There are so many small changes, recently and more to
come, that I can’t truly get the long view that encourages
me to let the little details go. It’s possible that this is not
just me. It’s possible that those sun flares I hear about
do affect us in such a broad way that it seems to be
about me, when it’s not. It’s about us.

I turn to the poets who have sustained change with such
nobility. Strange word, nobility, and yet that is what we
are called to express right now. Listen:

“A garden inside me, unknown, secret,
neglected for years
the layers of its soil deep and thick.
Trees in the corners with branching arms
and the tangled briars like broken nets.

Sunrise through the misted orchard,
morning sun turns silver on the pointed twigs.
I have woken from the sleep of ages and I am not sure
if I am really seeing, or dreaming,
or simply astonished
walking toward sunrise
to have stumbled into the garden
where the stone was rolled from the tomb of longing.”

…….DAVID WHYTE, from his poem entitled,
Easter Morning in Wales.

Thank you for listening. May your day be good.

with love,

"A garden inside me, unknown, secret, neglected for years.."


I have had such a wonderful week of children’s voices
filling this room with glee and the happiness of their
own creativity, all of them under 10:

My great-grandson, Seamus, who built airplanes of
feathers and poster board; Dianna’s daughter,Ally,
who drew big pictures of undersea dolphins, and
her brother, Dante, who drew lots and lots of little
people, trees and rocks.

So, awaking in the middle of this night, I went looking
for a book on children’s classics, lost my heart to
Ferdinand, to Corduroy, and always to Winnie the Pooh.

So, here’s how one of those stories ends:

“But his arms were so stiff from holding on to the
string of the balloon all that time that they stayed up
straight in the air for more than a week, and
whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had
to blow it off. And I think — but I am not sure —
that THAT is why he was always called Pooh.

‘Is that the end of the story?’ asked Christopher
‘That’s the end of that one. There are others,’
‘About Pooh and me?’
‘And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you. Don’t you
‘I do remember, and then when I try to remember,
I forget.’
‘That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the
Heffalump —–‘
‘They didn’t catch it, did they?’
‘Pooh couldn’t, because he hasn’t any brain. Did
I catch it?’
‘Well, that comes into the story.’

Christopher Robin nodded.

‘I do remember,’he said, ‘only Pooh doesn’t very well,
so that’s why he likes having it told to him again.
Because then it’s a real story and not just a remembering.’
‘That’s just how I feel,’ I said.

Christopher Robin gave a deep sigh, picked his Bear
up by the leg, and walked off to the door, trailing Pooh
behind him. At the door he turned and said, ‘Coming
to see me have my bath?’
‘I might’, I said.
‘I didn’t hurt him when I shot him, did I?’
‘Not a bit.’

He nodded and went out, and in a moment I heard
Winnie-the-Pooh —bump ,bump, bump, —
going up the stairs behind him.”
By A. A. Milne. Original illustrations by
Ernest H. Shepherd

And so it goes. It’s still dark and nighttime. Good idea
to go back to bed.


with love …


The space of friendship is such that each of us can
find ourselves in the words of poets who have nurtured
memory as a metaphor to express the infinity of our
connection. Here is a connection that may fill the bill:

“places are funny things, especially those you return
to no longer with the eyes of a child.
I remember so many little things, things that now
seem even smaller

I remember playing ‘king of the castle’
and wearing purple bikinis
but I don’t remember the fence at the end of the
… there were no fences

I remember (and found again)
the perfect little balls the size of pearls
left behind by the tide
pictures scattered on a canvas of sand
a secret language of sandy pearls amongst
the seaweed and shells

I remember the beach, its end and the mountain
its beach road winding …
(funny it only looks like a hill now)
I remember never wanting the days to close
or the holidays to end.

and in this letter to you, I am remembering this
I have collected some tiny shells
and have brought them home for you
so that we shall never forget the tiny things
(the things we were given as children on a big
open platter of a beach)
the magical small treasures and moments that we
that we still share… ”

……..KYLIE JOHNSON, from her book,
“count me the stars”.

So far the weather is holding up as clear and quite
unlike winter here in southern Connecticut.
We might even pass each other on the beach!

Just wave ‘hello’.

with love …

"the magical small treasures and moments.."


Sometime very soon it will be Valentine’s Day. So many Days
to remember, to celebrate, to honor, to spend money on, to
acknowledge and allow!

Poems were sung more often than not, so to you this morning
I sing this song ahead of time:

“O my luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June,
O my luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
O I will luve thee still, my dear,
When the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.”

………ROBERT BURNS, from the book, Good Poems
compiled by Garrison Keillor

I sang that in ‘Chorus’ when I was in my early teens, and I
love it still. It fills my lungs and my heart and my senses to
know one can love this way.

And so it still is.

with love …


There are short sentences or phrasing that we find easy
to remember and find add some spice to life as we go
through this winter time. Take, for instance, this short

“Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of this year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
And I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”


Each day toward Spring comes, we find more light, but
generally not at night! The nights are broken up for
many of us by bouts of sleep and awaking. I’m finding myself
unable to be productive, wanting more rest that eludes
me until I go that extra mile of writing these notes to
you now and then.

Then, that done, and refreshed by this renewed contact,
I can pull the covers up and sleep again. I hope this, too,
can happen for you.

with love …

Flaming June (1895) by Lord Frederic Leighton


There is something about winter-time, neither about
the usual weather nor how it’s showing up, that permits
a simplicity of thought. Hence, “haiku”. A few years
back we shared some of our own versions of this poetry
that sparks.

So, this morning, let’s look at a classic 3-liner:

“Wrapping dumplings in
bamboo leaves, with one finger
she tidies her hair”


What picture comes up for you?
I am reminded of the many times I’ve noticed the grace
with which a person can accomplish a usual task and
at the same time be unconsciously taking care of one’s
own immediate preparation for the next moment.

Well, that’s one idea. Too surface?
How about ‘skill’? Love and repetition combine to be
its own dance.

Too much metaphor?

I simply love the way the words look! The shape of the
words balances each other even as the poetry suggests
this skill. It’s the weekend, I think I’ll let
this simmer a bit and see what else shows up.

with love …

Simplicity of Thought


Quite a bit earlier today, I got up, searched through
the poets for something that was already sitting right
in front of me. Could’nt find what I sought, which had
to be as good or better, so I went back to bed.

This is a good time to simply start over. Thank you,
Deepak Chopra, for your remembrance words yesterday
to honor the passing of Dr. David Simon, close friend
and colleague. He quoted the spiritual master poet, Hafiz,
with these beautiful words:

all this time
the sun never says to the earth,
“You owe me.”
what happens
with a love like that —
It lights the whole world.”

This homage was to an extraordinary physician and author
who had helped so many people go beyond their limited
perspective of themselves and reconnect to the love, joy
and peace of their true selves.

As I returned to the computer to share this with you,
I saw a sending from Joe Riley (Panhala) that included
a poem from a contemporary poet that carries a same
sense of joyful presence:

” — we studied algebra
late in our room fixed up in the barn,
and I would feel the carved relation,
the rafters upside down, and the cows in their life
holding the earth round and ready
to meet itself again when morning came.”

……William Stafford

Those last two lines: ‘holding the earth round and ready
to meet itself again when morning came’ has that quality
of lighting up the world to greet the day.

A good way to start today.

with love …

Holding ourselves round and ready to meet the morning