Once Upon A Time


March One, 2018pexels-photo-886470.jpeg

Dear Ones:

There is a sacredness and intimacy about this art of letter writing. A beautiful tenderness of one me speaking to one you—though the you is multiplied. Perhaps that is why I have saved so many letters over the years. A hunter green metal foot locker hides under the bed in my office—a repository of memory and mystery. In it rest decades upon decades of letters. I have saved them—like a memory hoarder, sometimes not even knowing why. As if one day there might be a grand revealing of important plots and sub-plots. As if the aged smell of paper and stamp and glue would give up clues to my past. As if one line might contain a piece of my bigger story that longs to be heard, one that needs remembering and re-telling. If I would only pull the thread.

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Maybe the light is always just right.

Maybe we are standing a quarter inch off of where we need to be to see.

Maybe the slant is always pouring in with just the perfect amount of glint and shadow

To show us where to cast our eyes.

Perhaps we moved at the speed of un-noticing all those years ago. And left the beauty in 

A blur.

Perhaps the Light is always just right.


And sacred ordinary was always waiting to have its time of quiet hallelujah, with you 

And you alone.

Maybe the Light is always just right.


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Hitting Close To Home: Finding Lovely In The Places Nearby


I am looking for a passport which bears the name of someone other than myself. I think it’s tucked away among old stained t-shirts and outgrown boy things. I stop to imagine the uncovering. Of both the semi-lost passport and of the waiting wonder and beauty on this trans-Atlantic journey. The hunt for this documentation, necessary for going away, is taking me places I never imagined I’d go. A circuitous journey of coming back around to my staying home.

It is enough, this vicariousness. There is profound joy and deep satisfaction in mental wandering. I wonder about the topography of Wales, the weather and whether it will rain or not. And if it does, what does a post-rain village smell like in the springtime there. Old brick and ancient soil co-mingle to tell stories, an aromatic telling. (I can read of Wales from here and I can see a hundred photographs. But the smells, I must net them in my wildest dreams. Capture them in my imagination. That is the sense that takes me travelling in place.)

Wet or damp, dry and cool, how do the fields smell. Sweet like wildflowers or pungent like arugula and rosemary, whose powerful scents explode in their breaking. The pastures, splaying out from ancient castles like oceans of green grasses, blade on blade of lovely; how do they wave in the wind? A green that only May may know, that is the green of my imagining. Green, a favorite smell is the green that shouts new birth.

Each dream, each splinter of my imagination is rooted in love. This season, the one in which I find myself, is one of staying. Of anchoring. Of tethering. I am harbored close to home. All of my travels are in the soil of nearby.

I both remember London fondly and recall my dormant desire for returning. I grieve for what I missed, victim of a younger me wasting time in a city I long to experience her again as an older version of myself.

So I may ask them to visit a bookstore for me, to bring me a something I can hold of that place. Go in my stead. Yet, I do not want my influence to attend their journeys. I want this trip to be wholly theirs in every way. I imagine the places the soles of their shoes will mark. I close my eyes and dream about the planes and trains and automobiles that will whisk them along from town to town. They will soar and fly and rumble, while I will remain in place.

But I have my own rumblings to lean into. And I have my own soaring to do. I ride on the wings of words. And I go faraway in the nearby. I am discovering the shards of lovely in the places nearby.

When they return, when they all return, I am the receptacle of experiences not my own. They dig deep into the well of experience and I am there, far from here. Removed from my present place. I receive their experiences and stories, soak them in and hold on to a re-living. They take me with them in their telling.

The squeak in the eighth stair down, is my siren call to stay. It reminds me as I travel up and down this staircase, built circa 1904, that I am going back and forth through time. I live in a time capsule, a concrete paradox of staying and leaving.

Yesterday the dirt was dark and thick. Each fingernail held the soil-turning of the day, by hand. I placed the pansies into the containers, chosen by design for their size and significance. I dug into the contentment of staying put.

Staying calls me to dig deep in the narrow fields. It forces my hand to root out the nuanced beauty that lies in wait. If I am to discover anything, I must know how to discover the nearby first before I go out in search of more. I must rejoice here, celebrate here, if I am to be practiced at perfecting discovery anywhere else.

The squeak in the eighth and ninth stair combine to play a duet. And I am content to strike the chords of staying.


One Day I Will Write A Poem ( SoundCloud – Hear the world’s sounds)

Once upon a time I recorded a poem on SoundCloud. Sharing it here with you as I consider going back to record more of my poems there. It is a unique challenge to hear one’s own voice. Reading the words. Stumbling down through the lines and words as if they are a bit unfamiliar And yet it brings another dimension to the art form.

Bravely sharing in hopes that it connects, resonates and touches the listener in some small way.

(Click the link below to listen. And click the tab at the top of the home page here to receive my newsletter. Mailing to subscribers today. I promise to tip toe in. Not make much extra noise. Join me there. It is quiet. “A Quiet Place For Words”

Happy New Year to all,