How Heron Comes

It is a negligence of the mind

not to notice how at dusk

heron comes to the pond and

stands there in his death robes, perfect

servant of the system, hungry, his eyes

full of attention, his wings

pure light.

I think how often I have been negligent in my mind.

I watch the juvenile young men gather on the sidewalk at sun set, suspecting their every thought and action as reproachable and full of danger. I cross the street to the other side to avoid any close association with them or to put myself in harm's way.

Oh you say, that is prudent, you know how young men are. There is too much testosterone pumping in their veins to trust them.

Well then what about the person in the car ahead of me who flings trash?  The hunter?  The drug dealer?  The addict?  The wily politician?  My slow moving self this morning who almost forgot to bow to the moon high in the lightening sky?

Are we not all perfect servants of the system?

Our hunger brings us life, our knowing of this brings us light.

May you have such illumination this morning, this day.

For what are you hungry?

Percy at Breakfast (Twelve)

Percy says, I've eaten, and I'm still hungry.

So I say, what about toast?  and offer him

a dry corner.

Percy says, I like butter better.

Eggs then?  I say. And we share a couple scrambled.

Good! says Percy. And then because he's polite sometimes,

Thank you.

He turns to leave the room, then looks back

philosophically. I guess people just don't understand,

he says, how it is never to be not hungry.

Where to find humans who are never not hungry:

People in the midst of famine, drought, devastation, and political turmoil

Dictators

Political leaders of all stripes

American consumers

CEOs

Alcoholics

Advertising companies of substances that can be abused

A child suffering  abuse

A parent wielding this abuse

Prisoners

Guards

The tortured

The torturers

Me on a stressful day

Those who interact with me on a stressful day

Where do you know hunger and what do you hunger for?

Crow Says

There is corn in the field,

what should I think of else?

Anyway, my thoughts are all feathery.

I prefer simple beak talk.

Maybe it's having wings.

It does make a difference.

As for that business about brothers,

of course I'm concerned that we

share the corn, to the extent

that I get my plenty.

As for later, how can "later" exist?

When old crows die I don't cry,

I peck at their silly, staring eyes

and open my wings and fly to

wherever I want to. I've forgotten

both father and mother,

even the pile of sticks

in which I was born. Well, maybe

now and again, and mostly in winter,

I have strange, even painful ruminations.

When you're hungry and cold

it's hard to be bold, so I sulk,

and I have dreams sometimes, in which

I remember the corn will come again,

and vaguely then I feel that I am almost feeling

grateful, to something or other.

Just yesterday I read about the emotional and social lives of crows and ravens.  They are quite smart.  They express complex emotions to others through voice and feather, use tools, and recognize human faces perhaps better than we can.  In addition, writes William Hagmen, "They play, communicate, and have the capacity to deceive.  They're smarter than any cat and most children.  They have strong family values.  Johan McGowan, (author of In the Company of Crows and Ravens") equates it with our society, saying crows come closer to man than any other species studied, including primates. Crow society is family-based, he said. There's a single breeding pair that has offspring that don't leave right away and help raise the next batch of offspring, just like people. Relationships are maintained and individuals can join up with each other years later. Like us, crows have territories and they gather in communal places. When you see a number of crows gathering, he said, 'those aren't gangs of crows, they're typically family groups that are helping each other make a living.'"

So, if I am to take Mary literally here in her understanding of crows, she is off the mark.  Yet, is she really speaking of crows?  Maybe she means me, and you.  We think we are somehow different than other beings. We may not have wings, but we've got something especially primate about us that sets us apart.  We hoard the harvests from fields and forget about our brothers and sisters.  Sometimes, when hard times come our way we let go of control and give in to dreams of interdependence and even touch gratitude.

Winter is coming - our first day below 40 degrees and I'm bundled up writing this.  Outside my window a fish crow calls, telling me that there is beauty in the chaotic and bountiful field of our existence, if not in benefit directly coming my way but in loving and compassionate thoughts I share with all beings.

Why today should I think of anything else?

Why should you?

Black Bear in the Orchard

It was a long winter.

But the bees were mostly awake

In their perfect house,

The workers whirling their wings

To make heat.

Then the bear woke,

To hungry not to remember

Where the orchard was,

And the hives.

He was not a picklock.

He was a sledge that leaned

Into their front wall and came out

The other side.

What could the bees do?

Their stings were as nothing.

They had planned everything

Sufficiently

Except for this: castastrophe.

They slumped under the bear’s breath.

They vanished into the curl of his tongue.

Some had just enough time

To think of how it might have been-

The cold easing,

The smell of leaves and flowers.

The curl of death wraps around me this morning. Overlooking the frog enshrouded San Diego harbor in the lightening sky, I have been watching the US Navy boats come in from the night’s patrol. I can just barely make out the silhouettes of protection and outrage. I think of the navy people, surprised by death in Pearl Harbor and countless other encounters on sea and land. Perhaps caught in their bunks by the warning siren, I wonder if they had time for regrets and mournings, of what they could have been and done. I imagine they did, as I do today, for who in the end can avoid catastrophe despite all our carefully laid plans and dreams? So too who can avoid perfection in the midst of chaos and nightmare? This morning, this inner mourning, I see how the water reflects light in the dark, as our lives reflect life in death.

Have you even been surprised by death or tragedy?

Three Poems for James Wright - February 5, 2010

1. Hearing of Your Illness

I went out

from the news of your illness

like a broken bone...

...Then I lay down in a rank and spring-sweet field...

...small creatures rustling about, living their lives

as they do, moment by moment.

I felt better, telling them about you.

They know what pain is, and they knew you,...

..They...

merely loved you and waited

to take you back...

...meanwhile not missing one shred of their own

assignments of song

and muscle-

what I learned there, so I

got up finally, with a grief

worthy of you, and went home.

2. Early Morning in Ohio

...I remember

what you said.

And think how somewhere in Tuscany

a small spider might eve now

be stepping forth, testing

the silks of her web, the morning air,

the possibilities; maybe even, who knows,

singing a tiny song.

3. The Rose

...the news came

that nothing

could come to you

in time

anymore

ever.

I put down the phone

and I thought I saw, on the floor of the room, suddenly,

a large box,...

...but what it was-the voice

of a small bird singing inside, Lord,

how it sang, and kept singing!

how it keeps singing!

in its deep

and miraculous

composure

There is a song behind death and grief, which seems we can only hear if we know the sorrow of our hearts as they beat with the rhythm of the world. All things singing, all things shining. I am hear to listen, to sing, and to be the mirror that reflects back all things shining. So clear is this note of life's passionate melody for me after reading this poem. Thank you Mary.

Do you hear a song behind your pain and grief?

The Eskimos Have No Word for War - January 20, 1010

Trying to explain it to them

Leaves one feeling ridiculous and obscene....

They listen politely, and stride away

with spears and sleds and barking dogs

To hunt for food....

....Later, by fires and boiling bones

In steaming kettles, they welcome me,...

To share what they have in a hungry time

In a difficult land. While I talk on

Of the southern kingdoms, cannon, armies

Shifting alliances, airplanes, power,

They chew their bones, and smile at one another.

How many words for war does our language have? Looking into a thesaurus I see:

conflict

combat

warfare

fighting

confrontation

hostilities

battle

campaign

struggle

crusade

competition

rivalry

feud

battle

struggle

I add these words to this heavy list from my own life and experiences:

ego

spiritual practice

letting go and letting love

fear

desire

blame

judgment

letting the beauty I love be what I do (Rumi)

Mary speaks of the rhythm of the Eskimo's life - hunting, maintaining the village, cooking, and sharing meals. In their simplicity, in their acceptance of a harsh life, they have rid themselves of our species' propensity for war. I wonder how a daily rhythm under the firm hand of reality could shape us so that there was a constant knocking upon the door of joy, which with the sun's rise, might just open.

What words do you have for what wars within you and without? How do you build peace to the rhythm of life and not to the rhythm to the drums of war?