Working on covers.
during precious nap time minutes.
Listening to “The Mouse and the Motorcycle.”
Watching a robin flit back and forth.
Noticing that it’s easier for me to sketch things close up.
“There was a definite process by which one made a person into a friend; it involved talking to her and listening to her for hours at a time.” — Rebecca West
We talked about beauty
and our responsibility as viewers
to recognize that each image is only a sliver
of a wider view.
We talked about how seeing through a lens
helps us to see without a lens,
and how giving critique
can make us vulnerable.
We talked about the power of imagination,
watching our children grow and change,
and how to be a good friend.
For A Mother-To-Be
Nothing could have prepared your heart to open like this.
From beyond the skies and the stars
This echo arrived inside of you
And started to pulse with life,
Each beat a tiny act of growth,
Traversing all our ancient shapes
On its way home to itself.
Once it began, you were no longer your own.
A new, more courageous you, offering itself
In a new way to a presence you can sense
But you have not seen or known.
It has made you feel alone
In a way you never knew before;
Everyone else sees only from the outside
What you feel and feed
With every fiber of your being.
Never have you traveled farther inward
Where words and thoughts become half-light
Unable to reach the fund of brightness
Strengthening inside the night of your womb.
Like some primeval moon,
Your soul brightens
The tides of essense
That flow to your child.
You know your life has changed forever,
For in all the days and years to come,
Distance will never be able to cut you off
From the one you now carry
For nine months under your heart.
May you be blessed with quiet confidence
That destiny will guide you and mind you.
May the emerging spirit of your child
Imbibe encouragement and joy
From the continuous music of your heart,
So that it can grow with ease,
Expectant of wonder and welcome
When its form is fully filled
And it makes its journey out
To see you and settle at last
Relieved, and glad in your arms.
— John O’Donohue
The apple tree
on the lane —
“It must be more than 60 years old,”
And it still gives
Who planted it?
How many have gathered from its branches?
The tree stretches out its limbs and fruit so willingly —
unlike the orchard down the road that now sits just behind
bright red “NO TRESPASSING” signs.
This question of belonging,
it dwells with me.
These old apple trees —
can we own them?