Poetry is a natural form of writing for me. For 10 years I wrote a new Wild Thought every Wednesday. They’ve shifted to monthly poems now, but every time I write one, I better remember who I am.
This is a joyful poem.
I was going to write about poppies.
About the way they shoot skyward
then burst into color so rich
that you feel it as well as see it.
It was to be a simple poem
about being in the moment.
The poppies a lovely example
of something glorious and fleeting,
as their paper thin petals
last but a few days.
The birds start before dawn
when there is just a hint of light in the dark sky.
I like to think they are greeting the day
although there is a lot else going on to be sure.
From territory disputes to nest building
laying, incubating, or hatching
calling to one another
or, I’m just certain, singing because it’s morning.
It doesn’t matter how many decades I’ve been doing it.
Every single year, when I plant vegetable seeds
the size of a pin head into soil
I am mesmerized and astonished when they sprout.
Some are tenderly nursed along indoors
establishing some roots before they are set in the garden–
exposed, then, to elements
that both hinder and encourage their growth.
Solstice is a powerful teacher:
the trickster who invites you to go out sledding on a moon-less night.
Daring you to take a risk, to lean in,
to stay with what is uncertain and unseen.
She whispers in your ear as the sled starts to move,
Your vision limits you here.
Your desperation to see keeps you from seeing.
In this place, we see not with our eyes, but with our whole being.
For the peace and promise of a sunrise.
The quickening of breath that comes
when we take in the beauty of our surroundings.
For the mystery and humility
of daring to see how we are all connected.
This fall season arrived with bountiful sun and rain.
A blend that promises the extended version
of high definition fall foliage.
And so it is that I step outside to a day that is yellow.
Yes, yellow.
The color permeates everything:
the scent, the feel,
even the taste of the air is gloriously yellow,
with hints of red and gold
and a finish of russet oak leaves.
My friend said,
“Just plant this and watch what happens.”
So a small hole was dug
the roots covered and watered
the sprawling stalks given room to stand limply.
With sun, some water, and a little time
the stalks began to perk up.
Buds appeared
turning eventually to bursts of spiked purple petals.
I promise this article isn’t about diet and exercise. It’s messier than that. For all of us who find wellness a sometimes elusive concept, I offer a snapshot of my own journey and an alternative to “wellness,” which I call Wild Wellbeing.
Remember the rhyme about April showers and May flowers?
Well, it hardly does justice to the moisture
that has fallen from the sky these past days.
It’s as if it rained green
and the land responded with an eruption of lime and emerald hues.
If seasons were a four act play
early spring would be the star of the second act:
the shifty character
that slips in and out of scenes,
sometimes bright and lively
stealing the show,
other times lurking almost menacingly
in the background.
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