the back woods, late october

Clusters of red and white brittlegills dotted the path through the back woods. Can’t know for sure which species, there are over 750 in the genus. But if there is any poetry in happenstance, then surely my path was strewn with Russula sanguinaria, bloody brittlegill, the deep, rich red of a life poured out at your feet.

at erica’s










I text her a photo: pictures of her life hang from clothespins on my kitchen wall.

“It cracks me up that you took pics of all of the messy places,” she texts.

“Those are all of the beautiful places,” I text back.

And it’s true. Every corner of her home held beauty. All things burst green with the late northern spring in the Oran Valley. We stayed at her place even though she was away, but her family members that remained at home were charming and perfect hosts.

Bruce gathered eggs from the hens’ favorite corner of the barn (why they don’t lay in their coop, no one understands, but chickens are complicated people) and served them up for our Saturday morning breakfast. Tilly had each of us (in genteel rotation) hurl a chunk of tree bark into the brush for her to retrieve. Monty caressed my girl’s neck with his? her? forked tongue and was a welcome, dense, comforting weight in her hands. Not about to be superseded by Thomas Merton, Jag pushed my book aside, curled up in my lap, and dug her claws into my thighs, teaching me something new about pain and pleasure.

And then there were those chickens. I couldn’t stop myself–I took about 900 pictures of chickens that weekend. Why? I have no idea, but who wouldn’t take pictures of giant pet birds that wander around outside the house and inside the house and start making noise at 4:30 AM and keep going all day?

When we were away from the house doing family things, attending the events for which we’d made the trip north in the first place, we talked about what Tilly, Monty, Jag and the chickens might be up to back at the house. And when it was time to leave, certain of us planted kisses on all things canine, feline, and anguine, and there were tears, and long pauses while taking one last look up the hill before closing the car door.

Weeks later, I stand in the kitchen while the tulsi steeps. I reach out and touch each picture and remember sweet birdsong, the squeak of trampoline springs, the crack of a bonfire, the quiet of a stairwell.

kenosis

Know, first, who you are; and then adorn yourself accordingly. – Epictetus

I’m shedding clothing that I’ve kept for decades, things that I’ve held dear. A race t-shirt from 1990. A tailored, pinstriped suit from 1998. A black backless gown with beading along the hemline, the one that used to turn heads. I pull it all from the closet, sort it into piles for consignment, donation, and cleaning rags.

What is left? Only what I really need. Two shirts. Four skirts. A pair of jeans. All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again, does it really matter all that much what we wear on our bodies? I know myself and adorn myself accordingly: I am a caretaker, a breadwinner, obedient to divine ordinance, pushing deeper into the closet toward the back wall and emptiness.

prayer

The older men always doze on the evening bus ride back to suburbia. Their heads nod in unison, lowering to their chests, and with each pneumatic sighing press of the brakes, their heads flick upright, as if mounted on hinges, and so they nod their agreement that, yes, their days are numbered.

on coffee


I sit down at the table with a perfect cup of coffee: a preheated mug filled three-quarters of the way with Freedom of Espresso’s organic blend, finished off with really long pours of both white sugar and heavy cream. As I take my first, second, and third sips of the morning, I can feel my mood lift from conscious to maniacally chipper. High on caffeine and eager for conversation, I look over at my seven year-old as she works on her spelling.

“So, Joss, what do you think about coffee,” I ask her.

“I think I’m going to like coffee when I get older, and I’ll probably drink it,” she says, not looking up from her book.

Good answer.

“So, Noah,” I say, turning to my left to look at my five year-old, “do you have any thoughts about coffee?”

Pause.

“Well,” he says with much gravitas, “I did try a Red Bull once.”

I nod my head slowly and furrow my brow a little, matching his tone. Then I take another sip of coffee and watch the morning traffic pass by the front window, and we all think about coffee.