Jasmine

Tonight I am sur-
rounded by jasmine, infused by jasmine and laughter and the steeping of sun I took at Kathleen's and then later stretched out along the sidewalk in conversation with my mother, sated by falafal from Mass Ave. in Cambridge, and pleased by the lovely chance to be three again at the gift shop next door, imagining for the selecting of what Rosie might enjoy at tomorrow's fete in her honor.

Three. Walter held out his palm to me this morning to show me himself at three. A dynamo, I "saw" there: so much light, radiant in every direction, and a vivacity sparking and sparkling.

Things come between. We forget our dynamo selves, enticed by this story or that along the way. One friend has a bad shoulder. Another, a failing hip; another is weak in the back. And now, JT with a cancer diagnosis: an offering, an invitation. "Life waved her magic wand for... this? I would have preferred faerie dust, a unicorn: anything but this!"

And meanwhile, the night is full of jasmine and mist, and somewhere out there, stars. And my cat forgives me for her lonesome day, thanks to shrimp and sun and air and rolling over warm pavement, then christening the underbrush while I picked my fist full of violets and trimmed the grass 'round the ones that will remain.

My friend is snoozing now. Later, she will wake into her bad dream... But this is no dream. This is Life, laden and dripping--every moment of it--with the nectar that bees would die for: jasmine, bearded iris, violet; Bordeaux, Stilton, shrimp. Eros and kindreds, healing and seeing, and everything around me breathing I am perfect Love.

And it's so sweet like this, and so hard to imagine poverty or illness, grief or regret--anything but jubilation, celebration for the generosity that is offered unceasingly and unconditionally: the goodness that is our wealth, always, forevermore in this Kingdom at hand.

Sipping From the River

On bended knee, I sip
from the river of the lost
and the possible
then drink. I am not
soiled, not
poisoned--on the contrary
au contraire.


Mignon: a favorite
french word tout mignon
and it is that,
the cricket
by my sandal watching me.
Waiting? No
not waiting, but I know:
he wants something from me
a true voice, let's say,
that I open my mouth and make
something worth my breath.

And now the birds
chime in--a conspiracy
working in my favor and so
all at once
I am floating. Clouds
of angels egg me on
and with a single
full-fledged Yes
I honor them all.

May Day

Many months ago, Shutterfly offered me a desk calendar as a thank you gift, and I accepted. As I created the calendar, realizing it probably wouldn't arrived before late February, I noticed I had the option of choosing any twelve-month period over the subsequent year. " By May," I sensed, "I'll be starting a new year." So I created A World of Love, May 2011 - April 2012, showcasing photographs from parts near and far.

Today I started my new calendar--my new year. It's impossible to know how much was intuition and how much creation out of declaration, but I

find myself greeting May Day with a clean-slate freshness. Much has expired, cleared out, made room for an influx of new energies. Intention, creation: it is all a marvel to me. In the beginning was the Word. I've begun the year with adventure: exploring new places, seeing new scenes, tasting new foods, creating new stories--all alongside the manifesting Spring, the earth's reawakening from a deep slumber. Resurrection is all around, in all its glory. Everything in my part of the World is fresh and new and beginning. "Let there be light!" and there was light. As it always was, really, and always will be.