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

Feel free to share

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)

Feel free to share

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"

Feel free to share

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)

Feel free to share

Summer: Day One

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

That old stray dog, Grief, had been following

at my heels, hoping for a home in which to

rest his weary self, but today is the first day

of summer and he’s gone off somewhere.

Still, there’s plenty of company for me. It seems

that everything is a breathing thing, in some

way of breathing. Me too, finally.

What color is summer?

What does summer smell like?

And, sound?

I know its touch: humidity.

You’ll never hear me complain about that

beaded caress. I wonder how anyone could go

on alone in a world in which even the air offers

an unmistakable embrace.

So, this is it, I suppose, the beginning of this year’s

expression of Joy: nectar-sweet shades of red

exclaimed. She is scampering along, leading

the way.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

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

Feel free to share

Cherry Gobbler

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

If you live where bears live, like I do,

you learn to look up to them. That is to say

that you learn to respect them, yes. But

it is also to say that you learn that they

are up there, high in the canopy, on thin

limbs, fattening themselves on sweetness.

Once I was hiking on a mountain ridgetop

and a cherry tree, it seemed, threw four black

bears at me: a momma and her triplets. Crash,

bang, boom, and boom again. It seemed like

a ridiculous moment and, so, I laughed as

they scampered away in great bewilderment

of my sudden, and it must have seemed

dangerous, arrival.

I called out: “If you’d stayed in the tree, I

wouldn’t have known you were here!” It

seemed like they needed to be informed

of the obvious.

And, so, that was the moment when I learned

to look up to bears.

© 2019/Jamie K. Reaser

From a book collaboration in progress with artist Mark Collins

Feel free to share

Faith (Two)

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

We are born onto this earth

of body. None of us has our

feet beneath us. When the

time comes to stand, there

arises the expectation that

we will wobble on shaky legs,

stumble, and fall. And, too

that we will regain our footing

for the next step. There

arrives faith. Unknowingly,

it is ours.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

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

Feel free to share