The reflection of the full moon shone brightly through the open shutters into the dresser mirror directly into my dreaming eyes waking me from a sound sleep.  I reached over to Al’s side of the bed for a familiar snuggle, but he was already up and dressed most likely padding along the chilly and quiet streets on his morning run.  I lay there a moment trying to discern whether or not he had turned on the heater to chase away the nighttime cold when the aroma of freshly ground coffee made its way up the stairs under the door and into my olfactory nodes. 

            

I threw back the covers, rolled over on my side and put my feet on the carpet.  My feet fingers found last night’s quickly tossed-off slippers.  Slowly and somewhat stiffly I made my way quietly downstairs so as not to awaken Dodger, our relatively new German Shepherd rescue dog. While he’s a sweetheart, it’s still too early for his affectionate head-bumps for petting. The heater had warmed the rest of the house except the cold wooden floor.  Clunk, air is warming inside the drum once more.  Fingers are clicking on the keyboard while the refrigerator hums its frigid lullaby in the kitchen.  My Montana clay, blue glazed coffee mug sends welcoming steams of coffee to my nose. I put down the computer, settle into the warm embrace of my favorite reading chair, pick up the multi-highlighted book, The Last Best Cure: My Quest to Awaken the Healing Parts of My Brain and Get Back My Body, My Joy, and My Life, about Donna Jackson Nakazawa's journey to heal her autoimmune disease and begin my morning reading ritual.  

On yet another morning, a Sunday if I remember correctly, I wrote this poem:

Solace of Normality

There is no darkness here

In the comfort of normality

The soothing routine of rustling paper

Like the dog’s lick of your salty hand

I listen to your news report with one ear

As the other hears the toc and tic of the

Inherited grandfather that

Watches over our daily lives from

The comfort of his corner

Mermaids swim in the sun shadows near the door

While the fridge releases its cubescence to

The rhythm of the coffee drips

I yearn to dive into the deep blue

Sea of the tabletop

With its Christmas Cactus island

Providing shade on the shoreline for

The resting fruits beneath.

Beyond the glass, our green suburban forest

Provides protection from the

Encroaching thick and malodorous air

Produced in the paved and wired valley below.

Gardeners now with their machines at full throttle

Rip the sea of green grass and weeds

That has tried so desperately to leech

Sustenance from parched infertile clay

Western Waste collects the

Swill, the empty containers,

The remnants of our materials lives

While I comfortably sit embraced by roses

And persimmons with fountain pen and

Fresh journal pages in my lap

There is no darkness here

In the comfort of normality

There is only the rustle of the paper

And the toc-tic-toc of the timeless clock.

Word Play

As an 8^th grade language arts teacher, I introduced my students to the world available to them in their own minds, and one of my favorite activities was the “Word of the Day” exercise.  I’d put a random, or sometimes carefully chosen word on the board.  Most times I’d provide a definition and challenge the kids to look for it in their daily reading or to use it correctly in their own writing.  Sometimes I’d use SAT words.  Other times I’d use words I ran across in my own reading.  “Vertiginous” for example.  I’d tell them, “I don’t know what that means, but here it is in a sentence.”  I provided hints for them to use themselves to discern meaning:  vertigo means dizzy.  Perhaps vertiginous means dizzying enthusiasm or passion.  I spoke frequently of the fun of words, the joy of their sound.  Perspicacious.  My dad always said this word.  I’m not sure he knew what it meant because I don’t recall him ever using it in a sentence, but I love the sound of it.  Erudite.  Verisimilitude.  Giggles and jiggles.  Fuzzy.  Perseverance.  Nativity and naiveté.  Lump.  Lemon.  Luscious.  On and on.  I collect words like a baseball fan collects players’ cards.  I stir fry the words together in a skillet, serve them with some drama to add flavor, and enjoy a poem for dessert.

Enchanted Morning

Listening to the enthusiasm of friends' descriptions of a poetry workshop in Menifee, I decided to venture in.  I love learning new things, stretching those little cells in my brain, and pushing myself beyond my comfort zone.  The first draft of this poem was seven lines long.  Draft two was about 30 or 35, and the workshop leader said, "You're used to writing prose, aren't you?"  So with three workshops under my belt, with suggestions from the group and several more revisions, here is the result:

Enchanted Morn

On this clear, post-rain winter morning

            Mother Nature awakens her children.

Mountains cloaked in fine white netting stand tall

            Greeting her majestically while

            Sweeping away gray cobwebs of dreams.

Mother’s sun arises,

            Bathing her earth in loving warmth

            Caressing her dry hills with golden affection and

            Kissing her sky in radiant roses and ginger blues.

Birds joyfully sing “Good morning”

            Dancing on fragile wind-blown branches.

            Emerging buds eagerly raise their heads like hungry chicks.

Grasses, still in evening garments of sparkling dew,

            Weep with gladness at the opening dawn.

Looking at Photos

Yosemite Summer

The year was 1983 and the Eurhythmics’ hit, Sweet Dreams are Made of This, was replaying on a continuous loop in my head.  My medium brown hair was frizzed into a not-so-stylish-on-me Afro that made my head look huge stuck as it was on my tall lanky body.  The frayed edges of my butt-hugging pair of skin-tight Levi cut-offs tickled my darkly tanned long legs.  Look at you checking out my legs coming right up outta my hiking boots, I thought as I looked at my husband’s hungry grin.  As an athlete primed for racing, he was barely breathing hard behind the camera.  I wore a blue and white plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, shirttails tied at the waist over a white tank top thinking I looked like quite the outdoor girl.  My left arm is wrapped around our oldest son, Brent with his baseball cap crooked way back on his Buster Brown haircut smelling of campfire smoke and sweat but looking proudly at the camera as he smiled and snuggled securely under my arm. Brian, who was five and two years younger than his older brother, had mischief in his eyes while he sat precariously on my lap—messy hair, dirty face and all.  

           

Our young family had just hiked up the Mist Trail in Yosemite National Park.  The trail winds almost straight up beside the cascades created by Vernal and Nevada Falls.  We stopped to rest, and for a photo opportunity, at a viewpoint that took in a small expanse of Yosemite Valley along with Yosemite Falls exuberantly bursting out and over the face of its granite cliff.  Outdoor girl I may have been, but I gratefully sat down still breathing hard from our trek and wiping the sweat dripping into my eyes.  I hugged my precious little treasures to my breast, smiled into the camera and nodded my head slightly:  Indeed, sweet dreams are made of this.