Living in a grass-is-greener, anywhere-but-here, mode can particularly unsatisfying.

When a blue whale dives deep their heart slows way, way down: it is a whole......different......mode......of......being.

Here's a current favorite song--poignant, full of hope, with flowing rhymes and a simple, powerful message.

Three poems: two are about journeys, all three about the convolutions of hope.

...the ocean of longing shifts through me, the blessed inner star of navigation moves in the dark sky above...

It has been a day when the memory of a poem--a simple poem, almost a prayer-- elicits gratitude.

It seats me right in the middle of this insane and lovely life...

We are suspended between source and resource, comfort and glory...

Spooneristic poems about Runny Babbit by Shel SIlverstein plus a different poem: Slip on through the fountain in the moonlit air...

Words can fly like birds but when you try to catch them, they slither around like fish. Poems by Mary Oliver, David Whyte and a novice poet

An infinite, cosmic web of interconnection, where every juncture of the threads is a jewel.

And when it's all done, it feels like such a miracle, like birthing a child. It's so hard to believe I had a major part in creating it.

My 1st song in 30 years rises behind my eyes, begging to come out. I'm trying to sing the stars, thirsting to sing the stars.

In the aftermath, writing about gratitude and mindfulness seems kind of callous, even frivolous. Or perhaps naive. But it is not.

Perhaps I can truly hear the small things that I, personally, can do to help shift the balance from fear and hatred to love.

Loosen, fingers, loosen your death grip on this very day. Open to the atmosphere of open, drink in large draughts of clear.

After all these years I'm still amazed when those minuscule seeds grow into plants hundreds of times bigger than their infant selves.

This is a bit odd, I thought...Of course, you can pick my experience to pieces logically if you want to. I'm choosing to take it as a gift.

In the artist's journey these inner fears often *are* the Threshold Guardians: I'm not a good enough. This is stupid. Nobody will like it.

Puddle-wonderful: the unbuttoned delight--and the wistfulness--of early spring, in two poems and some photos.