The certain slow of summer…

DSC09516editededitedIdling down now,
I’m pulling off onto summertime’s backroads
like the ladybug pausing on my shoelace
while garden chimes dangle their songs on the breeze
and my soul feels again the soft hum of an old classroom fan
ticking off the last long moments
until I could pull off my shoes for the season

and climb barefoot up my favorite tree,
peach in hand,
not quite juicy yet
but peach enough in June
to nibble away the fuzz,
savor the tart flesh
and save the pit for some shenanigans
when the time turned ripe
to drop it down below.


I loved those times high up in the trees
and how well their branches kept my secrets,
held my reveries,
and let the certain slow of summer unfold.

It’s the slow I remember the sweetest
and the season still sings me home
to that gentler rhythm
and somehow there comes an ease
and I stop flapping so hard
and soar a little more


My garden is a riot of color now,
each day a new blossom,
and it’s time to turn up the quiet,
and let my heart putter along barefoot,
summertime slow,
drifting on a warm easy song.

“Summertime and livin’ is easy”
-George and Ira Gershwin

windchimes and waiting…..


I’ve  followed my heart these many years
down a brave path that scared me alive
and grown a little  worn over time by the climb,
a trek that turned menacing steep and squeezy
and I can only put my hands up
and pull sometimes,
my courage growing  threadbare
along these narrow ledges.

And then,  suddenly,
comes this wild wind swooping,
tossing me high into a clearing,
my heart flopping giddy  with surprise
and taking on hope
like a ship sinking fast
in a sea of  sweet mercy.

Because this place feels safe
in a way I’ve been hungry to feel
and my feet love the solid of the
grassy  ground beneath.

And I can barely whisper this to you,
full up  with “can this be real?
and I don’t really know
if it’s true,
if I can stay
and so hard to wait and see.

It may be only the stir of a breeze
just a temporary gentling of this rocky climb
or  maybe  just a generous listening rock,
a place to catch my breath more deeply
and hear what the wind may sing.

But  fresh fire has lit the pilot light
on some dreams that got broken along the way
and there’s a new  stirring of  windchimes
somewhere in my heart
like the sound of a long forgotten friend
who I remember instantly
by hearing her voice
and it feels like going home
to somewhere I’d forgotten.

(I hope I will have news for you next week,  I do.
And please, yes,  if you’d like to lift a prayer or two!)

“…and suddenly you know:  it’s time to start something new
and trust the magic of beginnings.”
-Meister Eckhart