Tag Archives: Mother Nature

NaPoWriMo 2020 Day 19

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Today’s prompt over at NaPoWriMo invites us to go on a walk and gather some things to create a “walking archive.” This afternoon I went on a walk around my neighborhood and left the sidewalk to duck into the woods. I was looking for morels. I found one within minutes, but it was past its prime, so I left it there, hopefully to shed its spores and give life to some new morels someday. I kept walking and came across a nice piece of quartz just lying on the forest floor. Moments later, a beautiful small feather tinged with orange caught my eye. And on the way back home, back on the sidewalk, I felt moved to pick two violets. One white, One purple.

🍄🕊🌲🌳☀️✨🍄🕊🌲🌳☀️✨🍄🕊🌲🌳☀️✨🍄🕊🌲🌳☀️✨🍄🕊🌲🌳☀️✨🍄🕊🌲🌳

My heart full of melancholy,
I stepped out into the world
only to see two little girls,
neighbors,
also stepping outside.
They were wearing masks.
I felt sad at the reminder of what life has become.
I walked into the woods looking for morels
but was really seeking solace
in the arms of the Great Mother.
I picked my way along the forest, down a slope,
across a stream,
winding my way among bunches of skunk cabbage,
every once in a while pausing to sit on an old mossy log
or hug a tree.
A gleaming chunk of quartz caught my eye.
Earth.
And then a feather.
Air.
And then the sound of the stream.
Water.
And then the gift of the sunlight
warming my weary soul.
Fire.
On my way back home, two little violets
spoke their sweet, secret language to me.
Grace.
My heart is still full of melancholy
as I feel the sorrow of the whole world,
but the Great Mother still holds me,
always holds me, eternally holds me.
Love.

Simple Present

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Afternoon,
the sky a light silver-gray,
oak leaves orange brown,
maple leaves red,
bald cypress defiantly remaining green.
Crows muttering to one another,
and a tender breeze stirring
what was inanimate
into graceful gestures of surrender and flow.
How could I possibly regret my past
given that it brought me such
a shockingly beautiful
and stunningly simple
present?

Fellowship In The Trees

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Grace brought me serenity
in the woods today.
I was surprised to come upon
some paintings on the trees
with plaques freestanding
and words
about human strength
and hope…
words about
going through the twelve steps
of recovery,
finding light in the darkness,
coming together
as a group
to provide support
to one another.
I thought of my own fellowship,
a weekly meeting
of souls who gather
to share their experiences,
to listen without comment
to the experiences of others.
We left the grove of paintings
and walked our regular circuit
in the almost freezing dusk.
Periodically I’d hug a tree,
and as I leaned against its length,
I looked up at its branches
and told it a bit of my story.
The trees listened and stood tall
and radiated their silent strength.
Back at the car, fingers numb,
children hungry and ready for supper,
I found myself looking forward
to my CoDA meeting
at the church tonight,
being with adults
who listen and hold space.
Then my son cut his finger
and had to go to urgent care;
he hopped in the car with his dad,
who was just back from work.
I stayed home with my daughter
and remembered the paintings
and the words in the woods,
grateful for the
grace
provided me earlier,
grateful for the fellowship
in the trees.

Nature Savior

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The forest saved me again today.
I was feeling grumpy…
tired from moving furniture around
so that I could properly wash my floors,
tired from picking up
clothes, toys, books, papers,
and all the other odds and ends
that inevitably form layers of detritus
in the homes where children live.
Once the floors were mopped and drying,
Instead of spending another minute inside
I grabbed the kids and we went out.
Life makes sense in the forest.
Everything in harmony.
An emerald sea of beautiful, delicate ferns
growing the way they always have.
The sound of the stream after a heavy rain,
the smell of wet earth.
My children and I stroked little mounds of moss,
delighted at the soft texture.
The clouds cleared to reveal a deep blue sky.
The little green fruit left behind
after the blackberry blossoms drop–
and sunlight promising
to bring it all to ripeness–
yes, THANK YOU Mother.
You saved me again today.

NaPoWriMo Day 20: Kenning Poem

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Today’s prompt asked us to write a kenning poem–a poem made up of metaphorical descriptions of something without calling the actual thing by its name. I have to tell you, I’ve been stumped all day.  Can I write a kenning poem about the forest?  The moon?  A flower? The sky?

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The All Mother holds us and watches us.
Wears her robes of blue and green magnificence,
never holds her breath
but lets it move us as it moves the sky ocean.
All her children are beautiful to her
but some of her children are ignorant,
in particular the biped children–
they squabble a lot,
fighting over their many toys.
Their squabbling hurts the All Mother.
Watching her greedy biped children
burning her silent, wooden green children
to clear more space for their greediness.
And those of her children who swim in her womb
and who fly through her lungs
and who run over her fertile body–
these are the ones who suffer loss of their homes
to the greedy biped children who
cannot sate the insatiable.
And still the All Mother holds us all and watches us,
never holding her breath,
but letting it move us as it moves the sky ocean.

My Mother

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Mother saved me again today…
I was in a funk and needed her.
So I grabbed my kids,
some water, and a snack,
drove to the edge of the woods,
and took a walk.
She is so beautiful, my mother.
And she knows just how to make me feel better.
Her branches are the loving arms I need
and her blue sky the fresh air that nourishes my soul.
Her welcoming brown earth, the green moss of her hair,
the sound of the wind through the dry leaves,
a lullaby to me–
even as winter’s chill clings to an infant spring,
still I delight in her radiance,
the flowered jewels that promise to arrive
when the sun beckons them forth
from the womb of my mother.

Harvesting the Bounty

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garden tomatoes 2014

A beautiful sight greeted me as I looked out into our back yard today:  splashes of red, orange, and purple peeking out from behind the leaves of our tomato vines.  When we left for our ten day vacation in Utah our vines were a sea of green, and I was asking myself when I could sink my teeth into a juicy tomato sandwich.  Ten days later it’s ripe tomato heaven. I got outside this evening with the kids and picked a bunch;  for the first time in years we actually have enough to do some canning.  Right before our vacation my two year old son had been picking and eating the green tomatoes much to our annoyance, and although we tried multiple tactics to dissuade him, he seemed hell bent on plucking every green fruit he could find. It was so satisfying this evening to pluck a big ripe tomato off of the vine and hand it to him, to see the juice and seeds on his face, to watch how quiet he became as he worked on finishing the ripe red goodness.

There is something so incredibly satisfying about harvesting something from my very own back yard garden.  Not only do I enjoy vine-ripened deliciousness, but I get to enjoy these gourmet beauties for a fraction of what I would pay for them at a grocery store.  Organic heirloom tomatoes are going for $6.00 per pound at our local Wholefoods, and we have them growing in abundance right here in our yard.  My husband purchased and planted the young seedlings and Mother Nature did the rest of the work, sending sunshine and rain their way so that we could enjoy this beautiful harvest.  Tonight I thank the earth for what she gives us.

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Dear Mother Earth,

Humbly I come to you in thanks;
please receive this appreciation I have for you.
You who ceaselessly give to us
that we may live in abundance,
You who hold me in your great green arms
and soothe me when the cares of our man-made existence
weigh heavy in my soul…

In you I find freedom, space, balance, harmony.
When I am graced with time in your untouched expanses
My heart leaps and dances with joy!

Thank you for your beauty, your bounty, your bliss.
Please teach me how to love your gifts
and to walk upon you gently, with grace.

Show me how to live in your balance, your harmony,
that I may reflect your supreme wisdom
with every thought, word and deed.

Reveal to me how I can advocate for your good,
and how to make daily choices that help to preserve you,
our greatest treasure.

Great Earth Mother,
I love you.

April Snow

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Embed from Getty Images

It’s too late in the year for snow to be falling
But somehow as we left the restaurant to go back home tonight
That’s just what was happening.

Driving home in driving snow, visibility low,
it could’ve been January or February.
My seat warmer on, heater blasting,
wishing for gloves? In April?
Oh, the humanity!

Someone give Mother Nature the memo.
It’s spring, and it’s supposed to be warm.
The 70 degree days flow into 50 degree nights.
That’s the way it’s supposed to be, right?

In spring I look forward to sitting on the porch and sipping tea
Or watching my children dig in the dirt of the back yard.
But not today…no, the rains came steady and unrelenting
And in the evening the rain gave way to snow.
Oh no!

The ivy my husband planted in the hillside
will be crying for mercy tonight
as the cold weaves its frozen fingers
into delicate cell walls newly rehydrated
Who knew the temps would fall to 27 degrees–in April?
Will the ivy survive?
I’m just glad to be inside. Alive.

I’m grateful for warmth and shelter.
Isn’t this the kind of thought I should be having in December?
Ah well, it’s April and it’s snowing.
Certainly a spring I will remember…

On the heels of the daffodils blooming
and the pink saucer magnolias unfurling,
cherry blossoms reveal their delicate centers.
Stretching across the emerald green seas of neighbors’ lawns,
forsythia hedges burst bright like yellow curtains.

And now snow fall, in April,
to remind us nothing is certain.

Embed from Getty Images