In the magazine, Shambhala Sun, I found an
interview with Tiffany Shlain, doc filmmaker.
Her very last words on the subject of the internet
“I believe we are evolving, and our evolution is to
connect even more. Our curiosity and desire to
connect give me hope for the future of the human
species. Those two things are what will take us
to the next level.”

Curiosity, and the desire to connect. Wow!
The story of my life.

Wanting more, I picked up a book of poetry by
David Whyte from my shelf, knowing he, of so
many I know, would resonate to that belief.
There, I found the poem called, Sligo Glenn: Walking Out of Silence.
And, the last lines of that poem are:

“So that you suddenly realized
you were given
the complete and utter gift
of your own transparency,

the revelation of your
own exact boundary with
the world.

The frontier
between silence and speech
the line you must cross
to give yourself
while saving yourself,

the gleam in your heart
and your eye,
another sun rising,
the old memories alive
after a long night of absence
and the world again
suddenly worth
worth seeing,
worth innocence,
worth everything.”

It’s practically the weekend.
Can we carry some part of that
into these next days? I’d say
it’s worth whatever it takes.

with love …


I have picked up one golf memoir, two books of poetry,
and now this well-worn book of meditations called
B E I N G H O M E.
It’s 5 o’clock in the morning, and I want to finish my sleep.

I know that if I can find the best, best words to share with
you, I will fall back into bed and into deepest slumber.

So, here they are, those words:

“This morning as I put my feet on the floor
let me remember how many thousands of years
it took for this act to be possible —
the slow and painstaking development
so that a human creature could rise,
could stand on two feet, and then walk.

From the very beginning, from the first explosion
Your precise and patient love has been creating us.

The wonder is that now my hands are free
even as I walk or run or stand or dance.
The wonder is that now while I am upright,
my eyes can gaze at the ground,
along the ground
and beyond to the horizon.”

…………..GUNILLA NORRIS, 1991, Being Home.

I am lost in that wonder. Let me never take it for granted.

with love …


What, who is my guru? ………
I have disappeared into the past, searching for the light
that has shown so brightly, that changed the course of
my headlong plunge through the everyday, any day, to
reach the numinous.

Don’t hold your breath. The truth is it could be you.

Forget the inefficiency of memory after all this time.
I’ve always retained the essence of the message long
after I no longer remember the messenger. Famous
names elude me, and so I cannot impress you with the
scope of my reading, of my searching, of my contact
with the ineffable.

I remember you, one by one. I remember just looking
into your eyes, hearing your voice when I was most un-

You answered my questioning with another question.
You were the mirror that showed me beauty. You sat
next to me, wordless, and that was all that was needed.

When I asked you who you were, what you did,
you smiled and easily shared a list of references that
gave me clues, like the language of poetry or astrology.
In a few words, I got who you were. I got that you saw me.

“Guru” sounds singular. It is singular in that it only
happens through an exchange. The giver, and a receiver.
Like water, the essence flows in, around, over, embracing
the giver and the receiver.

So, dear one, thank you for that question! I would never
have thought to let you know. Stranger still, I would not
have known until you asked me that question.

My Guru is truly you.

with love …


Where will I find me? I awake in the morning and wonder
who she is, the me for this day, for this task of being human.

Apparently, this is seasonal! After permissive summertime,
the Fall is here and back to reality. Pack away the light colors
of summer clothes and thoughts. Create schedules that work.
Look in the mirror critically in preparation for the day.

This morning I found a poem from 2006 that I had kept for
a reminder, and maybe today is the day to look at it again:

“I am becoming the woman I’ve wanted,
grey at the temples,
soft body, delighted,
cracked up by life
with a laugh that’s known bitter
but, past it, got better,
knows she’s a survivor —
that whatever comes,
she can outlast it.
I am becoming a deep
weathered basket

I am becoming the woman I’ve longed for,
the motherly lover
with arms strong and tender,
the growing up daughter
who blushes surprises,
I am becoming full moons
and sunrises.

I find her becoming,
this woman I’ve wanted,
who knows she’ll encompass
who knows she’s sufficient,
knows where she’s going
and travels with passion.
Who remembers she’s precious,
but knows she’s not scarce —
who knows she is plenty,
plenty to share.

from her book, My First Real Tree.

That’s the way she woke up on a day that she
then created more.

with love …


The shades at my windows are down right now before the dawn,
all except those over my air conditioning unit where I can see
the trees outside, with glimpses of sky.

I have three schoolroom windows starting at three and a half feet
off the floor all the way to the high ceiling, wonderful, clear space
each day to welcome the sun and the rain, sometimes fog, ice,
snow, all the ways the world greets us when we pull up the shades.

I love the dawn, have loved it for so many years, years in which, at
the first show of light, I would throw on some clothes, step outside
in the coolness and walk lightly for miles. MIne is a safe, residential
neighborhood. However, I have this old, old superstition that will
not permit me to allow leg or arm to hang over my bedside. I do know
that what’s under my bed is whatever I’ve put there, no room for
monsters of dark imagination. Nontheless, this atavistic fear is a real

In like vein, I pull down the shades of these magnificent windows the
minute it gets dark. My apartment is at ground floor. I can stand and
look outside, a comfortable view as I stand head and shoulders above
the sill. That also means that often my family can show up to see me
and all they have to do is stand on tiptoe to knock on my window to
let me know they’re here. At least, that’s the way it’s been for sixteen
years until last week when safety railings were added along the side-
walk just beyond the low bush planting.

My fear has been that anyone can walk right up to my window and
almost look in. If that were to happen, and I suddenly saw ‘them’,
I would be scared out of my wits, to tell the truth, and run to pull down
the shades. If you recall, I began this story with the intention of
pulling up the shades to greet the dawn, that soft, gradual return to
our everyday reality, that has such a timeless beauty of its own.

Thank you, fear, for showing up. Once I see you, the jig is up.

I walked over to the windows just now, and pulled up the shades.
There, right there at 6:36 a.m., is the dawn, it’s real, it’s there, it’s
soft and changing as I stand and take it in. The night is over, and
a new day is here, a pause at the threshold.

As I sat down here at the computer, I heard a noise outside, and
lo and behold, the garbage truck has arrived, it’s lights matching
the glow in the sky, and the day has begun. Such an everyday,
ungainly way to look at the dawn, isn’t it? I promise you another
day to answer your question about dawn, beautiful in all its promise
and assurance of eternal newness.

You asked such a lovely question, and where have I taken us?
I have diverged to that place where the poets say, “It’s the darkest
before the dawn.” Let’s let that contrast speak for itself, and just
enjoy the fact that, yes, it’s dawn, and the day is ours.
On this beautiful beginning of day, here’s a thought:

“Take earth for your large room
and the floor of earth
carpeted with sunlight
and hung round with silver wind
for your dancing place.”

…….MAY SWENSON, courtesy of Panhala this morning.

with love …


It is dark outside, by the time you read this, the sun will be up,
you will be going about your day, and yet right now I am with you.
Restless, I got up, turned on the lamp by the computer,and
looked at my computer screen with such anticipation. What
will want to be seen today?

Over ten years ago I learned how to use a computer to stay in
touch with my daughter’s family who had moved up the coast,
almost to Maine. It was useful, a stretch technically for me,
and, right now, has become such a ‘friend’ to me.

A page from Kylie Johnson’s book, Count Me The Stars, says it

” though we may falter today
the way you hold my hand

I learnt how a small touch

can consume
yesterday —-


is not

yet tomorrow.”

Read that out loud with the pauses in between and you’ll see
what I mean. As I reach out over these ethers, you are my
focus, and yesterday lingers, gradually fading into the way
words can be the touch that poem mentions.

I am so glad for yesterday, all it contained and opened and
used me up for. Tomorrow is so far away it has no reality for
me at this moment. This pause, in between, is a friendly thing,
a presence here.

Thank you for being here.

with love …