love this time with him.

A mother and son.
She reads. He listens, eyes closed
then drifts into sleep.

September 11

I haven't really, truly reflected on 9/11 in quite some time, even though it has become a part of my--our--frame of reference. Today I thought about it again--where I was, what I was doing, the unfolding, unbelievable horror of it. We were living in Bellevue, Washington at the time. I will never, never forget that day.

A cloudless blue sky
goes silent.
I look out my window
at Lake Washington,
glassy and calm,
reflecting leaves just beginning
to turn colors.
Beyond that lies the tree-lined ridge
of Mercer Island,
above which no planes fly today.
Far away, on another island,
towers of steel and glass
and the people in them
are consumed by fire
and turned to dust.
The ground under our feet
has given way;
all of creation has become
a glossy, autumnal crypt.


Green Camaro

















I got a kick out of the picture and corresponding caption David sent me today from Atlanta. If anyone can get away with driving around in a car that's a bit of a spectacle, it's my husband. He looks stylish and handsome in statement pieces like plaid party pants, ascots, and white Prada loafers (no kidding, he has 'em)--things that would make most men look ridiculous. He's sartorially gifted, that man is.

A green Camaro
with black stripes! In David's words:
"Low profile rental."

Love all the Children


Tonight I heard a talk by Bill McDonough, noted architect and co-author of Cradle to Cradle: Remaking the Way We Make Things. My head is spinning (in a good way). His design philosophy and approach to environmental stewardship is so inspiring and creative, unlike most of the stuff that comes out of the mainstream environmental movement, which just makes me want to throw up my hands and give up. He talks about using human creativity via design in order to actually do good, not just do less bad. You have to read the book.

A found poem that comes from the main idea of his talk (and how convenient that it fits into haiku form!):

Love all the children
of all species for all time:
Cradle to Cradle