AFTER THE LONG WINTER (A Sonnet)

The grass began to slowly show itself.

It seemed a little shy at first, but soon

received assistance from the helpful Elf

of March, and presently the lawn was strewn

with cheerful cloths of green. They watched and were

amazed. They saw her flower sprouts arise

and push the snow away. They heard a blur

of bird songs in the bushes and - surprise –

a wind of spring blew in from somewhere warm.

It seemed so strange – but then, they knew the truth,

that all of life is just as strange. A storm

of odd delights is what life is, a youth-

ful, loving mystery. They smiled and welcomed spring

and grass and warmth and every gentle thing.   

 

DANCING WITH SNOW

The little flakes fell down like cheerful kids

just out of school. We watched and smiled to see

their festive dance. It seemed as though the lids

of spring had been popped off and snow was free

to swing like eager dancers as it fell.

The piles of snow had almost gone, and March

was helping us to say a glad farewell

to winter. The year was marching through the arch

of triumph into spring, and these waltzing flakes

of snow were celebrating, so we stood

and danced together with the snow. It takes

some luck to get to 74, and could

old age be any better than to sway

with snowflakes on an early springtime day?

(Note: Delycia and I feel lucky and proud to be old, and therefore we gladly use the phrase “old age”.)

ON DARK DAYS

A Sonnet

They sometimes sit in what they call the sunroom

with its walls of windows, just to talk

and watch the sparrows chase the darkening gloom

of clouds and rain. It’s like the birds just knock

upon the feeder’s door and seeds come out

to them, and soon the darkness somehow turns

a little lighter and she almost shouts

with simple happiness. He always learns

a little more about her love of life, the way

she smiles and sometimes laughs to see those birds

beside the windows. Life, for her, is a ballet

of revelations, and when she talks, her words

work wonders on a rainy day. Their sunroom’s bright

when she and birds assemble with their light.  

A WATERED GARDEN

"Sunflower Garden", oil,
by Nancy Medina

As I look forward to seeing Delycia watering her flowers this spring and summer, it makes sense to think of my own life as a lucky and well-watered garden. After all, whether I notice it or not, things are continuously growing in my life – fresh thoughts, feelings I’ve never felt before, new cells arising inside me, youthful-feeling breath for my lungs. Each present moment, in fact, provides a brand-new start for me, like a young shoot bursting through the soil in springtime. Even on my dullest days, the flowers of promise and opportunity are popping into bloom all around me. The garden of this good world is fertile and fruitful. I just need to open my eyes and see it.   

HAM’S CASTLE

"Blarney Castle, Ireland",
oil by Hall Groat II

     Sometimes I think I need to get a larger outlook on life, since I don’t seem to have room enough to receive all the gifts I get each day. Perhaps I need to see my life as a vast castle that can easily hold the endless gifts I’m given each day, gifts like the sunlight that’s always somehow with us, the eyesight that allows me to look at the light shining on melting snow, the wind that whips up new weather second by second, and the full-of-life thoughts that arise inside me by the tens of thousands each day. Perhaps my life should be called “Ham’s Castle”, a palace with no walls and no doors, a mansion that widens whenever it needs to and welcomes the crowds of gifts that constantly surround it, clamoring for entrance.  

UNBELIEVABLE LUCK

    Sometimes my good luck seems unbelievable. I’m neither wealthy nor well-known nor uncommonly gifted, but good fortune seems to follow me everywhere. I often, for instance, can’t believe the simple fact that I’m alive on an astonishing planet in an implausibly beautiful universe – that somehow this person called “Ham’ has been given hundreds of millions of minutes of this thing called life. The whole mystery of my life seems totally improbable, as if a magician somewhere in the everlasting cosmos made some swirls with her wand and, presto, here’s Hamilton Salsich. And my incredible good fortune continues to follow me in a round-the-clock way – my heart somehow holding its rhythm 100,000 times each day, my blood reliably rolling through my body hour after hour, my lungs lifting and falling in a steadfast and distinguished way. All this, to me, seems so far-fetched – so deserving of awe – that it almost requires a down-on-my-knees, lost-for-words reverence.  

GLORIES AND VICTORIES

      

"Pretty in Pink", oil,
by Kay Wyne

     In one sense, I haven’t experienced much glory in my life, and the victories I’ve had have been of the unexceptional, unnoticed kind, but in another way, there’s almost always victory and glory all around me. Some small birds, as I write, are victoriously wresting seeds from the feeders beside the windows, and the sunshine is gaining steady success over the monstrous snow mounds in our yard, sending freed-up streams of water everywhere. There’s victory, too, in the tulips standing before me on the table, straight up and distinguished in a vase, as if saying to winter, “We blossoms are the bosses now.” And glory? How about the splendor made by the sunlight on the snow today, or the magnificence of the smooth blue sky, or the way each moment is replaced by a superbly new one? There’s even a kind of glory and grandeur in the simple fact that Delycia and I are sitting here together, peacefully and silently flowing along with the effortless stream of life.

DRIVING TO THE Y BEFORE DAWN

 There were headlights

letting themselves in

from the on-ramp,

and lights looking

like neighborly signals

as they passed us,

and lights in homes

that seemed like

signs of happiness,

even if the residents

were wishing they

were still asleep,

still in the land

where dreams of lights

can be delightful

and make sleeping

just as helpful

for good health

as treadmills and barbells

while working out

under lights

that never seem

to especially like us

at six a.m.

THE FIRE HAD NO POWER

        I no longer use the word “God”, since its meaning has become so  fuzzy over the centuries, but there surely is a non-material force (or Force) in the universe that has allowed gentleness and serenity to overcome fear and affliction, again and again down through history. Occasionally I think about the Bible story of the men who survived being thrown into a fiery furnace, and I start to wonder: What future fires, what pain and grief, may await me, and will I be able to survive, and even, as the boys in the story did, somehow flourish inside the flames of my suffering? Will I be able to face future troubles with poise and inner stillness, not by pretending the troubles don’t exist, but by understanding that there’s a warm and loving force in the universe that’s far stronger than any suffering I might experience?  I think of the Bible story as an allegory, in which the fiery furnace stands for any situation that seems to surround us with hopelessness.  Somehow the men in the story were able to feel fully the power of unison and peace that pervades the universe, from the farthest star to the smallest cell in our bodies, and somehow that power easily erased the disharmony of their situation.  The fire in their lives had no power when put up against the non-material power of peacefulness, and I hope that will be true of the various physical and emotional fires that will surely flare up in my life in years to come.

TAPS, FLICKS, FLIPS, POPS, WHISKS, AND SHAKES

"Bathroom Sink", oil,
by Elizabeth Fraser

This morning, with a short tap on the thermostat the flow of warm air from the furnace started. Then a flick of a switch sent light into the bathroom, and a twist of a faucet started water shooting into the sink. Later, a quick click opened the teapot, and a push on a button soon brought the water to a boil. I quickly flipped my eggs, the toast popped up, and breakfast was whisked off to the sunroom, where two friends clicked with each other while birds swished and shook around the feeder.    

SWIFT TO HEAR

"I'm Listening", oil,
by Kay Wyne

          I recall my father encouraging me to - as he put it - “be swift to hear and slow to speak”, and sometimes, at 73, I still see little progress in myself in these areas. I’m still fairly slow to settle down and truly listen to someone – slow to show people that I sincerely care about what they are saying. I act like I’m listening, true, but often my mind makes excursions in all kinds of directions rather than actually staying with what is being said to me. My dad would be disappointed to know that I’m definitely swift to speak, but not so often willing to wait patiently, stay silent, and actually listen to what someone is saying.  I love his idea of being “swift to hear”. I want to be able to suddenly stop everything in order to truly hear what a person is saying. I want to be brisk in bringing my attention when someone is speaking to me. These days, I like to live in a laid-back way, but when I’m listening to someone, I want to be swift with my kindness and care.

DOES A BREEZE EVER HAVE A PROBLEM?

"Marsh Breeze", oil,
by Laurel Daniel

     Sometimes, when some problem seems to be standing in my way, it helps me if breezes are blowing outside. Then, I either sit by a window and watch the breezes swaying the trees, or, better still, I walk outside, and soon a question comes to me: Does a breeze ever have a problem? A breeze blows freely and flexibly, flowing easily past trees and homes and cars and hills. If a breeze bumps up against an obstacle – what I might call a “problem” – it simply slides around or over or under it and continues on its easy way. You might say whatever situation a breeze faces is tailor-made for it, because it will always bypass it with style and effortlessness, and soon press on with its graceful cruise across the land. I guess the ease and smoothness of breezes brings home their best lessons to me. “Just loosen up, Ham”, they seem to say. “Be like a breeze. Go around, over, or under, and the problems will suddenly become opportunities for elegance and artistry. Just loosen up.”  

GREAT LIGHTS

    

"Downtown Night, San Diego"
oil, by Kevin Inman

 I was struggling recently with some puzzling passages in a book, when suddenly it was as if a light illuminated the sentences and I was able to quickly and clearly see their meanings. To me, it was a startling illumination after many minutes of confused reading and re-reading. It seemed like a great light had been given to me from somewhere. It started me wondering: How does it happen that all of a sudden some mystifying words on a page can shine with significance? Why does the light of understanding sometimes swiftly switch on where there was, moments ago, only obscurity and confusion? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, because this kind of sudden shining occurs in my life more often than I sometimes realize. As I’m writing this, I can see the old quilt of snow across our yard, and even after many weeks and under gray skies, it still glows with a baffling kind of brightness. It’s as if long, bright light bulbs are laid out beneath the snow, bringing a luminous brilliance up to the surface. What’s interesting is that I almost never notice this brightness in old snow cover, just as I often don’t see the meanings in sentences set down in a book many years ago. I guess it takes some stroke of magic to make both month-old snow and perplexing sentences abruptly light up for this old but still enthusiastic fellow. 

PLEASE COME, SPRING!

We do love snow, and winter sometimes wins

our prize for pristine beauty, but

today we hope that spring begins

tomorrow. We need to sing and strut

in warmth and sunshine. We would like

to stroll on silken grass and ride our bikes

down pleasant streets. We want to take a hike

up springtime hills. We’re shouting “Yikes!

We’re sick of snow and ice! We need spring

to come! We need to hear the robins sing!”

SAILING OFF THE EDGE

 

"Sailing", pastel,
by Karen Margulis

    Recently, as I was listening to someone speaking about the venturesome mariners who, centuries ago, sailed off the edge of the horizon and revealed the roundness of the globe, it caused me to think, again, about sailing off some edges myself. Those discerning seafarers simply did not believe what theirs and everyone’s eyesight suggested – that the earth was flat and ships would sail over the edge to destruction. They trusted that there was a larger and more wondrous world out there, even though their eyes couldn’t see it. They saw through the façade of appearances and discerned the astounding truth beyond. Like many of us, I frequently get confounded by appearances, especially by the apparent smallness and separateness of my life. I appear to be just a fairly old body containing a brain that’s slowly slumping with age. Outward impressions say my faculties are probably fading away and, before too long, I’ll be falling off the edge of old age into who knows where. However, I often feel like those mariners of history who held true to their vision of a spherical and spectacular world. More and more often now, I get a glimpse of the greatness of the universe, and of my special and necessary part in it. It is at those times that I set sail in my life, with no borders or boundaries in sight. The edge called “old age”  dissolves, and what’s left is vistas of wisdom and  happiness that stretch out without end.          

WHAT I NEED

  

    I sometimes slip into my old practice of listing things I need – another shirt, some better boots, more stamina when working out – but the truth is that something bigger than me makes a much better list. Call it God, or the Universe, or Life, or just Inspiration – there’s a power, I sense, that sees what I need and somehow supplies it. When I occasionally get my busybody self out of the way, and just listen to what this wiser power is saying to me, the things I really need (not just want) seem to unmistakably shine in my thoughts. This morning, for instance, when I was doing some of this silent listening, it became obvious that I didn’t actually need another shirt, but instead, perhaps I needed just that moment of silence during which I was seeing clearly the birds breakfasting at the feeder. When I set aside my persistent and restless ego, and simply listen to this soft but measureless voice from somewhere, I sometimes understand that all I really need is the new blood my good heart is constantly giving me and the thoroughly new thoughts my mind is always making. I sometimes see that this particular moment – any moment – is all I really ever need.

MUCH LOVE

    Good friends sometimes close a letter with “much love”, and just now, on another frozen, snowbound day in Mystic, I see much love all around me. I see it in my wife’s purple orchids carrying themselves with great grace on a window shelf near where I’m typing. They were set there months ago because Delycia does more loving than anyone I know, and now the blossoms are beautifying both our home and the snowy scene outside the window. I see love, too, in the pendulum clock hanging on the wall behind me – a clock made, I’ll bet, by craftsmen who loved their labor, loved setting the parts in their proper places so the chimes would reliably sing their small song every fifteen minutes. When you love your work, the love lives on in your creations, and this is true even for the cold, old streets of our town which have been dependably plowed, over and over this winter, by drivers who do their work with precision, and perhaps (I hope) with some pride. They may not see it this way, but I see much love in what they have done for all of us, allowing us to move about town and take this fairly wild winter in stride, and maybe even in occasional joyfulness.         

WINTER STORM NEPTUNE

"Winter Titmouse", oil,
by Debra Sisson

February 15, 2015

The birds enjoyed the feeder in the storm.

They chirped and ate and flew away and back

again. The seeds will keep them strong and warm

the way our friendship does. Love has a knack

for knowing when we need some strength. It seems

to come in sacks like seeds, and all we do

is help ourselves, and soon the mighty streams

of tenderness flow through us like the new

and welcome swirls of snow against the birds,

who shake them off by chirping friendly words.  

MORE TO COME

Valentine’s Day, 2015

"Snow Storm", acrylic,
by John K. Harrell

There’s more to come. More snow will softly cling

to Mystic and its snowy, sparkling streets

and homes. We know that blizzard winds will sing

their songs against our windows, and that sheets

of snow will fold our houses up like friends

in hugs. We may lose power, but the power

of patience is always here and always sends

us what we need to blossom like a flower

even when the lights are out. This storm

will see how kindness always keeps us warm. 

  

NO BIG DEAL

(thinking of a friend facing a second heart procedure)

The doctor said,

“Hey, I saved

your life once,

so let’s do it again.”

My friend said

it was no big deal,

but then he said

wait, yes, big deal,

it just doesn’t seem like it.

The doctor

was casual, carefree,

so my friend thought

maybe he should be too.

He said all things being equal –   

blockages and breakthroughs,

clouds and sunshine,

unease and curiosity–

who knows, he said,

a hospital

might be a place

where newness

would surprise him,

where wisdom would wait

with a reward,

all cool and calm,

no big deal.

“I’M DOING THE BEST I CAN”

(overheard in New Haven, CT, 2/7/15)

"Light in the Dark", oil.
by Zach Thurmond

She is doing

the best she can.

She carries her worries

as carefully as possible,

and prepares a paradise

for her family each day,

at least as well

as she can,

a quiet home

and wholesome meals

and help with homework.

She is doing

what her dad

taught her to do,

loving with fullness

and truthfulness.

Her ex-husband

hates her, and

heaven sometimes seems

as distant

as the dark sky,

but little things,

like the lovely lamp

by her bed,

help her haul

the load

of her fears.

ON A FROZEN DAY

"Winter Warmth", oil,
by Brenda Ferguson

On the table

an amaryllis flower

found a way

to work a miracle,

and the furnace

in the cellar

was working

its customary miracle

of making comfort

for a fortunate couple

who were quietly loving

being in their 70’s

in their sunroom

on a frozen day

with a flower

for a friend.  

ONE DAY IN MYSTIC

  

We all had our hands on our hips

and the sun was spreading out

its arms above us.

All over our world

walking was replacing sitting,

and speaking was becoming singing.

Someone was coming to a house

and sunlight was landing on him at the door.

Someone else was carrying his cares

as easily as books carry spotless ideas.

We heard the lives of the world

whistling and skipping.

We typed on our laptops

and words stepped across the screens,

praising and shouting.

THE GOOD NEW DAYS

 

"Snow", oil on panel,
by Rene Pleinair

            I’ve often heard people speak of “the good old days”, as though something wonderful was almost always happening back then, but this morning, when I noticed the sunlight spread so smoothly across the snow, I started thinking about this good new day, and all the good new days that lie ahead.  There’s so much that I miss in each new moment,  and sometimes it’s because I’m lost somewhere back in the old days, dreaming of the supposed simplicity of life back when things were – or at least seemed –  simpler and more straightforward.   What’s strange about this is that there is nothing simpler or more straightforward than the winter sunshine that gave a glossy look to the crusted snow-cover this morning. Nor could there have been anything lovelier in the old days than the flames in our fireplace just now,  shaking and swaying and sending warmth our way on this frosty but sunlit day. Like all days, this is a good new day. I’m trying lately to let the good old days lie where they are, far off in my memories, and prepare myself to respect and treasure the good new miracles made right before my eyes, moment by moment.