Category: Uncategorized

Skitters

The sun is bright, yet, gentle,

Its light skitters across leaves on the ground,

Though many remain in the trees,

Still lots of falling left in this Fall,

The warmth of a fire lands on my hand,

The warmth of the sun rests on my cheek,

I stare into the leaves, then into the fire,

I even welcome some smoke,

Let it envelope me until it gets too strong,

The air temperature is so perfect, comfort permeates my body,

My mind relaxes, my heart feeds on the goodness,

I am held in a moment of calm that transcends time and place,

Like I am floating, free of attachments,

Like there is no gravity of life weighing me down,

Where joy is just being alive.

I find myself grateful for land open to the public. Guess I am a public person. I don’t have any private land. Odd concept in a way, private land. Seems arrogant somehow to claim we can own land. Indians did not have that concept. I think I prefer being a public person. I do not feel a need to own land. I do not have a desire to call a piece of land mine. I prefer being on land that is open to all, to share it, to care for it in community.  So here I sit on the public side of the fence. In fact, there is sign on the fence I can see from here that says, private land, to let you know where land stops being public and becomes private. This day dawns a slate gray, a north wind blows, trees on the ridge touch the low lying clouds, beyond the last fence dark grass blankets the hills where I go walking, blooms are gone, the feeling turns raw, silence resounds, reality abounds, gratefulness resides deep within. The sun comes out at times turning the grass to a burning red, but gray dominates the day. Later returning across the top I see the valley home, I know the valley home, this thought comes, I will never know what I did not find, that’s what keeps me looking. One day turns to two, and a great blue glides across a great blue over the great grass called blue in the rising sun. I sit in a nearby wood, a warm fire crackles beside me, leaves fall gently, nudged by a gentle breath of wind, they make a sound like rain falling, its effect is gentle on me, I find myself inclined to sit watching leaves fall one at a time, in groups, or not at all, not much going on here, yet so much I cannot take it in, it merely overwhelms, its simplicity so complex, its presence so profound, its contemplation a delight.  Two days turn to three, with a watery, misty beginning upon the still waters of a lake. I reach a far shore and follow a path in grassy hills to a far pond. Later when returning I find a log and sit under yellow cottonwoods by a yellow willow, with red sumac heads standing above tan grass heads, goldenrods and thistles gone gray and white with seed. The sound of cottonwood sings in the wind, the sun lights leaves into a glow around me, once again gratefulness resides, this is the long longed for Fall.

Sunflower Growing To The Moon

 Floating on time,

Out in October,

Sun slowly sitting down,

Color in the air,

Dreams flying,

Hope in every new seed,

Life breathing,

Sky with no end,

Imagination rising,

Silhouettes at the cusp of night,

Wishing I could climb,

A sunflower growing to the moon.

Too much noise. There is too much noise. I am sitting in the car on a back road near the Bottomland trail at the Tallgrass Preserve. I just walked through a spectacular display of tall grasses and sunflowers. Now, I’m parked on the road just past the bridge that goes over Fox Creek. It is 8:30 am but the sun is already feeling hot, so I drove to this spot in the shade. I had turned on the radio as I got in the car and there was a story on NPR about a civil rights event in the 60s. It was not unimportant but I turned it off and as I did the thought that came to me was, there is too much noise. We are bombarded with the noise of radio and TV, constantly. The only escape is to turn it off. So I did. Now I hear crickets and mosquitoes and birds. I look out the open window of the car and see tree trunks and shade with sunlight on the edges. I need to shut off the noise more often. I feel a wave of relief go through my body. I realize I do not need the endless programming provided on the radio and TV. It never stops. It never ends. One program ends and another begins, interspersed by commercials or appeals for donations to pay for the programming to continue, to keep the noise going. Fortunately, I still have a choice as to whether I turn it on or not. I do not know if the world would be better if there was less noise, but I do know my world is better with less noise.

Well, I’ve driven almost all the way back to town now, but have stopped in the shade along a side road. It is a spot I used to stop when biking out west of town from the trailer park we lived in from 2009 to 2012. There is a patch of woods along a creek.  As I drove here I chose not to turn on the radio, not to turn on the noise. I felt an urge to turn it on, several times. I had to choose to resist the urge. I wonder what that urge is about.  What is it? Is it a habit? Is it a need or a want? I am not sure, but for now the noise is off, the windows open.  I hear crickets again and birds.

Old Brook Trout

Crossing a high alpine meadow on a reckless run,

racing a dark mountain storm to the sun,

fast stepping down a snow melt stream, cold and shiny,

I feel I’m living a dream, in this vast wilderness, I am so tiny,

my heart pulses strong, my soul swells and sings a silent running song,

my spirit sparkles like lightning in a thunder shower, I feel it in each wildflower,

and down in the valley where the snow melt pours out, like tears of joy and grief,

into a clean, dark lake, in its watery home swims an old brook trout,

oblivious to my human emotions, and sentimental notions,

under a now darkening sky, lazily rises for a newly hatched fly.

A couple years ago I was at Allegawaho Kaw Nation Park near Council Grove, Kansas with my wife Lisa and a Kaw elder named Curtis and a few other friends.  We were standing as a group on the edge of a flat field of restored tallgrass prairie full of prairie grasses and wildflowers about head high. As is my habit, I wandered off into the field to be in the prairie and take photos of grasses, flowers or and insects. There was no path, no trail, just thick prairie. It is also my habit to never use sprays to protect myself from insects such as ticks or mosquitoes.  While I was out wandering, Lisa asked Curtis why can Glenn do that kind of walking in wild places with no protection against insect bites.  Later she told me his answer and the answer was, because Glenn is a friend.  I liked that answer.  I had  not thought about it that way, but I liked the idea of it.

So, I was intrigued by a teaching I read recently in a book entitled What I’ve Always Known by Tom Harmon.  Tom describes a time he was visiting with an Indian elder in a remote wild area.  It was the Indian elder said that intrigued me:  “There’s a war going on. A war against the earth, against mother earth. I wonder whose side you are on? Ever since your people come here. But now, everybody in on it. Not many left to be on the earth’s side. Just the few. You either on the earth’s side, or you not. One or the other.  If you are, everything in the world knows it, eh? Every animal, every tree, they know it. And they show themself to you. Open things to you, watch over you, make things happen for you. Whisper in your ear so you feel in your heart what to do. But if not on earth’s side, why, the earth don’t even know you here. Don’t even see you, feel your steps, know you breathin’.   Just like you don’t mean nothin’ to her, ain’t it? “

I think you can see why his teaching intrigued me, especially considering the insects I choose not to spray to protect myself from, are animals.  After reading this teaching my thoughts turned to my backyard where I have planted native grasses and wildflowers and added small pools of water creating a wildlife habitat.  I wander it often, explore it, sit in it.  I wrote down my thoughts and here is what they were: This yard, in this yard, what am I to learn, what am I to see, who am I to know? Who is to know me? Who am I to be? When I walk its paths, past grasses and flowers, when I sit in its shade, and mosquitoes hover, what are they saying? The insects come to the blooms. The rabbits, mice and birds hide in the cover of the plants. They come here to live and I live here too.  Then when I leave my yard to go to a wild and I wander and I sit, I ask myself, what am I there for? What am I looking for? Do I see it? Am I welcome? Whose side am I on?

Stars shine overhead

In the distance lightning flashes

But can’t hear the thunder

Only bullfrogs and peepers singing their night songs

Street lamps push against the dark, in the park

Half past three a.m.

Running on ground soft from rain three days ago,

Grass is thick and soft and a bit wet

Air is warm and sticky like sweat

Hills lift me up and walk me down

Past ponds and pines

Through prairie grass and milkweed shoots

I am all alone

But home is not so far away

In between night and day

Waiting For The Night To Pass

Waiting out the night, listening to the sound of wind blowing

As a full moon sits over snowcapped peaks in predawn glowing

Encountering the elegance of silence, the poise of nature’s solitude

Its gentle noise, sunlight reaches out, touching only the highest clouds

Shaking off nights’ darkly shrouds, earth spinning in space, turning me to face the sun

Making it appear to rise, night’s grip dies, I listen and observe

My gaze follows the mountains curve, sun now touching ridge tops steep

I breathe deep, standing along a mountain lakes’ edges and sedges

Walking now through soft meadow grass, no longer waiting, for night to pass

Lone goose flying,

low, honking, in blue sky, in rising sun, sliver moon soon fading,

owl hooting, coyotes yipping, welcome voices in the silent solitude,

 revealing within a natural softening gratitude,

waking on the ground from sleep, after a night so dark, so deep,

with crisp air nipping, and campfire warm and crackling,

in this place, in this natural sacred space,

I resolve to be unbound by a “yes… but!” constraint, not to faint,

with a fire still burning in my heart, to do my simple part,

live my life to death still trying, even if I am a

lone goose flying.