Sometimes everything has to be enscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you. Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that small, bright, and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart. David Whyte

Haiku: Wistful Thinking

January days
Snow outside snug in my chair
Happy with my lot.

March brings crocuses
Soul awakes to pulse of spring
Taunting memories.


Breaking Point: Clouds of Mercy

William Cowper wrote

“Ye fearful saints fresh courage take
The clouds ye so much dread Are filled with mercy
And will break with blessings on your head.”

I wrote before of my redemption and its alchemy.
Moving away after ending an empty marriage
And learning from my scars compassion
For many other wounded ones around.

I thought that I forgave and was forgiven.
My grieving done and quietly put away
Still sadness lingered as I remembered
Dreams of what never came to be.

I was startled when above me broke dark clouds
And drenched me with a precious gift unknown.
I learned to view my memories down-side-up
And found a vein of gold embedded there.

News that former husband and his wife
Were moving worked its way into my heart.
I felt sad because I knew the worth to him
Of life and work that he would leave behind.

I sent an email wishing him success.
He thanked me then wrote words that changed the game
“You are always an important part of life to me”.
And I wrote “Our years are an irreplaceable part of mine”.

That’s all it took. Broken dreams fell away.
I saw rise instead parts I treasured that were “us”
Understood that ours was a marriage all its own.
We have a unique and quirky history.

I sought and framed a photo that I like of him
And placed it among others of my family.
I feel so free and open to include them all.
A gift of pure forgiveness made it so.

Dungeon Prompt: Breaking Point


Dinner Music

The hour before my simple meal
Indulgence now I’m on my own
Spent in playing solitaire
Accompanied occasionally
By a long-loved symphony.
Now melodies of a different sort
Flood in and wrap around my heart.

Before my leaving home and mate
But knowing then that we would part
We heard this very symphony.
Seated next to him I felt the bond
Of human touch that knows no end.
Memory replenishes my longing soul
And sings to me that I have not yet grown old.


Full Moon and Empty Arms

White hair can’t disguise
Longing heart that beats within
When I hear that song.


Alternate Wilderness Adventures

My first husband, father of our sons, loved to go camping. It took a separate closet in the basement to store all his gear. He spent winters drying beef jerky for snacks and fixing meals to be reconstituted later with water on his summer trips. He used the kitchen oven so often I was lucky to get a meatloaf in edgewise. He also mixed his own gorp, which is now called trail mix and sold in grocery stores. Solomon, a ninety pound black Lab who was his best friend, and our sons accompanied him. For years he kept journals chronicling his adventures.

Recently I posted Memoirs of Two Innocents Abroad, several installments about the first big trip we took together – to England and France. Originally I wrote long detailed letters to my sisters back home which they saved for me to keep as a remembrance of our travels. They are part of my “Family Treasures” to pass down through the generations and have survived my moves after our divorce for the past twenty-five years. This summer when they resurfaced, tucked away and forgotten in an old shoe box, I was distraught. My letters are written in long hand, which is not taught in my grandchildren’s schools. That was the impetus for translating them into a typed form on my blog so they could read my stories. Now I am planning to have copies bound into a simple notebook to give them to my sons and their families for Christmas.

On a regular basis my former husband now a friend, who lives near by, invites me out for coffee. I mentioned to him my idea for creating a travelogue. He jumped in with his idea of including his camping journals, which he had copied over the years on his old manual typewriter. I was delighted to merge our stories. To get things started he brought me a shopping bag full of journal pages to go through and maybe condense.

As I began to read I found myself in a minefield of exploding memories and new emotions. I never knew the man revealed in his writings, though I was familiar with many of his stories. I never saw the soul mate possibilities between two people who chose different trails and confronted different wilderness adventures. We are both adventurers who strike out on our own. We are survivors. We’re story tellers. I mourn that I never saw him truly. But, though I think he sees me now, or at least is willing to listen to me, he stops short of wanting to plumb the depths of me. I will not tell him of my revelation. I celebrate that we are friends.

Ranier Maria Rilke writes of a “love that consists of two solitudes which border, protect and salute each other” across a divide. For me this is reality.


Who Are You?

Daily Prompt. Imagine I return home to discover a huge flower bouquet waiting for me. No card is attached. Who is it from? Why did they send it to me?

Flowers waiting at my door
Surprise from no one present to my mind.
Who do they perceive
and want to charm?
What have I done to kindle flames anew?

There lives an ache within my heart
To break free from guise of someone old.
I know what springs flow fierce and strong
Beneath wrinkles and my halting step.
I know deep down I have not changed a lot.

The question now is “Who are you?”
What fellow creature with the same desire
To look beyond appearances and see
The ageless search for someone dear to love
Is not denied to persons old as we.