Close Quarters (One)

Art: Mark Collins
https://markcollinsfineart.com/

Things were fine in the nest cavity for awhile.

Specifically, when they were still in their eggs.

But baby birds—these being Northern flickers

of the woodpecker family—grow fast and trees

don’t expand to accommodate. “Move over!”

“You move over!” “Where do you think I can

move to, exactly?” They found some respite

when the weather was good, poking their heads

out from the hole in the swaying pine.  But, oh,

how they wanted to learn to fly so that they

could get away from each other.

“Good riddance!”

~

“Are we there yet?!”

Whenever we made trips to visit the grandparents

my sisters and I would be confined for hours in

the back of Bessie, our white Buick station wagon.

Proximity did not make us closer. No. Quite

the opposite. Space was a limited resource worth

fighting for. “Move over!” “You move over!”

“Where do you think I can move to? Mom!”

Although we didn’t choose to be together, we did,

over time, share in a common antidotal strategy:

“I need to pee!”

~

Find yourself an adult living in a metropolitan

environment and you’ll find yourself using public

transportation. Metro. Bus. It doesn’t matter.

There is a sardine can—that you paid for and rushed

to board—awaiting you and hundreds of strangers

adorned with summer body odor and winter colds.

“Excuse me, could you please move over?” “Huh? No.”

“Where do you think I can move to, exactly?” Ding.

Ding. The door opens wide and it’s every man, woman,

and dragged-by-the-wrist child fleeing, thinking

some form of:

“Oh, thank God for liberty and independence!”

~

It’s not really that funny.

There are seven billion people riding a finite

planet, all of them longing for intimacy.

© 2019/Jamie K. Reaser

From a book collaboration in progress with artist Mark Collins

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White Pines

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

My little cabin is in what they call a holler. Here, the sun is slower to arrive than on the ridges. I prefer to meet it there rather than wait on the world’s slow turning. Greeting the day is ritual. No, it is more than that, it is ceremony. The trees know this too, and I think also all those shrubs beneath them and the vines that use them to reach up to the heavens. Like me, climbing these mountains.

Often, the deer watch me, branches as masks. Today, it was a young white pine the doe chose. She didn’t know that I knew the fawn was beside her, low in the dry stream bed, but I did. They walked on together and I, alone. What do I make of the rabbits in the grassy meadows? How are there so many, so complacent? Isn’t this fox-certainty, coyote-certainty wonderful in the way that it teaches gratitude for clover and love of a moment?

Back to the white pine. There aren’t many here. Not tall. Not dense. Mostly, they are young and spindly. It’s like the artist had forgotten them and then suddenly said, “Oh, pines! There must be pines.” Then he—or she—fit them into the remaining spaces because they are deserving. Five long needles each, that’s how I know they are white pines. Of course, there are also the memories of buying them—white pines—for the dozen Christmases we were something called a family.

Once—well more than once—I sat with glorious children on a faraway mountain watching the sunset and the stars arrive, confident and twinkling. We counted them in three languages and sang songs that these same stars had taught their ancestors out of necessity. I don’t remember the words, but I remember the laughter and how the night sky was caught up in their eyes. They didn’t know darkness like I know darkness. I prayed they never would.

A walk isn’t finished until the walker has acknowledged at least one great vulnerability and discovered something to be grateful for. I’m not talking about the pines. I am saying that maybe we should be more like artists, rabbits, and our ancestors’ children.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion"

Winner of the Nautilus Book Award gold medal for poetry

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What's the Vision?

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

What’s the vision? What do you want so see?

What happens when there isn’t an answer?

What happens when you’ve lost the trail

and your sense of destiny?

If you don’t like it, that’s fine. I don’t like it either,

some things need to change, but resistance isn’t

an agent, it’s one act. If you stop something from

going there, you need to decide where you want

it to go instead. Where? Where are we going

instead?

Sometimes things need to fall apart. I do sometimes.

It’s the only way to let go and grow. Ask the caterpillars

on the wilting pipevine or the tadpole in the puddle on

the hottest day of the year. Something beckons for

an ending that’s worth all the risks in the world. There’s

another form to be instead.

What’s the vision? What do you want so see?

What happens when there isn’t an answer?

What happens when you’ve lost the trail

and your sense of destiny?

I hear your anger and frustration. I hear the silence

of overwhelm. I hear your pleading for this to stop,

for it to go away. And, that’s okay. No is a worthy

word when its time has justly come. But, yes must

know where and when to arrive and how to map

the way, somewhere.

What’s the vision? What do you want so see?

What happens when there isn’t an answer?

What happens when you’ve lost the trail and

your sense of destiny?

I’ve been listening for an answer, but no one seems

to know that there’s a question. I see you standing

up. I see you sitting down. I see you lying in the way.

Good! And, then? Where are we going? Where are

all of us going? How do we play follow the leader

like this? It’s not the way I remember.

What’s the vision? What do you want so see?

What happens when there isn’t an answer?

What happens when you’ve lost the trail and

your sense of destiny?

What’s the vision? What do you want so see?

What happens when there isn’t an answer?

What happens when you’ve lost the trail and

your sense of destiny?

© 2019/Jamie K. Reaser

From "The Song Book" (a work in progress)

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A Day Not As Planned

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I had planned accordingly, been

willing to commit body and mind

to the long list, but:

At the farmers’ market there

were familiar faces with names

I know, words to exchange

about possibilities and how the

rain has made the eggplant

grow larger than anticipated or

desired. Communing takes time,

especially when hugs are involved

and here they are, most certainly.

There were turtles: two.

One in a puddle in my driveway

with a nasty infection that needed

tending, so I drove him all the way

over the mountain to vets who

understand that all beings are worthy,

And the other spinning on its back

just west of the yellow lines. Though

I stopped, hopeful, there was nothing

left to do but offer prayers and a

ramshackle body to something that

might show up, hungry, in the roadside

shrubbery. It wasn’t joyful, but it

called for time.

And, I had to fix a watch that broke

in the night. Two in two months!

I think the Universe is trying to tell

me something, but what could it

be?

So then, just as I was going to get back

to the list, a friend said, “Come by!”

And, I did, and we sat for a bit

contemplating how every act can be

a perfect act. What an interesting day,

I thought. I’m perfectly accomplishing

nothing.

But, as the light dimmed and the temperature

became more cordial, I thought now, now

I’ll get something done. It was then

that I realized the day had written a poem

and it was going to need some time.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From "Truth and Beauty: Poems on the Nature of Our Humanity"

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A Summer Moment

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Summer resides at the confluence

of rushing to be and utter stillness.

We must bloom. We must rest.

And, at some point, there is

a moment in which blooming

and resting are indistinguishable.

Our lives have summers.

© 2019/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Truth and Beauty" (a work in progress)

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